PRIVATE Business is Business

Corporate Enforcer


Dmitri-Header-moshed-12-24-23-34-02.gif

Location: Charter Hill
Time: 3:00pm
Tags:
@Lizvetta Isakova
House Call

Safety was where the money was, and Charter Hill was no exception. Minus the botched bank robbery that took place recently, this neighborhood was among the safest of Night City due to the large number of corporate executives who lived here. Both NCPD and each corporation's respective security divisions had a vested interest in ensuring that this district remained safe from the wanton violence that filled the streets of the other areas. That meant that most gangs had to operate on the downlow in this part of the city, lest they get the full heft of NCPD's hammer brought down on their heads. Crime still existed naturally, but at least it wasn't so brazen as Heywood or, god forbid - Pacifica.

That made Dmitri's plans all the more ripe for execution. Soon, Charter Hill would be his - or most of it at least.

There was the small wrinkle in the shape of the late Gregori Abramov's operation, which had established itself as a small bit equally effective information brokerage. Prior to his death, Gregori had the appearance of someone useful to Dmitri's own operation; eager to ingratiate himself amongst the resurgent Organitskaya in Night City. His untimely - and rather suspect - passing had put a damper on any potential collaboration, even moreso as his surviving widow had assumed control of his operation. Dmitri reflected on their brief encounter at Gregori's funeral as he watched the city pass by from the back seat of his car.

From the dry eyes, to the hawkish expression and sudden shift to alarm after his overtures; Lizveta struck Dmitri as a new and unwelcome problem to his ascent. While she did not say as much, Dmitri would not have been surprised had she attempted to position herself over Dmitri through some form of blackmail or leverage; perhaps in a play to seat herself at the top of the heap.


'Cute...' He thought to himself as he chuckled dryly. While Dmitri was far more Americanized in his view of women compared to those of his countrymen who remained within the motherland, there was a level of Russian chauvinism that could never be fully purged. A litany of sexist japes panned through his mind like a reel of film as he drew on his cigarette and expelled a cloud of smoke through the cracked window.

While such jokes soothed his ego, pragmatism won over as they drew closer to her apartment. While Gregori's death was ruled accidental, only a fool would believe that without any second thought. It was exceedingly probable that Lizveta had a hand in Gregori's death, which meant that she was resourceful and dangerous. Dmitri could not risk underestimating her; not if he wanted to succeed at drawing her in while preserving his own life.

That was partially why he was bringing dinner. He wasn't very keen on eating rat poison tonight.



 



A throbbing pang in her knee made Lizaveta flinch, and she extended her leg on the chaise where she had perched. She set aside her datapad for a moment to gently massage at her knee; the scars from her surgery were small and almost imperceptible by eye, but Lizaveta's fingers traced their contours. She knew them by heart. There's going to be weather, Lizaveta thought to herself, glancing toward the expansive wall of windows looking out into Charter Hill. The glass panel of the balcony had been replaced; one could almost forget that not long ago the patio balcony had been the scene of a murder.

Her mind strayed momentarily to that badge, Kowalski, who had badgered her so relentlessly about it. Something about their exchange had stayed with her, set her on edge. But she didn't allow herself to be distracted; after giving her knee a final rub, she bent her knees up again, balanced her datapad against her legs.

The dossier -- if you could call such a pittance of information a dossier with a straight face -- was frustratingly thin. There was so little to glean from it that it was essentially useless for the purposes of that evening's meeting. She'd scrutinized it twenty times if she'd done it once, and still -- nothing. One-Eye normally did thorough work; perhaps there was just nothing more to know about Dmitri Antonov. Or perhaps he hid things much more thoroughly than the average person did. The latter was the most likely, of course. The man positioning himself at the top of the Night City Organitskaya would have a past.

It was just a matter of finding it.

Lizaveta didn't have time -- tonight -- to grease the right palms and make the right calls to learn more, but she was certainly inclined to do so. She wasn't about to roll over for the Organitskaya, not when there was really no need. Grigori's network -- her network, now -- was not exactly legal, but neither was it illegal. What it did was not necessarily in competition with Antonov's organization, unless Antonov decided it needed to by muscling into the information brokerage game.

Her phone chirped; the text message read: "DA inbound" and listed a cross-street. Still time to get changed, Lizka thought, and set about to do just that. She couldn't very well be in her gym clothes when company arrived. By the time Dmitri got there, she would be able to greet him at the door in what you'd expect a respectable widow to wear (even if she and Grigori had not been married): black trousers, black blouse, black shoes, and a modest platinum Orthodox cross necklace.

The picture of innocent grief. Not that it seemed to do her any good.


