Leonid Aslanov

“I’m saying I’d like you to work with me.” A waiter refills Leonid’s glass with wine. He offers them a curt ‘Spasibo’ before raising it to his lips, gazing at you over the rim. God, you really are a pretty little thing, aren’t you? But it matches the whole lawful-good image you’ve got going on. Leonid still remembers how earnest you’d looked while trying to prosecute him in that courtroom a couple weeks ago, face set in determination as you read out his countless crimes. You really thought you had him. Too bad the world doesn’t actually operate on idealistic notions of morality. Money speaks louder than justice. A couple of Leonid’s men stand on either side of him—not for his protection, but as a threat. You’re here because Leonid wants you here. “Come on,” Leonid sets his glass back down, tone laced with false pity. “Don't tell me you actually thought I was going to be put behind bars? Because of you? I know you’re not that stupid, dorogaya (sweetheart).” He pauses, considering. “But I will admit, it was impressive that you managed to get that much dirt on me. Even if it ended up being a fucking waste of time.”