Disciplined by the Mafia Boss

DANIIL

I buy Atrium House Events for twelve million dollars and decline the commemorative photograph.

The transfer confirmation appears on my phone while the photographer waits beside a vase of white orchids. I sign the last page, cap the pen, and point her toward the company's departing owner. He can remember this afternoon in whatever pose he likes.

By the time the boardroom empties, his champagne is warm. Mine remains untouched beside a presentation box tied with black ribbon.

Ignat opens the box while I review the transfer confirmation. Inside, nestled in tissue, is a silver bottle stopper shaped like the company's monogram. He lifts it by the little ornamental loop and turns it toward me.

“Twelve million, and they still expect you to finish the bottle another day.”

“Keep it. You've been wanting a raise.” I slide the confirmation into the sale folder, enjoying the offended look he gives the stopper before returning it to its tissue.

Through the glass wall, afternoon light stretches across an empty reception desk. Most of the staff are at events, leaving the office quieter than it was during my first inspection. A deep green sofa faces the entrance beneath photographs of rooms transformed for people who want a night everyone else will talk about. In the largest, hundreds of candles hang above a long dinner table without a wire visible anywhere.

I spent part of that first visit looking for the wires.

Someone had gone to considerable trouble for a single dinner, and the clients had returned the following year asking for something bigger. That interested me more than the photographs. Atrium's customers come back, bring their friends, and accept increases their accountants would argue over anywhere else.

With my hotel interests and transport businesses behind it, the company can offer more than it does now. I can put its staff in rooms they haven't been able to hire and introduce them to clients whose assistants won't return an unsolicited call. The numbers support expansion. For once, I expect the largest difficulty to involve other people's taste.

On the table beside the sale documents lies the proposal for October's jewelry auction. I untie its ribbon, pushing my cuff back from my wrist as the heavy cover opens. The room is cool, but three hours of sitting in shirtsleeves have left the leather warm beneath me. I'm ready to stand up and look at what I've bought.

The auction is at the Orison, a hotel on Bellmere's oceanfront that manages to look secluded in every photograph despite occupying an entire block of Ocean Crescent. Aureline, the jewelry house, has assembled twenty-five million dollars in pieces for the evening. My new company is responsible for persuading a room full of people that owning them would improve their lives.

A photograph shows a woman in an ivory silk slip with an emerald necklace resting above its low neckline. Opposite her, a male model wears an open dinner jacket over bare skin, a diamond brooch fixed to the lapel. The clothes reveal almost as much as they cover, while the lighting draws attention back to the jewels. Even on paper, the invitation feels personal.

I turn to the plan of the room. Guests will move between a gallery and the ballroom, with models circulating among them before the auction. Champagne and caviar arrive in the proposal several pages before anyone mentions bidding. Whoever put this together understands how much people will spend after they've been made to feel desirable.

Serena Hamilton, senior event planner, has signed the presentation beneath the client's approval. Her name also appears on the candlelit dinner, a private exhibition, and two of the accounts that persuaded me to make an offer. I add a tab beside it. On Monday, I'll want to hear what she needs to handle more of them.

“Lionel's expecting you at six,” Ignat says from the doorway. “If you want to see the hotel before he starts talking, we should leave.”

I put on my jacket and take the proposal with me. A hotel owner who personally insists on showing me his property usually wants something. I've allowed forty-five minutes to discover what.

By the time we reach Ocean Crescent, hot air wavers above the road. Beyond the low sea wall, people are walking toward the public beach carrying towels and shoes. The Orison's entrance is set back behind tall palms, with a shaded drive that keeps its arriving guests out of that same sun. A doorman has the car door open before I reach for it.

Warm air touches the damp collar at the back of my neck as I step out. Close to the entrance, the ocean smells sharp beneath the sweet scent from the flowering shrubs. Ignat hands the car over and comes inside with me, carrying the proposal under one arm. We pass a couple waiting while a porter folds their beach towels out of sight.

The lobby opens around a shallow courtyard where water spills from a stone basin into a dark pool. Above it, glass walkways connect the upper floors, their edges lined with greenery that hangs into the space. On either side of us, low chairs are arranged in small groups with enough room between them to make conversation private. Staff cross the pale floor without hurrying anyone.