 


Dmitri-Header-moshed-12-24-23-34-02.gif

Location: Charter Hill
Time: 3:00pm
Tags:
@Lizvetta Isakova
House Call

Dmitri's car would eventually break away from the evening traffic of the city. While it had died down considerably from the after work rush, the city never did truly sleep. His car pulled into the hatched curbside drive in front of the building, with the front passenger-side door and the rear driver's side popping open almost immediately. Two men emerged from the car, both dressed in clean and pressed suits. The one previously seated in the front seat wore a black suit with a white shirt unbuttoned in the collar, with the rear man's suit a contrasting grey with plaid patterns, and a charcoal shirt similarly unbuttoned at the top. Both men, Grey and Black - had a dangerous look about them. Their suits were clearly tailored to their physique, which muted the obvious muscle definition that indicated they weren't just simple businessmen. This, combined with a neck tattoo on Grey partially obscured by the unbuttoned collar and a few gold teeth glinting from Black's mouth; would all but confirm what they were to the discerning observer. They were bodyguards to the last man seated in the back.

Black visually scanned the area as he made his way to the rear door while Grey carried a large paper bag with handles. Bleu was scrawled along the side of the bag with black letters in a modern minimalist font. The door was opened, and Dmitri emerged as the third of the trio that had formed outside of the apartment building. The three men proceeded into the building and up the elevator, which soon opened near the top of the building. They didn't have to wait long before they were standing at the door in front of Lizveta herself.

Dmitri, for his part, was dressed in a silk, navy blue suit with a sepia-hued shirt, also unbuttoned at the collar. He smiled broadly at Lizveta, with a small; or otherwise, appropriate - level of sympathy in his eyes.
"Thank you for hosting us again so soon, Lizveta Isakova."

It may have been a bit formal by American standards to use one's full name when addressing them,but it was very Russian. He gestured to the bag held in Grey;s hand. "I hope you're hungry."


 


Lizka opened the door to look out at the three men in the hallway outside her apartment. Her grey-blue eyes scanned the men, immediately clocking the associate as Antonov's bodyguards -- or at least henchmen of some extraction. That had been a lesson from Grigori. People with neck tattoos are either gangoons, hookers, or henchmen, he had told her once. She didn't let the information phase her, though she did feel a spike of anxiety that she hadn't thought to have her own huscle on the premises. But it was too late now.

A tight smile. "You are welcome to my home, Dmitri Anatov," said Lizaveta in return. She pulled the door open fully and gestured expansively for them to enter. "Please."

She closed the door behind them and locked it before turning back to her guests. "I can take that from you if you'd like," she offered to Grey Suit. She paused a beat, then inclined her head with a polite smile. "Or -- if you prefer -- the kitchen is through there. You can put it anywhere you like."

Lizaveta turned her attention back to Anatov. "Something to drink? I just received a case of Ruskova from the Old Country -- none of this Bolshevik nonsense the Americans drink." She gestured vaguely toward the bar set up between two bookshelves. "Or something else, if you like? And for your friends?"


 



Location: Charter Hill
Time: 3:00pm
Tags:
@Lizvetta Isakova
House Call

A tight smile. "You are welcome to my home, Dmitri Anatov," said Lizaveta in return. She pulled the door open fully and gestured expansively for them to enter. "Please."

She closed the door behind them and locked it before turning back to her guests. "I can take that from you if you'd like," she offered to Grey Suit. She paused a beat, then inclined her head with a polite smile. "Or -- if you prefer -- the kitchen is through there. You can put it anywhere you like."

The trio stepped through the door and into the apartment. Dmitri appraised Lizveta briefly, appreciating her understated and expected adornment before turning his attention to the furnishings of the apartment itself. For his part, Grey simply glanced over at the kitchen after Lizveta motioned toward it, then made his way there of his own accord with Black in tow; but not before handing Dmitri a glass bottle from within the bag.

Lizveta and Dmitri were alone now. At the mention of a drink, Dmitri raised the bottle - an expensive bottle of Russian Vodka with a gold label. He handed it to her, then shrugged.
"I'm easy, but yes a drink sounds lovely. I'll have whatever you're having." His demeanor eased as he settled within the chair she offered him. Once his glass hit his hand and she settled in the chair opposite of him, he tilted his head as his expression seemed to change - as if some facade had drawn back and revealed his true self.

He took a sip of his drink, then cleared his throat softly.
"It's clear that we're both adept at pleasantries and maintaining decorum. But I think we can bypass that level of formality now, yeah?" His eyes locked with hers. "I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I think we both know enough about each other to be direct. I wouldn't if I didn't respect you." It was an odd way of saying that they both knew each other by their respective reputations, but Dmitri had chosen his words carefully and deliberately.

For his part, Dmitri had a reputation among the movers and shakers on either side of the law, and for different reasons. As for Lizveta, much of her reputation was tied to her previous life as a ballerina, and her relationship with her late lover; but given recent events, Dmitri had a gut feeling that she was far more capable and dangerous than she had let on.

Dmitri knew all too well how dangerous people could be when they felt they had something to prove.
"Gregori and I were on good terms, and had an... understanding." Grey returned to the room and stood off to the side at both Dmitri and Lizveta's periphery. Dmitri paused, as if considering how he should word his next sentence. "How much did you know of his business? Or perhaps more specifically... where I fit into it...?"


