Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had interviewed everyone from NHL legends to Olympic hopefuls in his five years at The Ottawa Journal, but he'd never needed to check the address three times before finding the right building. Konstantin's was nestled between a high-end art gallery and a private bank in the ByWard Market, its entrance so understated that Shane walked past it twice before noticing the discreet brass nameplate.
No gaudy signage. No velvet ropes or obvious security. Just a heavy oak door and the kind of quiet confidence that suggested the people inside didn't need to advertise.
Shane adjusted his messenger bag and pushed through the door.
The interior swallowed him in muted elegance, dark wood paneling, low amber lighting, and the hushed murmur of conversation that spoke of deals made over drinks worth more than his monthly rent. A blonde woman in an elegant black dress appeared before he'd taken three steps inside.
"Mr. Hollander?" Her accent was faint but unmistakably Eastern European. "Mr. Rozanov is expecting you. This way, please."
She led him past the main dining room, where Ottawa's power elite sat in leather booths, and down a corridor lined with black-and-white photographs of Moscow's architecture. Shane recognized the Kremlin, Saint Basil's Cathedral, and several brutalist Soviet buildings he couldn't name. At the end of the hall, she opened a door to a private dining room.
"Mr. Rozanov will be with you shortly. Would you like to start with something to drink?"
"Could I have a Ginger Ale, please? Thank you." Shane needed his head clear for this.
The room was intimate, a single table set for two, more of those architectural photographs on the walls, and a window overlooking a small courtyard garden that shouldn't have been possible given the building's location. Shane pulled out his notebook and recorder, reviewing his research while he waited.
Ilya Rozanov. Twenty-seven years old. The younger son of Grigori Rozanov, a Russian oligarch with interests in energy, real estate, and telecommunications. Ilya had been managing the family's North American holdings for two years, focusing on entertainment ventures and property development. He was part of the consortium that had recently purchased the Ottawa Senators, bringing both capital and controversy to the struggling franchise.
The controversy was what made this story interesting. There had been whispers, nothing concrete, just the kind of rumors that followed wealthy Russians abroad, about the Rozanov family's connections. Shane's editor, Marcus, only wanted a puff piece that humanized the new ownership, something to reassure fans that the team was in good hands. But Shane's instincts told him there was a better story here, something with more teeth.
He just had to find it without torpedoing the interview in the first ten minutes.
The door opened.
Shane stood automatically, and his prepared greeting died in his throat.
He'd seen photos of Ilya Rozanov, PR shots from business events, a few paparazzi captures from charity galas. None of them had prepared him for the reality of seeing him face-to-face. Ilya was tall, with the kind of build that suggested he hadn't abandoned athleticism for the boardroom. His dark blond hair was curly and swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and clean lines, and eyes so pale blue they were almost gray. He wore a black suit tailored to perfection, but no tie, the top buttons of his white shirt undone.
But it was the man’s sheer presence that hit Shane hardest, a kind of coiled intensity that made the room feel smaller and made Shane hyper-aware of his own heartbeat.
"Mr. Hollander." Ilya's voice was deep, his Russian accent adding weight to each syllable. He extended a hand. "Thank you for your patience."
Shane shook it, feeling calluses that had no business being on the hands of a businessman who spent his days behind a desk. "Thank you for making time, Mr. Rozanov. I know you're busy with the transition."
"Please, sit." Ilya gestured to the table, taking the seat across from Shane with a fluid grace that reminded Shane oddly of a predator settling to watch its surroundings. "You've been writing about hockey for how long?"
"Five years professionally. Longer if you count high school and college journalism." Shane opened his notebook, trying to find his equilibrium. "Though I have to admit, I usually interview players and coaches. Owners are a new beat for me."
He held up his small digital recorder. “May I record our interview? It will only be used to help me write accurate quotes.”
“It is fine.”
Shane started the recording and set it on the table between them. He looked up and saw something that might have been amusement flickered across Ilya's face.
"And what do you think of that? The difference between the men who play and the men who pay?"
It was an unexpected question, more philosophical than the usual opener. Shane considered it while their waitress, a young woman named Polina, according to her name tag, entered the room discreetly with a tray holding a can of Ginger Ale and a glass with ice, and placed a tumbler of something amber in front of Ilya.
