Chapter 3 - Entering the Lion's Den
Preston stared at the vibrating phone on the coffee table as if it were a venomous snake. The name Vasiliev pulsed against the black screen in bright, glowing letters, rhythmically ticking down the seconds before voicemail would pick up.
"Answer it," I commanded, standing over him with my arms crossed.
"Evelyn, no, you don't understand," he stammered, sweat pouring down his temples. "If Viktor Vasiliev hears about my arm, if he thinks I can't deliver the collateral—"
"Answer it on speaker," I interrupted, my tone leaving zero room for argument. I stepped on his uninjured wrist with the heel of my slipper, just enough pressure to remind him who held the leverage now. "Or I'll pick up the phone myself and tell him you're currently hospitalized with a shattered elbow."
With a ragged gasp of pain, Preston fumbled for the screen with his left hand and hit the speaker button.
"Preston, my boy," a deep, gravelly voice echoed through the quiet penthouse, dripping with false warmth and underlying menace. "I was expecting your wire transfer by nine o'clock this morning. The weekend grace period is over. Where is my sixty thousand vig?"
Preston swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "Mr. Vasiliev... there's been a complication. My wife... she's locked up the accounts. She won't release the funds until we settle some domestic... agreements."
A heavy, suffocating silence hung over the phone line for three agonizing seconds.
Then, the tone of Vasiliev's voice shifted instantly from jovial to glacial.
"A complication? With the bride?" Vasiliev chuckled darkly, a sound like grinding stones. "Tell me, Preston, did you forget to mention to your wealthy little analyst that your debts are now her debts under your marital partnership laws? Or did you fail to control your own household?"
Preston shot a terrified glance up at me. "I... I'm handling it. Just give me twenty-four hours—"
"Twenty-four hours is for dead men," Vasiliev interrupted sharply. "Tell your wife that I am sending my associate, Boris, to your condo this afternoon. He will sit with both of you, review the asset transfer papers, and ensure the signature is notarized properly. If Boris leaves that building without a signed deed to her property and full access to your corporate accounts, your arm won't be the only thing broken, Preston. Do we understand each other?"
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Preston collapsed forward, sobbing quietly against the carpet. "We're dead. They're going to kill us both. Boris is an animal; he spent five years in a Black Sea penal colony before he came to New York."
I didn't panic. I didn't cry. My mind, trained over a decade of high-stakes financial crisis management and tactical simulations, instantly began mapping out the variables.
Sixty thousand dollars in immediate vig, backed by dangerous Brighton Beach syndicates, with an enforcer named Boris scheduled to arrive at our door by three o'clock that afternoon.
"Get up," I said, walking toward the kitchen.
Preston sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "What? What are you doing?"
"I'm making tea," I called back over my shoulder. "And then, Preston, you're going to help me set a trap. Because if these animals think they can walk into my penthouse and bully me into signing away my life's work, they're about to learn why my firm calls me the 'Iron Widow.'"
By two o'clock, the penthouse had been meticulously restored to a semblance of order. The shattered glass was swept away, the broken table dragged out to the service elevator, and two comfortable armchairs were arranged neatly facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Preston sat trembling in the corner, his arm in a sling, watching in sheer bewilderment as I unlocked a heavy biometric safe hidden behind a sliding bookcase in my study.
From inside the safe, I pulled out a sleek, matte-black Pelican case.
I popped the latches. Inside rested not jewelry or emergency cash, but a disassembled Glock 19 match-grade pistol, several spare magazines, a tactical flashlight, and a set of heavy-duty flex-cuffs.
Preston’s eyes bulged. "Where... where did you get that?"
"My father was a tactical firearms instructor for federal marshals before he retired," I said calmly, snapping the barrel into place with a crisp, satisfying click. "He taught me how to clean a weapon before I learned how to drive. Did you really think a woman who lives alone in Manhattan doesn't take her own security seriously?"
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"They'll kill us, Evelyn," he whispered, rocking back and forth. "Boris has a crew. They carry pieces."
"Let them try," I said, sliding a loaded magazine into the grip with a sharp clack. "Because by the time Boris walks through that door, he won't be dealing with a terrified newlywed. He'll be dealing with an apex predator."