For the first time all afternoon, I want to sit down and stay a while.

At the reception desk, Lionel's assistant tells me he's in his office and has asked that I be brought straight up. A server offers a small tray of refreshments while she checks the lift. I take a blini topped with caviar, feeling its warmth through the paper beneath it. The salt gives way to butter as I eat, and I look back toward the courtyard, imagining what Atrium could do with it after dark.

Lionel knows how to welcome someone whose signature he wants.

Upstairs, Ignat hands me the proposal and stays by the lift to take a call. I continue along the executive corridor, where the carpet softens my footsteps and the scent of food disappears. At the far end, a door stands open by a few inches. Lionel's name is engraved on a small plate beside it. I knock, wait through a burst of laughter, and push it open.

Denise Humphrey is on Lionel's desk with her dress pushed to her waist and her legs locked around him. I recognize her dark bob from the model photographs in the proposal. Lionel's trousers are open beneath his jacket, his shirt hanging loose as he moves between her thighs. The two glasses beside her clink softly with each movement. She catches his mouth with hers and makes a low sound that stops when she opens her eyes and finds me beside the visitor's chair.

For a moment I'm too surprised to speak. Lionel follows her stare, and the sight of his face makes me want to put him through the window behind him.

“Get dressed,” I tell him, stepping back into the corridor. “I'll wait.”

The door catches on the carpet before it closes. I pull it the rest of the way and stand beside it, holding my hands away from the handle. From the lift, Ignat looks up. I shake my head before he can approach.

Lionel Weaver has been married for twenty-three years. He mentioned the anniversary during a call last month, when we were talking about possible business together. He spent longer describing the surprise he'd arranged for his wife than he did discussing the hotel.

Behind the door, he begins an urgent explanation too low for me to hear. Denise's answer is perfectly clear.

“You said the transfer would be done today. I'm leaving tomorrow, Lionel. Please don't make me chase you for it.”

A little later, she comes out wearing a black dress that reaches her knees, with her bag over one shoulder. Up close, she's even more striking than her photograph, though she gives me only a brief glance before checking her phone. Whatever embarrassment Lionel is enduring, she appears willing to leave him with it.

I move aside. She passes me without an apology and turns toward the lift, where Ignat steps clear of the doors. I wait until she's inside before going back to Lionel.

He's fastened his shirt incorrectly. One side of the collar sits higher than the other, drawing my attention every time he tries to smile. Behind his desk, the Atlantic fills a broad window. The room's furniture is low and dark, leaving the view clear from the chairs where guests are supposed to sit. I put the proposal on one of them and remain standing.

“She's one of the models,” he says. “You've probably seen her in the materials. I wasn't expecting you quite so soon.”

“It's six o'clock.”

He looks at his watch. The gesture infuriates me more than an argument would have. I have his invitation on my phone, but he apparently expects me to apologize for keeping it.

On a shelf beside the window, a framed photograph shows Lionel with Alessandra at the opening of another property. She's facing the camera while he looks at her, smiling. Today, with his desk between us, he follows my glance and reaches toward the frame. His hand drops before he touches it.

“I'd appreciate your discretion. Alessandra doesn't need to be hurt over something that has nothing to do with her.”

My fingers close around the back of the visitor's chair. I release it before the leather creaks again. “You brought another woman into the business you own with your wife. Don't tell me who it concerns.”

The color begins to leave his face. He moves behind the desk, keeping it between us as he straightens a pad displaced by Denise. There are two glasses beside it. One has lipstick on the rim, and he lifts it as if he means to carry it somewhere before setting it down again.

I came here thinking we might agree to expand the work between our businesses. Now I'm looking at a man who can't keep an appointment without turning it into an invitation to lie for him. The taste of salt remains in my mouth, unpleasant against the heat rising beneath my collar.

“I didn't plan for any of this,” he says.

“You sent someone downstairs to bring me up.”

His shoulders sink. With the smile gone, he looks older than the man who greeted me on video calls, less certain that the next sentence can make us both comfortable. He reaches into his jacket, takes out his phone, and holds it without unlocking it.

“There's another reason I asked you here.”

Across the desk, his thumb misses the edge of the screen before he gets the message open. When he finally turns the phone toward me, Grigory Trofimov's name appears above the conversation.