“Thank you,” Shane said, looking up at her as she opened the tab on the can, pouring the fizzy drink into his glass.
“Thank you, Polina,” Ilya said, smiling at her.
Polina gave him a warm smile and nodded her head at Shane, leaving the room as quietly as she entered.
"As for your question, players are usually easier to read. Their relationship with the game is direct. Physical. They live and die by what happens on the ice." He paused, meeting Ilya's gaze. "Owners are more complicated. The game is business for them. Investment. Strategy. There's more distance between what they want and what happens on the ice."
"Distance." Ilya repeated the word like he was tasting it. "Yes. Distance can be useful. It allows for clearer perspective." He took a sip of his drink. "But it also means you cannot feel the thing directly. You are always watching from above, removed. There is a loss in that, I think."
Shane picked up his pen, scribbling a note. This wasn't the polished “corporate speak” he'd expected. "Is that how you see your role with the Senators? Watching from above?"
"I see my role as ensuring the right people have the resources they need to succeed." Ilya leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp. "I am not a hockey expert, Mr. Hollander. I will not pretend to understand the game better than the coaches and managers we employ. But I understand structure. Resources. Creating conditions where excellence can flourish."
"And what drew you to hockey, specifically? Your family's other North American investments are mostly commercial real estate developments and entertainment venues."
"You've done your research."
"It's my job."
Another flicker of that almost-amusement.
"Hockey is..." Ilya paused, seeming to consider his words carefully. "In Russia, hockey is more than sport. It is identity. Pride. When Soviet teams faced North American teams during the Cold War, it was not just a game. It was ideology. Superiority. A way to prove something to the world." He rolled the tumbler slowly between his palms. "That intensity, that meaning, it makes hockey different from other sports. More honest, perhaps."
Shane's pen moved across the page. This was fantastic material, better than he'd hoped. "You grew up watching Russian hockey?"
"I grew up playing Russian hockey." Ilya's expression shifted slightly, something distant entering his eyes. "Until I was sixteen. Then my father decided my time was better spent learning business."
There was a story there, Shane could feel it. Some tension between the life Ilya had wanted and the life he'd been given. But before he could probe further, Polina and two servers appeared, pushing in a serving cart that was ladened with a dozen dishes.
"I took the liberty of ordering for us. Unless you have dietary restrictions?"
"No, this is...this is beautiful." Shane set down his pen, suddenly aware that this was more than just an interview. The private room, the carefully prepared meal, the way Ilya was watching him with those unsettling pale eyes. “I’ve never tried Russian food before so this will be great.”
The table became a small landscape before Shane – porcelain plates on white linen, silver catching light, and a drift of aromas so unlike anything he’d grown up with that he momentarily forgot to speak.
Cold air brushed his cheeks when the server lifted the final domed lid. Then warmth and steam scented with dill, sour cream, smoke, and vinegar, rose in waves. Somewhere beneath it all lingered the dark perfume of rye bread and butter already softening in its dish.
“Zakuski,” Ilya said, pleased, like someone unveiling a painting. “The beginning is always generous.”
Shane’s mouth curved into a smile and met Ilya’s gaze. “This is the beginning?”
“Da.” Ilya’s smile was small, private. “Pace yourself.”
He tried. He really did. There were jewel-bright pickles – tiny cucumbers and tomatoes the color of late summer, glistening with brine. A platter of mushrooms, glossy with oil and garlic, gave off an earthy, forest-after-rain smell. Paper-thin blini lay folded like handkerchiefs beside bowls of chilled sour cream and a mother-of-pearl spoon resting in black caviar that gleamed like wet midnight.
Shane leaned closer, inhaling. “It smells…clean and rich at the same time.”
“Preservation and indulgence,” Ilya said, chuckling throatily. “Russian cuisine remembers winter.”
He pointed, not touching. “This one?”
“Shuba,” Ilya replied, the Russian word soft in his mouth. “Herring under a fur coat.”
Shane took in the layered square with the violet beet top shining under a faint gloss, then pale potato, then something pearlescent and mysterious beneath.
