I chuckle. She’s as sly as a fox.
“Seven pm tomorrow, beautiful.” I watch as she smooths down her dress. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
The Next Day
One of my guys walks in and puts a phone on my desk. “Pakhan Romanov, the Yakuza are on line two.”
I take the phone without looking up. “What?”
“Mr. Romanov, we need to discuss compensation for last night’s misunderstanding.”
“The misunderstanding where your men shot up my venue?”
“They were acting in self-defense…”
“They’re lucky I haven’t killed them yet. One million dollars, wired. You’ve got twenty-four hours.” I end the call before he can respond.
The phone rings again. This time it’s one of my lieutenants.
“Pakhan, we’ve got a problem with the Georgians. They hit one of our shipments at the port.”
“How much did we lose?”
“Two million in merchandise. They also left some bullshit about territory being temporary.”
I lean back in my chair, sighing in annoyance. Dato is getting bold, and I’m getting bored. “Find the Georgian who thinks he can steal from me. I want him brought to the warehouse. Alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make sure Dato knows exactly who he’s fucking with.”
I end the call and check my watch. Three PM.
I’ve got five hours before I see her.
I hit the intercom button. “Get me a car ready in ten, and I want sixty thousand euros, all hundred euro bills.”
“Yes, Pakhan.”
I sit back with my phone and think about the last twelve months of watching her, tracking where she goes and what catches her eye when she’s out shopping. Every Thursday, Zoya walks past the Hermès store, and she can’t help but pause. Two weeks ago, I watched her stand there for four minutes straight just staring at some black Birkin bag.
She collects images of luxury bags and designer heels online but can’t afford to actually purchase them. Expensive taste with a broke bank account.
But cash, cash is what she really loves. I’ve observed her sorting through earnings after finishing a stream and noticed how she reacts to large donations. She’s obsessed with it.
Perfect.
My guy walks in carrying a black bag. “Sixty thousand euros, sir.”
Nodding, I pick it up and leave for the car downstairs.
There are customers everywhere when I enter Hermès, but a saleswoman still comes over right away with a polite expression.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you today?”
“I need a black Birkin 40.”
Her smile tightens just slightly. “The Birkin collection has quite an extensive waitlist, I’m afraid. Typically six to eighteen months, depending on…”