“Of course not,” Bisset says, smiling at me. “You know who the Turgenevs are, don’t you?”
“I know they’re Bratva, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I think the hotel is a front. I want you to find the real dirt on Roman and his project. We’ll write an expose. We’ll tank his hotel and his pretensions all at once.”
I don’t know quite how to respond to that. On the one hand, this is a fantastic opportunity. Writing a major story for Clarion, one of the most respected papers in Paris, would be a huge boost to my fledgling journalism career. It would also be a great way to get back at Roman for making my high school years utter hell. Not to mention, I have no love for the Bratva. While the rest of the Turgenev family hasn’t done anything to me, the St. Petersburg Bratva ripped my family apart. I have a grudge that I never thought would be revenged.
On the other hand, fucking with the Bratva is dangerous. I could get myself killed. And worse, I’d have to spend a lot of time with Roman Turgenev.
Also, I’m curious why Bisset is so focused on the Turgenevs. His interest seems highly targeted.
“Well?” Bisset asks me, sitting forward impatiently. “Are you up for the challenge?”
I wish I had more time to think about this.
I really, really want this job . . . I don’t have interviews lined up anywhere else.
Plus it does seem a bit karmic, bumping into Roman on the way over here. Like fate wants to give me a chance at revenge . . .
“Alright,” I say at last. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent,” Bisset says, grinning. “I’ll take you over to Janine to get you set up. We pay five hundred a week, plus a two hundred-euro bonus for any full-length pieces we publish. How does that sound?”
“Good,” I say. “Really good.”
Money’s been tight since I graduated. In truth, I couldn’t have afforded to come to Paris at all if my sister Sasha hadn’t sent me some cash.
“So when do you want me to start?” I ask Bisset.
“Right now, obviously,” he says. He pulls a t-shirt out of the top drawer of his desk and throws it to me. It says “La Belle Verite” across the front—The Beautiful Truth. The motto of Clarion.
“Put that on,” he says. Then, winking at me, “Not that I wasn’t enjoying the view.”
I clutch the t-shirt to my chest, trying not to blush. I can’t tell if Bisset is hitting on me, or if he’s just being French. I don’t think the #MeToo movement has made it here yet. It may never—workplace affairs are as common in Paris as baguettes and perfume.
Either way, I’m not going to respond to it. I want to make a name for myself based off my writing, not my see-through shirt. I want to be respected.
And if I have to dig up some dirt on Roman Turgenev to get my big break, then so be it.
He certainly has it coming.
4
Roman
We’ve finally finalized the design for the casino, which will revolve around the high-end private poker rooms, as per Anton’s suggestion. However, when I head down to the property to check on the construction progress, I find absolutely nobody hard at work. The casino is an empty shell. The flooring is half-finished, and the tables are still wrapped in protective plastic and stacked on top of each other.
I call Violet to find out what the hell is going on.
“They’re on strike,” she tells me.
“What do you mean ‘on strike’?”
“The usual. You know it’s the national pastime.”
Last summer the garbage workers held out for months, until the streets were piled with stinking trash bags. The fall before that it was the waiters.
“They have a thirty-five hour work week!” I shout into the phone. “What the hell do they have to complain about?”
“Why are you yelling at me?” Violet says calmly.
She’s a remarkably relaxed person, and pregnancy has only made her more so. Sometimes Violet’s chill drives me up the fucking wall, but usually it helps me take it down a notch or two myself.
“What are we going to do about it?” I ask her, in a more reasonable tone.
“Anton is already getting us replacement workers,” she says.
“Good. Then we can—“
“But we have a bigger problem.”
I sigh.
“Of course we do.”
I feel like not one damn thing has gone right with this project.
“What’s the problem?” I say.
“The Gaming Commissioner has become strangely reluctant to issue our license.”
“But he already—“
“I know, I know,” Violet says in her low, soothing voice. “Apparently he’s going to be at the Paris Opera Gala tomorrow night. You should go—convince him to change his mind.”
“How convincing do you want me to be?”
“Try the carrot first,” she says. “If that doesn’t work . . .”
“It’ll work,” I tell her. “You know how charming I am.”
Violet laughs. “I have full faith in you,” she says.
Almost as soon as I’ve hung up, my phone rings again. I pick it up without looking at the number, thinking it’s just Violet calling me back to tell me something else. Instead, I hear an unfamiliar female voice.
“Is this Roman Turgenev?”
“Yes,” I say. “How did you get this number?”
Without answering, the girl says, “This is Janine Lagree from Clarion. Our Arts and Style writer wanted to meet with you, to do a piece on your new hotel. When would you be available?”
I snort at the presumption, not even asking if I’m interested.
I want to turn this girl down on principle.
However, I am familiar with the Clarion. It’s one of the biggest papers in Paris, and certainly the most influential when it comes to nightlife. It might be worth giving them an hour of my time.
“I’m free this afternoon,” I tell her.
“Excellent!” the girl replies cheerily. “How about two o’clock, on-property? You can give our writer an advance tour, if you’re amenable.”
“Sure,” I say.
Saves me driving somewhere else.
I’m about to ask the reporter’s name, but the girl says, quickly, “Thank you Mr. Turgenev. See you soon,” and hangs up the phone.
I look around the empty casino, trying to envision how grand and luxurious it will be once all the carpet is in place, the walls painted and decorated, the tables arranged. My father had a vision. I’m doing my best to make it a reality. Even though I don’t believe he’s “looking down on me,” I still hate the idea of disappointing him.
By two o’clock, Anton has managed to obtain a dozen Armenian workers, who are already scrambling all over the casino, shouting at each other in Greek and Kurdish. A couple of them speak Russian too, or at least enough Russian that Anton was able to make a deal with them.
Anton’s watching them, ensuring the quality of the work. When I tell him about the reporter coming over, he raises one thick, black eyebrow.