“That might be the best name for a food I’ve ever heard.”
“Try,” Ilya urged, motioning for Shane to begin. “You will taste sweetness and the sea together.”
Shane forked a careful bite. The beet was cool and sweet, the potato soft as a sigh, and then the herring, a bit salty, smooth, but surprisingly gentle, rose through it. A faint whisper of onion and mayonnaise rounded it out. His eyebrows climbed before he could stop them.
“Ohhhh,” he hummed around the mouthful, then swallowed. “That’s…way better than my brain was prepared for.”
Ilya’s eyes warmed, watching Shane’s mouth. “More.”
Another dish drew him next: tiny golden buns, shiny-topped, exhaling warmth. The aroma of yeast and butter wrapped around him like a scarf. “Pirozhki?”
“Da.” Ilya selected one and placed it on Shane’s plate. “This is cabbage and egg. This, potato and mushroom. And this…this is meat that my grandmother would never fully explain.”
Shane laughed, tore one open, and watched pale steam curl upward, carrying cabbage sweetness and pepper
He noticed a narrow plate of open-faced sandwiches, dark rye beneath a gleam of fish and lemon. “And those?”
“Sprat buterbrodi,” Ilya said, accent tracing each consonant. “Smoked fish. Black bread. A little egg. The taste is…nostalgia.”
Shane picked one up, and felt the firmness of the rye crust. Smoke and salt hit first, then the mellow richness of egg and a bright flicker of lemon zest, heat bloomed down his throat, neat and clean.
“Wow.”
“Next time, we will eat with vodka. Vodka is the conversation.” Ilya said, watching him. “These,” he gestured to the crowded table. “These are the friends that keep it company.”
Shane smiled politely when Ilya said “next time” though he really didn’t put much thought in it. Most of the people he interviewed didn’t invite him out for “next times.” But he was certainly going to enjoy his first foray into Russian cuisine, especially with Ilya Rozanov as his guide. Shane looked at the crowded plates, at the riot of color and salt and sweetness and sour that didn’t apologize for any of it.
“You ordered everything you love,” he realized, looking at the selection of foods.
Ilya inclined his head, surprise etched on his face. “I wanted you to know where I come from without my father’s name in the room.”
They ate in silence for a moment, and Shane found himself hyperaware of every sound, the clink of silverware, the long stares from Ilya, and his own breathing.
"Your questions are different," Ilya said, finally. "From other journalists."
"Different how?"
"More direct. You ask what you actually want to know, not what you think you should ask." Ilya set down his fork and cocked his head slightly, focused on Shane. "Most people who interview me are afraid. Not of me specifically, perhaps, but of saying the wrong thing. Offending me. Closing doors they might need to walk through later."
Shane met his gaze. "Should I be afraid of you?"
The question hung between them, more loaded than Shane had intended. Ilya's expression didn't change, but something shifted in the air, a charge, an acknowledgment of the subtext threading through their conversation.
"I think you're too smart to be careless," Ilya said, slowly. "But no. You don’t need to be afraid of me, Shane."
The use of his first name felt deliberately intimate. Shane's pulse kicked up a notch.
"Then I'll keep asking direct questions." Shane said, checking that the recorder was still on. "The Rozanov Group's North American holdings have grown significantly in the past five years. Real estate, restaurants, and clubs. Some analysts suggest the growth has been too rapid for the revenue streams to justify. How do you respond to concerns about the source of your family's capital?"
He'd expected deflection, maybe irritation. Instead, Ilya smiled, a real smile that transformed his face from austere to beautiful.
"Ahhhh. You are not just a sports journalist with questions like that." Ilya raised his glass in a small salute. "That is a question everyone wants to ask but most are too polite to voice." He took a sip. "My father built his business during the privatization period in Russia. Was it always clean? No. The 1990s in Moscow was not a time for saints, Mr. Hollander. But everything we do in North America is legitimate. Audited. Transparent. We have lawyers and accountants whose only job is ensuring we operate within the boundaries of the law."
"Within the boundaries," Shane repeated, looking at him. "That's a lawyer's phrase."
