NIKOLAI.
His office is obscene.
Corner suite, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Moscow’s lights, furniture that costs more than most people’s cars.
Very Mozorov.
The door closes and we’re standing there, staring at each other like two wolves circling.
“So,” he says. “Are we doing this or are you going to keep staring at me like a starving peasant at a feast?”
“Starving peasant? That’s the best you’ve got?” I move closer. “I’m trying to figure out if you actually want this or if this is just another way for you trying to prove you’re better than me.”
“I am better than you. This is just—recreation.”
“Recreation. Right. That’s why you’ve been eye-f*****g me for months.”
“I have not been—” He stops. Recalibrates. “I’ve been observing the competition. There’s a difference.”
“Is
