“She’s not going anywhere,” Nikita Dyomin said. He looked like an ordinary guy, though dressed in expensive clothes, of course. “Not if she doesn’t want… hell.”
His father looked at him with a hint of skepticism. Nikolai Dyomin sat behind a massive, intricately carved desk that seemed completely out of place in the modern architecture of the office. But he liked it that way, and he couldn’t care less about anyone else’s opinion. And who here would dare criticize his taste? Certainly not his son, who, naturally, could come to see his father at any time. After all, he worked at the company.
“Is she really that special?”
“I’m not interested in anyone else!”
“Do you even realize what it cost to cover up that mess back then? You got lucky her father kicked the bucket. So, if you just had to… force it, couldn’t you have picked someone who… wouldn’t need covering up?”
“I didn’t want anyone else,” the son continued, smiling. But his voice carried a harsh edge. “And I still don’t.”
The father wanted to crack a joke about how love can be cruel. But he knew it probably couldn’t be called that, and if he was honest with himself, he doubted Nikita was even capable of love. The businessman wasn’t exactly a fan of Russian chanson—or any music genre, for that matter—but Nikolai Dyomin occasionally listened to it in his free time or in the car, when the mood struck. And now, lines from a song by Alexander Novikov came to mind:
I wouldn’t say I loved her,
But I wanted her, oh, how I wanted her…
So, all that was left was to take advantage of the situation.
“To pull off what you’ve threatened, if it comes to that, will cost a pretty penny too…”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. She’ll give in. And then…”
“Yeah, I know what happens then,” Nikolai grumbled.
Of course, he was asking his son all this for show. In reality, the businessman had thoroughly studied the photos of Nika Malik, his son’s, so to speak, chosen one (well, you could say it was true: Nikita had chosen her, completely disregarding the girl’s own opinion). He’d also looked into everything there was to know about her. And about her late father. Nikolai had met him once, back when they could be called family. But the sister of his wife, who had married his namesake, Nikolai Malik, died during childbirth. After that, there was no reason for personal contact, and Dyomin wouldn’t waste time on idle chit-chat. Business relations continued, but Malik always dealt with one of the directors of the subsidiary companies.
As for his son, Nikolai had long since shed any illusions. And as for what awaited this Nika if she did agree… It wasn’t for nothing that a few months ago, during a social media discussion about religion, Nikita had written that Islamists, like those in Iran, or the Afghan Taliban, were savages, sure, but there was something to be said for their women knowing their place…
And now, Nikita left, having received not a firm promise, but at least an understanding: he’d have support in carrying out his plan. Though he didn’t understand—or rather, didn’t think about—why his father had made that decision.
He left and, of course, didn’t hear his father mutter under his breath, quietly but with anger: “Idiot! Fool!”
It’s not that what Vincent proposed was easy to pull off.
“Normally, to get citizenship, you need to be married to a Ukrainian for two years,” he explained. “But there’s an exception: a permit for immigration. In that case, the time requirement doesn’t apply. Theoretically, under another law, the permit also requires two years. But… we’ll prove that if there’s a provision for an exception, it should be applied. And the permit will be granted.”
“Are you sure?” Nika asked. She understood they were treading on thin ice. But first, she knew Vince wasn’t doing this for no reason. If he’d gone to… such lengths, he was confident in himself and in their success. And second… She had nothing left to lose anyway.
“I’m not just sure, I’ve already… got a promise.”
“Expensive?” She was, of course, familiar with the realities of both countries. But she got an unexpected answer:
“Not a dime. Someone owes me a favor. So, the method is actually solid. If we could’ve done citizenship through territorial origin, no one could’ve touched it. But even this way… Honestly, they won’t be able to do anything either. Because citizenship in this case is granted by presidential decree. You’ll be ‘included’ in the next list—if we manage to get everything done in time. We even have a thing here called ‘marriage in a day’… So, we’ll use that. And revoking a decree later is very difficult, and they definitely won’t do it at Russia’s request.”
“You make it sound… like there’s hope.” Nika smiled, though the look in her dark eyes remained serious. “What do I need to do…?”
“Fly home. Pack your things and documents. I’ll tell you which ones… Take steps to move as much money as possible somewhere… maybe to the States, but in a way that you can access it from anywhere. Because whatever’s left in Russia, they might try to seize once they find out… Do you have a lawyer you know there?”
“Of course. Worked with my dad. By the way, in Turkey, where there’s still a house, too…”
“We don’t need the Turkish one for now. But back home—leave him a power of attorney to handle all legal and court matters. And arrange everything, including having him notify you if anything happens. Don’t post anything… about us on social media yet. Or anything serious, for that matter. When you’re coming back… write from the plane that you want to take a couple of months off to relax. Like a vacation. And then go off the grid. We don’t need anyone finding out about this until we wrap it up, got it?”
“Yeah, I just need to… figure something out with my work.”
Nika was the creator of a line of expensive but beautiful and practical clothing. And, with her father’s help back in the day, she was the owner of a small company that produced it. That’s why she’d gone into another brand’s store to “check out the competition.” Vincent shrugged.
“You can keep doing it here… and move the company over, or start ‘Malik Ukraine.’ I told you, you won’t get out of this without some losses. But you can keep the work you love.” He knew how important that was to his now-fiancée. She smiled again:
“Then I don’t need to change my last name!”
“Well, no need to, then!”
“So, when… do I leave…?”
