Friends in High Places

[Sofia Vasilieva]

Turned out there was little to see in the process, and she was tired of looking at Maksim’s puppydog face even as it smoothed itself of injury. She flicked her gaze over to Pavel instead. His expression was hard as stone, but it spoke volumes to a sweet sister. Sofia raised a brow, but the hint of a smirk on her lips was utterly smug. They should have killed the yak; showed Kao that if he forced their hand to a silly game, they’d ruin it with a bullet to the brain. They’d play, yes. But it wasn’t the fucking Syndicate going to be making the rules.

Pavel wasn’t happy. But he wouldn’t argue. Though neither did it seem he was about to unfold his arms, and perhaps he intended to ignore Iásōn altogether.

Max was unsurprisingly extravagant with his appreciation and awe. Doubtful that he should have touched the custody’s precious healer so, but the agent didn’t intervene, and Sofia finally rose from her chair now the bulk of their business was concluded. There would be no lesson learnt tonight, she’d wager, and Maksim would be back in the casino loudly blessing his good fortune by tomorrow. He might do well to remember it wasn’t fortune he should be thanking, or even Iásōn, but his sister-in-law. It was unlikely to be the last time he found himself up to the eyeballs in shit. And certainly not now the landscape of Moscow’s great powers was in flux. Next time helping him out might not sit so neatly with family business.

“He said thank you,” she translated for the American; redundant, given the embrace and kisses. She smiled, but there was impatience in her posture. Iásōn had not voiced agreement to fix Pavel’s hands, and it was unlikely to be the kind of thing his extraordinary gifts were supposed to be used on. A trifling thing, really. But she had asked him to do it.

Pavel stood like a statue, imposing and silent.