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2024-09-18 18:43:48The next morning, Leila walked back into the Grossman Center like she owned the place. She was wearing a navy suit that hugged her curves in all the right places, and the borrowed Chanel bag gave her a look of money and class—two things she was always happy to fake. Inside the bag, she carried the small, leather-bound notebook and a Montblanc pen, feeling like they were about to help her write her way into something big.
She breezed past the room with the heraldic plaque—her family crest, still staring back at her like a ghost of bad news—and made her way to the receptionist. The brunette behind the desk glanced up, eyebrows rising, as if she could smell the trouble Leila had brought with her.
“Hi, I’m Leila Weinrich. I’m here to see Mr. Grossman,” she said, flashing a smile that carried all the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose.
The receptionist’s eyebrows hitched higher. “Do you have an appointment?”
Leila leaned against the desk, letting her eyes lock with the brunette’s. “No,” she said, smiling just a little too sweetly, “but I’m sure Mr. Grossman would want to see me.”
There was a brief hesitation. The kind that happens right before someone decides whether you’re about to waste their time or make their day more interesting. The receptionist picked up the phone, dialed, said a few words, and hung up. “Follow me,” she said, her voice clipped, like she hadn’t quite figured Leila out yet.
Leila followed her down the same dim corridor as before, only now she noticed the details she’d missed—security cameras lurking in every corner, their mechanical eyes watching her every move. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the kind of cheap woody air freshener that couldn’t hide the fact someone was breaking a few laws about indoor smoking.
They stopped in front of an unremarkable wooden door. The receptionist knocked, pushed it open, and gestured for Leila to go inside. This was it. The hyena’s den.
The office was big, too big for the man sitting behind the desk. The walls were covered in modern art that tried too hard to look sinister, and the desk itself was a slab of yew big enough to build a small boat. Behind it sat Mikhail Grossman, his pinstripe suit as sharp as the bald patch peeking through his slicked-back hair.
“Ms. Leila Weinrich, I presume?” Grossman said, his voice smooth, but not the type you trust. He gestured to a chair, and Leila sat, crossing her legs and casually placing her notebook on her lap.
“That’s right,” Leila said, her voice as cool as she could make it. “Thanks for the invitation. I figured it’d be polite to introduce myself.”
Grossman studied her for a few seconds, the kind of look a butcher gives a fresh cut of meat. “Sure. So, what is it you think you have that would interest me?”
Leila didn’t blink. She opened her notebook and glanced down at the notes. “I believe my family has a connection to your organization, Mr. Grossman. And I think I can help you find what you’ve been looking for.”
Grossman’s eyes narrowed, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily into the air. “And what makes you think that?”
Leila took a deep breath, then dove in. “My great-great uncle, Reinhard Weinrich, was a major part of Professor Yellen’s research. Yellen had a… let’s call it an unhealthy obsession with my family’s history. Reinhard was a Nazi, as you likely know. Not a secret. What you might not know is that Reinhard was a member of a secret society called The Rulers. And I believe Yellen was a member too. The Rulers have been searching for an artifact ever since the Nazis lost it. And I have the information that can help you in your search.”
Grossman’s lips curled into a grin, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. “And what is it you want in return?”
Leila swallowed the lump in her throat, but kept her voice steady. “I want in. I want what everyone else in my family wanted. Power, money, influence. And I want a lot of it.”
Grossman chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigarette before blowing the smoke out in a thin, deliberate line. “You’ve got guts, Ms. Weinrich. I like that. But once you’re in, there’s no way out. You sure about this?”
“I know what I’m getting into,” Leila said. Her voice didn’t waver.
“Good.” Grossman leaned back in his chair, tapping the ashes into an ashtray. “But first, there’s a little business we need to take care of.”
Leila watched as he dialed a number on his phone, speaking in hushed Russian. After a few minutes, he hung up and turned his attention back to her.
Leila watched as he dialed a number on his phone, speaking in hushed Russian. After a few minutes, he hung up and turned his attention back to her.
“There’s someone who’s become a problem for us. You’ll take care of it.”
Leila felt the blood drain from her face. “What do you mean by ‘take care of it’?” she asked, barely managing to keep her voice from shaking.
Grossman grinned, the wolf finally showing its teeth. “You know what I mean.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. She hadn’t expected this—a request for cold-blooded murder. But the opportunity to get closer to the truth about her family was too tempting to pass up.
She straightened her spine. “I can do it.”
Grossman nodded approvingly. “Good. We’ll give you what you need. Here.” He scribbled two letters—K.B.—on a scrap of paper, then promptly burned it in the ashtray. “You’ll get the details soon. No emails, no calls. We’ll find you when it’s time. Oh, and enjoy the ball.”
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Tom’s message slid into her inbox like an invitation to regret: Move into my pod across the road. It’s safer, and I can stop worrying about you every five minutes. It was sweet, that “I know better” way Tom had, but Leila wasn’t buying it.She thumbed back a reply. I promised Christina I’d look after the house and Wolfie. No cults or homicidal archaeologists are changing my plans.A sad emoji pinged back. Tom wasn’t giving up, but work had him chained to the Grossman Center until his financial projections were in. He’d miss dinner; the Center was feeding his team.Disappointed but not deterred, Leila decided to clean up Tom’s new place. It was part guilt, part curiosity. She grabbed the spare key, the plastic kind that came with a polished wood veneer to make it look fancier than it was, and let herself in.The pod was pristine, the kind of clean that said either Tom had hired a housekeeper or he’d stopped living like a human being. The only mess in sight was her lipstick, perched smug
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