"I have good lawyers."
"I'm sure you do." Shane made a mental note. "But that's not really an answer."
"No?" Ilya studied him. "What answer would satisfy you?"
"The truth."
"The truth." Ilya set down his glass. "The truth is complicated. My father did what was necessary to survive in a collapsing empire. Was some of it illegal? By whose laws? The Soviet laws that were crumbling? The new Russian laws that were being written by people doing the same things my father was doing?" He leaned forward slightly. "You want a simple story. Legitimate businessman or criminal. Good or bad. But the world doesn't work that way."
"Doesn't it?" Shane challenged. "At a certain point, we all have to decide what lines we won't cross. What compromises we won't make."
"Spoken like someone who has always had the luxury of choices." There was no heat in Ilya's voice, just observation. "Tell me, Shane. If you had grown up in Moscow in the 1990s, watching your mother worry whether there would be food, whether the apartment would have heat, whether the violence in the streets would reach your door, would you have been so concerned with lines?"
Shane held his gaze. "I'd like to think I would have found a way that didn't require hurting people."
"Would you?" Ilya's expression was unreadable. "I wonder."
Polina and a server returned with the main course, breaking the tension. They set down wide white bowls whose rims flared like open flowers and were edged in gold, and for a moment Shane simply stared. In each bowl, the liquid glowed a deep garnet red, so vivid it looked lit from within, shot through with thin curls of steam. Against that color, everything became dramatic: the pale swirl of sour cream, the tender green of fresh dill, the gleam of fine-shredded beet and cabbage beneath the surface.
It smelled like earth after rain and slow-cooked bones and something sweet he couldn’t quite name.
“Borscht?” He said, feeling suddenly reverent.
“Da.”
To the side, another plate was placed between them: a careful quenelle of mashed potatoes, impossibly smooth, crowned with a tiny shard of fried potato for height, as if even comfort food dressed up for this dining room. Butter pooled shyly at the base, catching the light. A small porcelain pitcher of dark rye croutons waited nearby, the scent of toasted bread and garlic drifting up whenever the server moved it.
“Please. Try,” Ilya said, watching him.
He lifted his spoon.
The first dip broke the surface gently; vegetables and strips of beef showed themselves, glistening. He tasted the heat that spread through him almost instantly, not the sharp heat of spice, but the slow, marrow-deep warmth of something made to get you through winter. The sweetness of beets, the tang of vinegar, the softness of cabbage and potato, the richness of meat, everything layered and exquisitely balanced.
He exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath. Ilya watched him over the rim of his own bowl, eyes softer than the light could explain.
“My babushka made it thicker,” he said, mouth curving faintly. “Not…restaurant beautiful. Always with a pot too small for how much she insisted on fitting inside.”
Shane smiled. “Let me guess, no recipe written down.”
“Of course not.” Ilya’s voice warmed with memory. “You learn by watching, by stealing pieces of carrot when she turns away, by listening to the spoon tap the side of the pot.” He paused, then added quietly. “On cold days, the windows would fog, and she would complain about the draft and then give me her shawl anyway.”
He took another spoonful. The sour cream melted into swirls, turning the red to rose, softening the sharp edges into something lush. He mixed a little of the mashed potatoes into the next bite at Ilya’s nod; it changed the soup entirely and made it thicker, heartier, like the restaurant briefly gave way to that fogged window, that crowded pot.
“It tastes like…” Shane searched for the word. “Like a story people keep telling because it gets them through the year.”
Ilya inclined his head, as if accepting both compliment and truth. “Borscht is survival that decided to be beautiful.” He gestured with his spoon. “More.”
They ate in charged silence, and Shane tried to regain his professional footing. He kicked himself mentally for getting poetic about food, rather than on the interview.
"What is your vision for the team?" Shane said, steering back to safer ground. "What does success look like for the Senators under your ownership?"
Ilya seemed to accept the redirect. "Success is a Stanley Cup. But more than that, it's building something for the future. A team this city can be proud of for generations, not just one lucky season." His passion was evident now, the careful control slipping slightly. "Ottawa deserves better than what they've had. The fans deserve better. Hockey in Canada is as sacred as in Russia. We don't take that responsibility lightly."
