Page 39 of Stricken

"Spasibo, Anatoly." I give him a curt nod and he takes me to the private dining area at the back of the restaurant.

As we walk past the tables and into a small corridor, the scent of borscht and pelmeni hits me hard. My mother used to cook both dishes very well.

We pause in front of the ornate door and Anatoly knocks, then swings it open.

I thank him again and enter the room.

The door behind me closes shut, giving me and Esteban complete privacy.

Esteban rises as I approach, his small frame filled with restrained energy and dressed into a sharp suit. His dark eyes flick over me as if searching for weakness.

The warm, wood-paneled interior feels like a fortress—my territory, my rules. But even here, tension crackles in the air like static before a storm.

"Vlad." Esteban extends a hand for a shake, which I give him. "This place... it reminds me of home."

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a lover of Russian cuisine," I reply, sliding into my seat.

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Homemade food is homemade food no matter the continent, my friend."

There is a polite knock and the waiter appears.

"What would be your recommendation?" Esteban asks me, looking at the laminated menu pages.

"If you don't mind, let me order for you."

He nods.

I order in rapid-fire Russian, not bothering with the menu. I've been to this place enough times to know the best dishes.

As we wait for our food, Esteban leans forward, elbows on the table. "I hope you know how deeply troubled I am by what happened in Mexico, Vlad. My people are working tirelessly to get to the bottom of it."

I meet his gaze, unflinching. "And what have they found so far?"

"Nothing conclusive yet," he says, spreading his hands. "But I assure you, we'll have answers soon. Very soon."

My jaw clenches. Is this a stalling tactic? A lie? I force myself to relax, to maintain the facade of calm. "I appreciate your... diligence," I say carefully. "Our partnership is important to me."

"To me as well. Which is why I'm here personally. I want you to know you can trust us, Vlad."

Trust. Such a loaded word in our world. I take a sip of water, buying time. "I'm sure you know trust is earned, Esteban. Not given."

He nods slowly. "Of course. And how might we earn it back?"

The question hangs between us. I lean back, studying him. Is he truly an ally or a snake waiting to strike? My instincts war with each other. "By starting with telling me if you figured out how an assassin was able to get into your compound."

"We suspect he was sneaked in as part of the staff, probably the gardening team. That is currently the main focus of our investigation."

By focus, he probably means they have someone locked up in a basement somewhere and being interrogated for information.

"Perhaps," I say finally, "if you could be more… transparent with me is all I ask."

Esteban's expression doesn't change, but I catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Indignation? Suspicion. It's gone too quickly to tell.

"Transparency," he repeats as if tasting the word. "An admirable goal. Though in our line of work, sometimes the less known, the better. Wouldn't you agree?"

I smile thinly. "Not when it comes to attempts on my life, Esteban."

"That is very true. That's why I made this trip—to show that the Arellanos want to do business with you and take the situation seriously." His mask falls away for a second and he says with a smile, "We love those damn Russian guns, Vlad."

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