Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I stoop forward. “I was naked, you fucking prick.”
His face falls. “You had a robe. I thought—”
“I was naked, you asshole.”
“Oh. I see.” He clears his throat. “Listen, Karine, I’m sorry. I know that was lousy of me. I should have warned you at the very least, but he made it part of the deal that I said nothing.”
“You know, Merrick, you’re talented. I even like you most of the time. But you’re also a self-centered prick.”
“I simply will not disagree with that assessment, darling. Can we be friends again?”
“You just want to paint me some more.”
“I’d be honored, but no, I suspect that ship has sailed, as they say.”
“That ship crashed into an iceberg and sank.” I glare at him, but my face softens. “You really are a prick, but fine. I don’t hate you.”
“Fantastic.” He claps his hands together. A woman sitting to his left gives him an odd look but goes back to her phone. “Now, are you going to tell me what you and our dear friend Mr. Valentin spoke about while I was gone? And why you left in such a hurry?”
“Absolutely not. But you’re going to tell me everything you know about him after I pour some drinks. Got it?”
Merrick puts a hand over his heart. “I promise, my darling, every terrible rumor I’ve ever heard shall be yours.”
All night, he tells me stories about Valentin. Most of them are absurd and overblown, and I’m pretty sure he’s making up details just for dramatic effect.
But none of them are good.
What I learn is more or less what I already assumed.
Valentin is a bad man. He’s a very, very bad man with connections to some very dark underworld shit.
He might even be part of a Russian Bratva, but Merrick can neither confirm nor deny that.
“All I know for sure is his money is good.” Merrick is on his third drink and his cheeks are pink with it. “And he’s hot as sin. God, I’d gladly lounge around naked for him.”
“Merrick.”
“Right, yes, violations and boundaries and all that.” He sighs dramatically.
“What’s he do for a living? I mean, that you’re aware of?”
“Runs a company called Matrix International. I think they’re involved in sports gambling and crypto? You know, the trendy stuff.”
That explains why he has hackers on his payroll. “You don’t think that’s his real job?”
“It’s a job, at least. There’s a website and such. But, darling, I’d bet my ability to paint that Valentin is involved in a lot more than Bitcoin and parlays.”
Merrick makes it through a fourth martini before staggering home. I help close Stove and Smoke, and when I get home, I do some Googling.
Sure enough, there’s a website for Matrix International. It’s pretty generic, lots of information about vertical integrations and growing the boundaries of legal gambling and investing in emerging technologies and such, but what interests me most is the page that lists the leadership team.
There he is, right at the top. Valentin Zaitsev. Born in the United States to Russian immigrant parents. CEO of Matrix International.
Otherwise, there’s not much information on the guy, and further searching doesn’t yield much.
For a man involved in a high-risk industry with a public-facing profile, there’s shockingly little about him.
Almost like someone purposefully scrubbed the internet.
I wipe down the bar at Stove and Smoke. It’s a little past ten on a Tuesday and there’s not much of a crowd. Just a few regulars wiling away the evening, a young couple on a first date, and some business bros hammering shots at a booth. I’m mostly checked out, at least until ten men suddenly pile into the place and park themselves right at the bar.
From then on, I’m getting drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. The men are well behaved, but I sense there’s an edge to them. They talk quietly, but they give everyone around them hard looks, and I’m pretty sure I catch a few sentences of a foreign-sounding language.
Maybe even Russian.
But most suspicious of all, they tip well.
Really well. Like I’m getting a fifty-dollar bill each time I pour a new beer, which is absurd. It was pretty awesome at first—I make ten times my usual amount in the first half hour after they arrive—but soon it gets pretty damn suspicious.
Why would a bunch of Russian-looking guys in nondescript jeans and windbreakers have a polite but intense drinking session and tip the bartender an absolutely absurd amount of money?
“Another beer, please,” one of the men asks. He’s older, probably in his forties, with dark eyes and a bald head. He starts slipping me another fifty.
I push it away. “I don’t want Valentin’s money,” I tell him, taking a gamble.
The man grimaces, clears his throat, but quickly shakes his head. “I don’t know who you mean,” he says.
“Bullshit. What’s your name?”
“Ah, well, my name—” He sighs and leans forward on his elbows. “I’m Sergei.”