“Next week.” They stepped out of the apartment: Nika needed to return to her temporary place, and Vincent, after dropping her off, had to come back here, but to his office. It was Friday, which meant they’d have two days free—free from everything else… “You remember we’re going skydiving tomorrow, right?”
“Man, you surprised me!” Yurko said.
“Main thing is, you approve of the choice!” Vincent quipped. His old friend was one of the group of skydivers they’d jumped with, Nika and him. Naturally, he’d met his buddy’s new sweetheart there. But he never imagined it would lead to a wedding, and so fast.
“I’ve never understood: people who get married a second time, what, they didn’t get it the first time around?” Yurko kept laughing. “Does she know, by the way?”
“Of course. I told her… Look, it’s a situation where we’re mixing business with pleasure. We’re good together, and Nika… She needs to stay in Ukraine. It just worked out that way.”
“Yeah, I was surprised she’s Russian. She speaks our language better than a lot of locals!”
“Exactly.” Right now, Nika had flown home—for now, home—to Moscow to settle things… before leaving it for a long time, if not forever. After the skydive, by the way, she was absolutely thrilled and said they definitely had to do it again. Vincent, honestly, had been worried she’d be more scared than necessary or disappointed. But it turned out perfectly. And after the depressed state she’d been in for so long, it was the best medicine. If she was talking about doing it again, that meant she was starting to see a future ahead of her. “So, we need to get everything done… quickly, and with as few people knowing as possible. Especially from that side,” Vincent gestured vaguely northward, “meaning no one at all.”
Yurko took a sip of his beer—they were sitting on the terrace of another café—and asked:
“Won’t Nika’s relatives be there?”
“She doesn’t have any.” Vincent smiled again. Unlike his friend, he was driving, so he stuck to juice. “Imagine that: you get a wife, but no mother-in-law!”
“Well, then you definitely can’t pass up the chance!” They laughed. “So, you’re…”
“I’m asking you, of course, to be a witness. Who else would I ask?”
“Deal!” They talked about other things for a while. Yurko brought up a question about his own inheritance—it was the curse of being a lawyer: wherever you went, people asked about their problems. Though Vincent’s late parents, who were doctors, always said they dealt with the same thing, even though they weren’t practicing physicians. Luckily, they took it with a sense of humor.
After saying goodbye to his friend and stepping outside, Vincent got behind the wheel and drove off. He needed to get home—where, without Nika, it felt oddly empty… But getting there quickly wasn’t in the cards. A few blocks later, he saw flashing police lights in his rearview mirror. It was clear they were pulling him over. Slowing down to the curb, he rolled down the window and soon saw an officer approach. The man introduced himself—his last name was Brytvin.
“Your documents, please.”
“They’re in the app.” Vincent opened the digital ID app on his smartphone and showed his driver’s license that way. Then he pulled the physical vehicle registration from his pocket. The officer seemed satisfied, but then said:
“Will you submit to a sobriety test?”
“Whoa!” Vincent said, surprised. “Step back, if you don’t mind, I’ll get out of the car.” But he spoke politely to the officer. The man complied, and Vincent found himself face-to-face with him. He was a bit taller, and he knew that gave a psychological edge. Especially if you knew how to look down on someone. He did. At the same time, the officer couldn’t fault him for anything—he was being courteous. “May I ask what grounds you have to suspect I’m under the influence?”
“A report from a citizen that two men were at a café, drinking beer, and then one drove off,” the officer said frankly.
“Ah, I see…”
“So, are you refusing?” the officer clarified. Vincent gave a subtle smile.
“No, I won’t give you that gift.” Refusing a sobriety test carried the same penalty as drunk driving, though many drivers didn’t know that. “But we do everything by the book. On camera, you open a disposable mouthpiece in front of me…”
“You sure know a lot…” Brytvin muttered. Vincent replied:
“It’s my job.” And he showed his attorney ID. “And someone didn’t just ‘report’ this for no reason. So, let’s get this over with…”
The officer’s mood visibly soured. But he didn’t want to lose face, so he pulled out the breathalyzer. Naturally, it showed zero. The officer returned to his car and drove off, leaving Vincent with the device’s printout showing the test results. Now, finally, he could head home.
But that didn’t mean rest. Without even changing, he sat down at his computer and started typing. He was drafting a statement to the police. Detailing his encounter with the officer and emphasizing that the test confirmed he was sober, Vincent stated that he considered the knowingly false report of him driving drunk to be retaliation related to his professional work as a lawyer. He had no complaints against the officer who acted on the report, but he requested a criminal investigation for interference in the activities of a defender or representative, as he viewed the false report as such. He attached a copy of the breathalyzer results to the statement and headed to a post office that was still open.
The letter should be delivered tomorrow, and when it was, he’d get a notification on his phone. Then he’d need to call another contact who wouldn’t refuse a small favor—to ensure the criminal case wasn’t improperly dismissed. Even if it got closed later—the call to the police might not be deemed criminal interference in legal work—he’d be able to review the case materials and find out who this “good Samaritan” was. People like that, informants, were one category that inspired nothing but disgust in Vincent. And this one had made himself vulnerable, so he needed to be taught a lesson.
When he did this, using nothing but his own wits and methods derived from his profession, Vincent felt a satisfaction that was hard to match. And when he did it for others, he got paid pretty well for it too.
Despite all the downsides of this life, he felt he should be content. And now, even more so.