I take it from his hand. Anger tightens into a much colder attention as I read the first message.

We should finish the venue agreement before the auction. I've accepted my invitation.

Below it is a photograph of a receipt from a jeweler, followed by a list of dates. Denise's name appears beside an expensive gift. One of the dates is yesterday.

I would prefer Alessandra to hear about our partnership from you.

There's no need for a photograph of a weapon. Grigory and I both lead Bratva crews in Bellmere, and I've heard that courteous voice while men considerably harder than Lionel struggled to answer him. He likes to give people time to imagine what refusal might bring.

I scroll back. The earlier messages concern hotel access and a proposed agreement, growing less patient as Lionel postpones their meetings. Whatever happened yesterday produced a sharp change in tone. The gift receipt arrived this morning.

“Tell me about the agreement.” I put the phone on the desk between us, where he has to look at it.

“He wants his company to operate the venues for ten years, with exclusive rights to book events.” Lionel opens a drawer and takes out a thin folder. “He says he can bring in clients we can't reach.”

The figures near the front explain why Grigory would enjoy the arrangement. For a fraction of their earning potential, Lionel would give him the places where wealthy people celebrate, negotiate, and meet people they'd prefer not to be seen with. The Orison is included. So is every other hotel in the group.

I reach the signature page, where Alessandra's name appears beside her husband's. Her signature line is empty.

“She hasn't agreed?”

“She hasn't seen the final proposal. I told her we were exploring a partnership.” Lionel rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “She has the votes to remove me from management. If she files for divorce as well, everything we've built gets pulled apart. I could lose the hotels.”

I can hear how badly he wants me to take the threat away. He pushes the folder closer, although I've already read the part that matters.

I leave it where it is. Until this afternoon, Atrium had a profitable contract at a desirable hotel. Now its name is attached to an evening Grigory intends to use against the man hosting it. The purchase confirmation is still on my phone. I've owned the company for less than two hours.

“What does he expect to find at the auction?”

Lionel takes too long to answer. When he does, his voice is low. “Denise and I had discussed a private viewing after the main presentation. He seems to know about it. The receipt doesn't prove an affair, but if he sees us together, gets something Alessandra can't explain away…”

He stops, looking toward the closed door. I remember the woman reminding him about her transfer before leaving, entirely occupied with her own arrangements. He has entrusted his marriage to her continuing satisfaction and his business to Grigory's restraint. Somehow, I'm the person he's invited to admire the result.

“You could speak to him,” Lionel says. “He'd listen to you. If you made it clear we have an understanding, he might leave this alone.”

I move around the chair. He steps back until the window ledge catches him behind the knees, but I only collect my proposal from where I put it down.

“You and I don't have an understanding. I'm taking my company out of this.”

“Out of the auction?” His voice rises before he catches it. “Daniil, it's July. We've been planning this for months. Aureline won't accept a change now.”

“Then you'll have an unpleasant conversation. Send me the messages and the proposal.”

He picks up his phone. I watch him send both, then open the attachments on mine before turning toward the door.

“What about Alessandra?” Lionel asks behind me. “Are you going to tell her?”

For a moment, my hand stays on the handle. I could tell him I'll call her tonight. The thought brings a brief, ugly relief, followed by the picture of my new company caught in the collapse before I've even met its staff. I want Atrium clear of this hotel first.

“I haven't decided,” I say.

Ignat is waiting by the lift. On the way down, I show him Grigory's messages. He reads without speaking and hands back the phone as the doors open onto the courtyard.

The lobby is filling for the evening. A woman in a backless dress leans close to the man beside her, laughing against his ear, while a server carries champagne toward the terrace. The guests have no idea what Lionel is inviting into the rooms above them. I want my staff out before Grigory turns up to collect.

Outside, the heat closes around us again. Ignat goes to collect the car while I send the hotel agreement to my lawyer with instructions to review withdrawal. I don't ask how to salvage the auction. Once we're moving, I open the presentation on my knees and find Serena Hamilton's name beneath the client's approval.

The gallery lighting has its own page, followed by the models' route to the ballroom. I close the cover before I get to the dinner arrangements and bring up Monday's staff meeting.

At nine o'clock, I'm going to tell her the auction is over.