Page 87 of Rafi

He leans back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “When friends from Seattle call, I answer. Loyalty is a rare commodity these days, no?”

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Ilya Koslov is not a man who needs to flex his power. It radiates from him effortlessly, in the way he speaks, the way he moves, even in the way he simply exists. His reach is legendary, his network vast. No corner of the European bloc is untouched by his influence.

The limousine begins to move, gliding smoothly over the snow-dusted roads. Outside, the city’s skyline looms, a mixture of stark Soviet-era architecture and glittering modern skyscrapers. The contrast is jarring, a visual representation of the old world clashing with the new.

“Usually, we avoid this side of the world,” I say, my voice steady despite the tension coiled in my chest. “We don’t know it as well as we should. But when we do visit, it’s good to know we have friends like you.”

Ilya’s smile widens, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Flattery, my friend? It’s totally unnecessary. Seattle’s reputation speaks for itself.”

I choose my next words carefully. “And your loyalty has never been in question. That’s rare, and it’s something we value.”

He nods, his sharp gaze flicking between me and Kanyan. “Good. Because loyalty, my dear friend, is the only currency that matters in this business.”

The limousine pulls to a stop in front of an imposing estate, its wrought-iron gates adorned with intricate designs that seem to twist and writhe like living things. Armed guards flank the entrance, their eyes scanning every movement with military precision.

As the gates swings open, I can’t help but feel a pang of unease. We are far from home, surrounded by people who play by different rules. Yet, for all his power, Ilya Koslov has extended his protection to us. In his world, that means something. It has to.

The limousine rolls forward, and the mansion comes into view. Its grandeur is almost oppressive, a statement of wealth and dominance. Ilya steps out first, his presence as commanding as ever. He turns back, gesturing for us to follow.

“Come,” he says. “Let us talk business. After all, that is why you’ve come, no?”

As we follow him inside, the weight of the moment settles over me. This is more than a visit. It’s a test, a gamble, a step into a world where one wrong move can turn an ally into an enemy. And in Ilya Koslov’s domain, there is no margin for error.

The tensionin the room is palpable as I face Ilya Koslov. The air between us feels sharp, taut, as though any wrong word could cut through the tenuous thread holding this meeting together. I can feel his eyes on me, unyielding and sharp, dissecting every inch of my stance, every flicker of expression.

“We need an audience with Anton and Igor Aslanov,” I say, my voice steady despite the weight of the request. The words hang in the air like a gauntlet thrown, daring him to respond.

For a long moment, Ilya says nothing. His dark eyes fix on me with the kind of intensity that could break lesser men. He doesn’t blink, nor does he flinch. It is like watching a predator decide whether or not to pounce. The silence stretches, growing heavier with each passing second.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and deliberate. “I am many things, but I will not help you against the Aslanovs.”

The rejection lands like a blow against my face, but I don’t falter. I meet his gaze head-on. “I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I just need you to put me in a room with them.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the faintest crack in his otherwise inscrutable demeanor. “For what purpose?” he asks, his tone laced with suspicion. “I will have nothing to do with bringing down friends.”

Before I can answer, Kanyan steps forward, his broad shoulders cutting a commanding figure in the room. He stands with his hands on his hips, exuding a quiet confidence that demands attention.

“We know they had nothing to do with the attack on Seattle,” Kanyan says, his voice calm but firm. Each word is measured, deliberate. “But it’s in their best interest to help us out withTeskin. There’s no greater strategy than pitting two friends against a mutual enemy. Even you know this, Ilya.”

Ilya’s gaze shifts to Kanyan, the room seeming to contract as the two men lock eyes. It is a battle of wills, a silent exchange where every glance and pause carries weight. I can almost feel the mutual respect passing between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of power and strategy.

“There is no world in which Teskin comes for one and doesn’t come for the other,” Kanyan continues, his tone unyielding. “Seattle wants the matter put to bed before it escalates.”

Ilya’s lips press into a thin line, but he gives a single, sharp nod. He knows Kanyan is right. The logic is irrefutable, and Ilya Koslov is not a man to ignore sound strategy, no matter how much he dislikes the implications.

“Let me make some calls,” he says finally, his voice carrying the weight of a decision made. Without waiting for a response, he turns and gestures to his butler, murmuring a quick order for drinks.

The tension in the room eases slightly, but my pulse remains quick, my mind racing. This isn’t just about getting into a room with the Aslanovs. This is about survival, about ensuring we can stand against a man like Teskin—and that means navigating a minefield of alliances and filtering out the betrayals.

As Ilya disappears into the adjoining room to make his calls, I glance at Kanyan. He stands relaxed but vigilant, his eyes scanning the room as if cataloging every exit, every threat.

“That was well-played,” I say quietly.

He glances at me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not about saying a lot. It’s about saying the right thing at the right time.”

I nod, filing the lesson away. In this world, words are weapons, especially when wielded at the right time, and I realizethat if we’re going to survive this, I’ll need to learn how to do the same.

50

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