"We? Is your father involved in the day-to-day operations?"
"My father is involved in everything I do." Something complicated crossed Ilya's face. "But the Senators are my project. My responsibility."
Shane sensed another story there, a complicated father-son dynamic, but before he could explore it, Ilya shifted the subject.
"I've read your work," Ilya said, abruptly. "Your profile of the Gatineau midget team that lost their rink to the flood last year. The way you captured not just the hockey but what it meant to those kids, that community, it was excellent."
Shane felt heat rise to his face. "You read that? It was hardly my most high-profile piece."
"It was your best piece." Ilya's certainty was unsettling. "The others are good. Professional. Well-written. But that one had heart. You cared about those kids."
"I did." Shane wasn't sure what to do with this. "They deserved to have their story told."
"Yes." Ilya watched him with an intensity that made Shane want to squirm. "You care about the stories of people. Not just the byline or the career advancement. That's rare."
"How would you know what's rare in journalism?"
"Because I have been interviewed dozens of times in the past two years, and most of those journalists cared more about their editor's approval or their next promotion than about truth." Ilya paused. "You're different."
The weight of that assessment settled over Shane like a physical thing. He should deflect, should get the interview back on track. Instead he heard himself ask, "Is that why you agreed to this? Because you'd read my work?"
"I agreed because my partners insisted we do more media outreach." Ilya's mouth curved slightly. "But I chose you specifically, yes."
The admission hung between them, loaded with implications Shane wasn't ready to examine. He glanced at his notes, at the questions he'd prepared, and realized they'd barely touched half of them. They'd been talking for almost two hours, the conversation wandering through territory that would never make it into his article.
"We should probably get back to hockey," Shane said, though part of him wanted to keep wandering, to see where else this conversation might lead.
"Should we?" Ilya tilted his head. "I thought we were having a much more interesting discussion."
"We are. That's the problem." Shane set down his spoon. "I'm supposed to be writing about your plans for the franchise, not talking about traditional Russian cuisine."
"Why not both?"
"Because my editor wants a story that makes season ticket holders feel good about the new ownership."
Ilya studied him for a long moment. "You quote Margaret Atwood in your Twitter bio. In the end, we'll all become stories. Do you believe that?"
The shift caught Shane off guard. "You've been thorough in your research, too."
"I like to know who I'm talking to."
"Then yes, I believe it. Everything becomes narrative eventually. The question is who gets to tell the story, and whether they tell it honestly."
"Atwood also wrote that a word after a word after a word is power." Ilya leaned forward. "Do you feel powerful, Shane? When you write?"
"Sometimes." Shane was acutely aware of the way Ilya's attention felt like a spotlight. "When I get it right."
"And what will you write about me? What truth will you tell?"
Shane should say something professional, something about the pending publication and editorial process.
Instead, he said, "I don't know yet. You're harder to read than most people I interview."
"Good." Ilya's smile was slow, dangerous. He winked at Shane. "I would hate to be easy."
The double meaning wasn't subtle. Shane felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, awareness prickling across his skin. This was beyond professional interest, beyond the usual interview dynamic. Something was happening here, something Shane absolutely should not encourage.
"I should probably..." Shane gestured vaguely toward his notes. "I have enough for the article. I don't want to take up more of your time."
"You are not." Ilya's gaze hadn't wavered. "I've enjoyed this. It's rare that I get to have an actual conversation rather than reciting talking points."
"I'm sure you have plenty of people to talk to."
"People who work for me. People who want something from me. People who are afraid of me or my father." Ilya's expression shifted slightly. "Not many who simply want to talk."
The vulnerability in that admission caught Shane off guard. For a moment, he saw past the carefully constructed facade to someone young and uncertain. Someone lonely.
"I do want to understand," Shane said, honestly. "Though I'm not sure my article is going to capture even a fraction of what we've talked about today."
"Then perhaps we should talk again. Off the record."
It was an invitation and they both knew it. Shane should decline and should maintain professional boundaries. But the word that came out was: "Maybe."
Ilya's smile was worth the compromise. "I'll consider that a yes."
