Chapter 6 Episode 6-2

I keep digging, though I’m suddenly feeling a little seasick. Wikipedia has a page on Lukas, but it’s painfully short and mostly focused on the company. Born in Russia. Immigrated in the late Seventies. Built Lazarev Global from a small shipping operation into a multinational conglomerate with cash flow out the wazoo. There’s basically nothing before 1979. It’s like he didn’t exist until he showed up in New York with a duffel bag and a dream. For a man who runs a billion-dollar company, he’s a ghost. I try different search terms, using all the Google Fu that Jillian has forced into my brain over the years. Lukas’s name in quotes. His name plus “scandal.” His name plus “controversy.” It turns up nothing useful. There are a few conspiracy-theory threads on Reddit that mention him, but it’s mostly anonymous tinfoil hats blabbering about alleged, highly speculative ties to organized crime. One commenter insists that his wife’s death had suspicious elements that the police ignored, but it got downvoted to hell and nobody else bothered to chime in. Strangely, the second I click on the poster’s profile, I get a blank page. And when I click back… The post has been deleted. I try another. Same thing. Post vanishes. Account goes poof. I close my laptop and drain the rest of my wine. I’m trying to get all my ducks in a row, but the alcohol isn’t helping. Also, I can’t stop replaying this morning in my head. To say it was one of the weirdest days of my life is a massive understatement. Mr. Lazarev knew about Gideon, for God’s sake! The exact dollar amount of my debt, down to the penny. And then what was all that about cooking and sleeping and boyfriends? What kind of job interview is that? Then there’s Kir’s ominous warning. I’ve never seen him be anything less than brash and confident in eighteen months as his E.A. But his hands shook when he grabbed me in the shadows and whispered, My father collects things he finds interesting. I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. What’s so interesting about me? When you add it all up, I’ve got way more questions than answers. The job description is still a mystery. The documents on my new computer he mentioned were just standard HR forms and corporate policies, nothing that explains why the chairman of a billion-dollar company needs a personal assistant who can make pasta, doesn’t sleep well, and has never had a serious boyfriend. Luckily, I’m best friends with someone who’s very good at finding out things that don’t want to be found. I grab my phone and call Jillian. As always, she answers immediately. The girl more or less lives with her phone surgically attached to her palm. “Hey there, my little Rae of Sunshine! What’s up?” I pick at my cuticles. “I need to talk to you about something. But fair warning: It’s… kind of a lot.” “Oh, no! What happened? Is Gideon okay?” “Gid is fine. It’s work stuff. Really weird work stuff. I got transferred to this new position and my boss is⁠—” “s**t, hold on.” There’s rustling on her end. Someone’s talking in the background. “Rae, I’m so sorry, but I’m slammed at the moment. It’s insane—I just got the craziest tip. Like, for real, this could be huge.” “Can’t say yet. But if it pans out, it’s front page material. I’m talking career-defining.” I’m not surprised in the least. Jillian Pierce and I met in fourth grade when she punched a boy who called me a “frizzy-haired freak” on the playground. He got a broken nose; she got detention; I got a best friend. We’ve been inseparable ever since. She was there when my parents died. She showed up at my apartment with grocery bags full of Lean Cuisines and sat with me on the kitchen floor while I cried until I couldn’t breathe. She was there for Gideon’s first overdose, and also his second and his third. She held my hand in hospital waiting rooms and never once told me I should give up on him. But unlike me, Jillian always knew what she wanted. Even back in middle school, she was starting a newspaper club and interviewing teachers about cafeteria food quality with steely-eyed determination. She majored in journalism at Columbia, did a billion prestigious internships, and clawed her way into her dream job at the New York Times two years ago. Now, she covers crime and business the same way she once defended me at recess: aggressively, with the occasional broken nose for those who dare to defy her. I fear for anyone who gets in her way. “That’s exciting!” I squeak half-heartedly. “I know, I know.” she sighs. “I’m the worst. But can we do dinner or something this week? Wednesday, maybe? I’ll buy you a dirty martini or three and you can tell me everything.” I slump back against the couch cushions. “Yeah. Fine. Wednesday. It’s a date.” “You’re the best, RaeRae. Love you, bye!” I toss my phone onto the coffee table and stare at the ceiling. So much for getting a second opinion. Guess I’m all on my own here. AUDIO SURVEILLANCE - Hallway 50th Floor VOICE 1: "She's green. Jumpy as hell." VOICE 2: "The last one lasted eight months." VOICE 1: "I'm betting six for this one. Tops." VOICE 2: "Just like the last one." The next morning, I get off the elevator before the clock has even struck 7:00 A.M. Or at least, I start to get off⁠— —but before my first foot even lands on the marble acreage of the fiftieth floor, Lukas’s hand clamps around my bicep. It isn’t a question and he isn’t waiting for an answer. He whisks me off my feet and drags me through a door I didn’t notice when I arrived here yesterday. We make our way down a completely unlit hallway. It’s small and cramped, and his sea-salt-and-mint cologne fills the space like an oil diffuser. I’m scrambling to keep up with his huge strides until, just as suddenly as he grabbed me, he releases me. We’re standing in a windowless room I didn’t know existed. It’s shabby in some places and bare in all the others. There’s a single rickety table in the center, ringed by six chairs. Five of them are already occupied by men I’ve never seen before. They’re all big. Not as big as Lukas, but close. Their suits are dark and thick. Their faces are blank. He points at an empty chair in the corner. It’s pushed back from the table. Clearly not meant to be part of the conversation. I do as he says. Lukas takes the remaining chair at the head of the table. The second he does, the atmosphere in the room morphs. The men straighten. Their attention sharpens.