Nikolai Ivanov, Dmitri Petrov & Olu Fashola
The restaurant was dimly lit, all dark wood, soft amber lights, and a thick aroma of aged whiskey mingling with the subtle hint of rich, spiced food. Dmitri sat across from Nikolai at the long, polished mahogany table, his gaze steady as he skimmed over the paperwork they’d been reviewing. Nikolai, meanwhile, leaned back, his expression unreadable, fingers tapping against his whiskey glass in a rhythmic, almost thoughtful way. They were waiting, and Nikolai was not a man who enjoyed waiting.
The soft creak of the heavy door brought both men to attention. Olu Fashola entered, his stride casual, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, as though he had no idea why he’d been summoned here—though the glint in his eye betrayed him. He was aware, and he wasn’t inclined to make things easy for them.
Nikolai stood and nodded in greeting, his expression tight with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dmitri only glanced up, giving a faint nod before settling back into his seat, eyes sharp.
“Mr. Fashola,” Nikolai greeted as Olu took the seat they had arranged for him, “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”
Olu glanced at the nearly untouched spread on the table, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “Fancy place, nice wine... Should I be honored or worried?”
“Honored, I’d think,” Dmitri replied dryly, finally setting down his papers. “This is business, not pleasure.”
Olu let out a soft chuckle. “So I figured.”
Nikolai’s fingers stilled, and he leaned forward, his expression hardening to something more serious. “We have a proposal,” he said, his tone direct. “One we believe you’re uniquely positioned to assist with.”
“Oh? That’s a nice way to say you need something,” Olu replied, a wry smile playing at his lips. “This isn’t about art, is it?”
Nikolai ignored the bait, his expression unreadable. “We’re looking to establish a connection with certain Nigerian interests here in New York—interests I believe you’re familiar with.”
A laugh broke from Olu before he could stop it, full and rich. “I’m sorry—do you assume I have connections to the Nigerian mafia just because I’m Nigerian?”
Dmitri’s eyes narrowed, but Nikolai didn’t flinch. Instead, he folded his hands, his gaze steady. “Not because you’re Nigerian, Olu. But I am familiar with your family.”
Olu’s laughter faded as the weight of Nikolai’s words settled over him. His gaze turned cold, calculating. “You know who my father is.”
“Indeed,” Nikolai confirmed, his voice low. “With one word from him, I’d be able to arrange a meeting with the head of the Nigerian mafia here in New York. I believe your connections are quite relevant, Mr. Fashola.”
Olu’s jaw tightened briefly, but he covered it with a practiced smile. “Well, that does change things. But let’s get something straight: I’m not my father’s son in that sense anymore. In fact, he made it clear a long time ago that I was... expendable. So, if you’re counting on me to be his messenger, think again.”
Dmitri’s lips quirked into a humorless smile. “Then I suppose we’ve miscalculated.” He shot Nikolai a glance, but Olu caught the irritation lurking beneath it.
“Have you?” Olu’s tone was deceptively casual, but his eyes gleamed with interest. “Because while I may not be close to dear old Dad anymore, I could still get you that meeting.”
Nikolai’s brow raised, his gaze calculating. “Go on.”
Olu paused, savoring the attention. “Let’s just say I have... alternative connections who might be interested in hearing what you have to offer. But if I do this, I’ll need to know—what’s in it for me?”
Dmitri scoffed under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Nikolai. The silence stretched, both men watching Olu with an intensity that might unnerve most. But Olu met their stares, unflinching.
Nikolai finally broke the silence, his voice measured. “What is it you want?”
A slow smile spread across Olu’s face, his gaze dropping briefly to his glass as he swirled the dark amber liquid, considering. “For now?” he said, leaning back with a leisurely air. “Just the knowledge that Nikolai Ivanov owes me one. We can leave the details... open.”
Dmitri’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “He wants leverage, Nikolai. You’re seriously considering this?”
Nikolai silenced Dmitri with a glare. His eyes were hard as he looked at Olu, the intensity behind them not softened by the faint smile on his lips. “If that’s what it takes, consider it done.”
Olu raised his glass, his smirk broadening. “Well, then. Here’s to leverage.”
Nikolai’s eyes narrowed, but he lifted his own glass, and Dmitri followed suit, albeit with far less enthusiasm.
They clinked their glasses, the sound a soft chime that hung in the silence between them.
“Get me that meeting, Fashola,” Nikolai said, his voice low but charged. “And I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”
Olu took a sip of his whiskey, savoring both the taste and the feeling of control. “Consider it done.”