By the time Polina brought coffee, Shane had filled barely three pages of notes and felt like he'd learned more about Ilya Rozanov than any amount of standard questions would have revealed.
“May I have the check, please?” He said to her, politely.
She merely smiled and shook her head, looking at Ilya.
“It is taken care of,” Ilya said, nonchalantly.
"Thank you. Thank you for lunch, everything was delicious. I should let you get back to work," Shane said, reluctantly, checking his phone. Nearly three hours had passed. "Thank you for this. It was...illuminating."
"The pleasure was mine." Ilya stood when Shane did, that fluid grace again. "Maria, at the hostess stand, will validate your parking."
"I took the bus."
Something shifted in Ilya's expression. "Then let me have my driver take you home. It's late."
"It's only five."
"Nevertheless." Ilya's tone suggested this wasn't really a request. "I insist."
Shane should refuse, should maintain his independence. But he was curious, about the driver, about what Ilya's world looked like beyond this carefully curated restaurant.
"All right. Thank you."
Ilya led him back through the main dining room of the restaurant, one hand hovering near but not quite touching the small of Shane's back. Heads turned as they passed, recognition, curiosity, and something that might have been fear. People knew who Ilya was, Shane realized. And they reacted accordingly.
Outside, the late October air had a bite to it. The early dinner crowd was starting to arrive, well-dressed couples and business groups. Four black Mercedes SUVs were parked behind the restaurant in a private alley, and a man in a dark suit stood beside one, tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of alertness that suggested military or security training.
"Dimitri will take you wherever you need to go." Ilya extended his hand again. "Thank you, Mr. Hollander. For the conversation. I will look forward to your article."
Shane shook it, that same awareness of calluses, of strength carefully leashed. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Rozanov."
Ilya nodded and then walked back towards the front of the restaurant. Shane was about to get into the SUV when voices rose from the side street adjacent to the restaurant. Shane turned instinctively, journalist reflexes kicking in.
Three men stood in the narrow alley, two in dark suits flanking a third man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
“Mr. Hollander –” Dimitri said, beside the opened door to the backseats.
“Just a moment,” Shane said, following the voices and looking at the three men.
"I need more time," the short man was saying, his voice high with panic. "I told Viktor I just need another week –"
"Viktor is done with your excuses." The tank spoke in accented English. "You had two months. The payment is due."
"I can get it, I swear, I just need –"
"Mr. Rozanov is not in the business of charity, Mr. Mikhail." The first man's voice was quieter, more dangerous for its lack of volume. "You knew the terms."
Shane's stomach went cold. He glanced at Dimitri, whose expression had gone completely neutral, carefully blank.
"Get in the car, Mr. Hollander." Dimitri's voice was quiet, but unyielding.
"What's happening?" Shane already knew. His journalist brain was cataloging details, the way the men positioned themselves to block exits, the calculated threat in their body language, the way the shorter man was sweating despite the cool temperature.
"Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Hollander. Please. Inside the car.” Dimitri said, politely. Underneath the politeness was command.
Shane looked back at the alley. The tank had moved closer to Mr. Mikhail, invading his space. No violence yet, but the promise of it hung in the air like smoke.
“Now, Mr. Hollander.”
The edge in Dimitri's voice made Shane's decision for him. He got into the SUV, and Dimitri closed the door with a solid thunk. Through the tinted rear window, Shane watched as Dimitri whistled loudly, waving his hand with some kind of signal. The two men nodded, both grabbing Mr. Mikhail’s arms, pulling him deeper into the alley and out of sight.
"Where to?" Dimitri asked from the driver's seat, his English barely accented.
Shane gave his address automatically, his mind racing. The restaurant, the private dining room, the food, the responses about legitimate business – it had all been theater. A pleasant facade covering something darker and dangerous.
He'd suspected, of course. You didn't grow up the son of a Russian oligarch without some shadows in your past. But suspecting and seeing were different things. Those men in the alley weren't lawyers or accountants. They were enforcers.
Shane pulled out his phone, started typing notes while the details were fresh. But his hands were shaking slightly, adrenaline and something else, not quite fear, but its cousin, making his fingers clumsy.
