Page 99 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

“Killing a cop is the easiest option,” Gennady says. “That’s why Ilyasov did it. It’s faster.”

“But riskier. Especially now that Ilyasov has killed two so brazenly. The NYPD will be out for revenge. Up in arms.”

Gennady groans. “So corruption, then? That takes time. The men won’t like it.”

“Well, the men won’t know what I have planned until it’s done. We don’t speak a word of this to anyone. They’ll hear about it once it’s finished.”

“Once what’s finished?”

“My plan,” I say simply. “What? You don’t think I have one?”

Gennady sighs, knowing I won’t say another word until I’m ready. Not to him or anyone else in the Bratva.

I’m the only one I can trust.

35

Dima

I walk into the law office in a suit.

While on the run, I wore whatever I could find in a box store—sweatpants, ill-fitted jeans, cheap t-shirts. But this is a capital-SSuit. It’s tailored perfectly, fits like a glove, made from the finest material with the finest craftsmanship.

I look like myself.

I look like a fucking don.

The receptionist behind the front desk thinks so, too. When I walk in, she does a double take and gives me a suggestive smile.

“Do you have an appointment, sir? You must be a new client. I’ve never seen you before.” Her lipstick is faded where it’s come into contact with her coffee mug too many times, but she purses her lips and bats her curled eyelashes at me.

“I’m here to see Kurt Vaughn. I don’t have an appointment. But he’ll know who I am.”

Without taking her eyes from my face, the receptionist picks up her phone and taps in an extension. “Mr. Vaughn, someone is here to see you—Yes, I know, but he said—Yes. Okay, I’ll tell him.”

She drops the phone down and shrugs. “I’m sorry, but he is busy right now. Perhaps you can make an appointment and come back another day?”

I shake my head. “Call him back and tell him my name.”

Her eyebrows lift. “And what is your name?”

“Dima Romanoff.”

Suddenly, her smile flattens. She stares at me in shock as she calls the lawyer again.

He must be annoyed because he starts talking before she can even explain. She sighs. “I know, sir, but Dima Romanoff is here to see you—Yes, right now. He’s in the office. Yes. Okay.”

The receptionist stands up and smooths a hand down her pencil skirt. “Follow me, Mr. Romanoff. Mr. Vaughn will see you now.”

“How nice of him to accommodate me,” I drawl.

I’m shown back to the office in the corner of the main room. Kurt Vaughn’s name is spelled on a background of foggy glass. I can see the rough shape of his silhouette moving around inside before the receptionist opens the door and ushers me inside.

The office is wooden and filled with leather-bound books that’ve no doubt never been touched. It looks like he ordered theBig Impressive LawyerStarter Kit.

“Mr. Romanoff, what a pleasure,” Vaughn lies. “Please sit down.”

He’s a good-looking middle-aged man. Good-looking in the way that expensive, morally dubious defense attorneys like him always look: lots of Botox, perfectly coiffed hair with a bright sheen in it, a smile like the cat that just ate the canary.

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