The conversation replayed in his head. Within the boundaries of the law. My father did what was necessary to survive. The world doesn't work that way.
Ilya had told him the truth, Shane realized. Not the sanitized version, not the PR spin. He'd given Shane enough breadcrumbs to follow to exactly this conclusion, if Shane chose to see it.
The question was: what was Shane going to do with this information?
He stared at his phone, at the half-written notes. His editor wanted a feel-good puff piece. The franchise needed positive press. And Shane had just spent three hours eating delicious food and having a really good conversation with a man who was almost certainly a criminal.
Who said perhaps we should talk again. Off the record like he meant something far more than another interview.
Shane closed the notes app without saving. He needed time to think, to process. To figure out what the hell he was getting himself into.
Dimitri drove in silence, taking a route through downtown that avoided traffic with the kind of knowledge that came from knowing the city intimately. They pulled up outside Shane's apartment building in the Glebe, a converted Victorian that had been divided into six units, his a modest one-bedroom on the second floor.
"Thank you," Shane said, reaching for the door handle.
"Mr. Hollander." Dimitri's voice stopped him. Shane met his eyes in the rearview mirror, dark, assessing. "My advice is to not discuss what you think you saw in alley."
"I’m just writing about Mr. Rozanov and the Ottawa Senators," Shane said, carefully.
"Good." Dimitri's expression didn't change. "Have nice evening."
Shane got out of the car, watched it pull away. The October dusk began to deepen to a dark blue sky, the streetlights casting everything in amber. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, his mind still in that private dining room, still seeing the way Ilya's attention had focused on him like a physical touch.
Inside, his apartment felt small and cluttered after the elegant minimalism of Konstantin's. Shane dropped his bag on the couch and sat down, staring at his laptop. He should write the article Marcus wanted: safe, boring, effective PR for the new ownership. Give the fans something to feel good about.
But Shane had never been good at playing it safe.
He opened his laptop and started searching. Grigori Rozanov. Rozanov Group. Russian organized crime in Canada.
The rabbit hole was deep and murky, full of speculation and rumor and very few hard facts. But a picture emerged, one of a family that had built an empire in the chaos of the Soviet collapse, that had connections to the Bratva, the Russian mafia. Nothing proven in court, nothing definite. But smoke without fire was rare.
And Ilya was in the middle of it all. Managing the North American operations. The legitimate face of an illegitimate empire.
Shane's phone buzzed. An unknown number.
I enjoyed our conversation today. –IR
Shane stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should ignore it. He should maintain professional distance and absolutely not encourage the unspoken flirtation that was building between them.
He added the number to his contacts and typed: So did I. Though I'm not sure how much of it I can actually use.
The response came quickly: Then perhaps you should write the official story and save the truth for later.
Shane texted: Is that what you want?
Ilya texted: I want you to write what you believe is right. I also want to see you again.
Shane's heart kicked against his ribs. This was dangerous on multiple levels, professionally, personally, possibly literally.
But he found himself typing: Why?
The pause before the response felt eternal.
Ilya texted: Because you are fucking beautiful and I want you.
Shane blushed and read the message three times. Then typed: I think you are trouble.
Ilya texted: I think you like trouble.
Leaning against the front windows that faced the street, Shane smiled despite himself. He should stop this now. But the memory of those pale blue eyes watching him, of the way Ilya had leaned forward like Shane's words were the most important thing in the world, made it impossible.
Shane texted: I need to think about what I'm going to write.
Ilya texted: Of course.
Shane set down his phone and looked at his laptop, at the search results about organized crime and oligarchs and violence. He thought about what he saw behind the restaurant.
He should be afraid. Any sensible person would be afraid and give Ilya Rozanov a wide berth. But fear wasn't what Shane felt when he thought about Ilya Rozanov. He'd write the article tomorrow morning. Tonight, he was going to try very hard not to think about pale blue eyes and the way Ilya had said his name as he jerked off.
Outside his window, the black Mercedes SUV was parked across the street, Dimitri barely visible through the tinted windows. Shane closed the curtains and wondered what the hell he'd just gotten himself into.