 
Lizaveta watched the proceedings; she had to admit that it seemed to be rather well-choreographed. And she would know, wouldn't she? The dancer took the bottle, examined it impassively for a moment, then shrugged. At first she turned to carry it over to the bar, but then stopped. Fixing him with a knowing smile -- one that could have been misconstrued as patronizing, she turned back and placed it on the coffee table before him. bottle seal still well and truly in tact.

She turned to the bar, picked up a tumbler, placed it on the table next to the bottle. Lifted his fancy bottle, broke the seal, and poured two fingers into the heavy-bottomed tumbler. Put it in his hand. Nice and easy. Not even the best sleight-of-hand artist could have poisoned the drink during such a display. As she listened, Lizka turned back to the bar to fix her own drink.

She didn't think his bottle was poisoned, not if he insisted on drinking from it, but if he had cause to be paranoid, so did she.

"Not even my mother would find fault with your manners," Lizka said over her shoulder in acknowledgment of his observation of their niceties. "But yes. I believe we can -- what is the American saying? Get down to the brass tacks."

She carried her drink to the chair opposite Dmitri, set her drink down and then sat with almost impossible elegance, crossing her ankles demurely in a perfect 'duchess slant'. The entrance of Grey Suit didn't escape her notice, but the onetime ballerina didn't so much as bat an eyelash in his direction. "Yours is but one of Grigori's organization's connections," Lizka said. Confirmation but without giving him more information than he already had. "Well. I say Grigori's out of habit. It is my organization now." She cupped her knees with laced fingers and favored Dmitri with a tight smile. "But that's neither here nor there for the purposes of this conversation. I know that Grigori was working with some gentlemen in Moscow -- you know the ones -- who were happy for him -- us -- to operate independently. Provided we show the proper courtesies."

Favors one might give to friends and associated. This would be more accurately described as, perhaps, protection.

"As to your particular involvement? I know you -- as you said -- had an understanding. The details, I'm afraid, were not written down. Perhaps you can enlighten me."

 


Dmitri-Header-moshed-12-24-23-34-02.gif

Location: Charter Hill
Time: 3:00pm
Tags:
@Lizvetta Isakova
House Call

Dmitri listened quietly as Lizveta elaborated as to the nature of how things stood then, and now. He crossed his own leg over the other then leaned back in his chair, leisurely sipping at his vodka as he settled in. When she finished, he remained silent as he processed what she said. He assumed it would be more difficult to coax her identity as the new head of her organization from her. She had played the role of a grieving widow well; but her candor had told him much about her mindset, while giving way to still more questions. If she had no intention of interacting with him professionally, then she could well have feigned ignorance of what he was referring to. Such a move wouldn't have lasted long, as Dmitri had prepared for such an approach; even still, it was what he expected.

Instead, she met the situation head-on. She was Russian after all, and clearly demonstrated why she was in her position in the aftermath of Gregori's death. Simply put, the dance had begun, and Dmitri would have to shift gears to remain in step. Fortunately, this wasn't his first one. While she was talking, Black had surreptitiously surveyed the apartment for any signs of a bug. He made eye contact with Dmitri and gave him a nod that, as far as he could tell - the apartment was clean. Which left the possibility that Lizveta herself was potentially wearing a device. Yet in this case, Dmitri chose to proceed in spite of the risk. If Lizveta was recording their conversation, she would be making a grave mistake reporting it to anyone. Even if it had led to his downfall, those same benefactors she claimed to have in Moscow would aggressively change their tune.

Rats didn't survive long in this life.
"I see." He began. His own smile contrasted against hers; his deceptively warm, and hers as brisk as a hard freeze. "Thank you for explaining how you view the situation, and for your candor in doing so. Now, allow me to be equally candid." He tilted his head slightly. "I am familiar with the benefactors Gregori had in Moscow. They are my associates actually. The Organitskaya is not restricted to Europe - not anymore. You're looking at the head of the Night City Organization right now." The warm began to bleed from his expression and be replaced with the same coolness she offered him.

"Whatever happens in Night City, is under my umbrella - not theirs. Not anymore. Now if Gregori were still alive, well that might be more of a conversation. He was an associate of theirs, after all. Are you?" His tone suggested that he was genuinely asking the question, but his expression seemed as though the answer was obvious. He let the question hang in the air for a few moments, with the tension thickening to the point where you could cut it with a knife. The implications were numerous. If he was an associate of theirs, and she wasn't - what if it came out that he died under suspicious circumstances? Would they side with her against Dmitri, if push came to shove?

"But i'm sure I speak for both of us-" He began again, with a surprisingly conciliatory tone. "-when I say that we don't need to have an acrimonious relationship. I feel like we would be having a very different conversation if that were the case." He smiled as he took another drink; pausing to allow for her to chime in. Indeed, they would likely be having a very different conversation - probably in a dimly lit warehouse by the harbour - had there not been some chance of a professional relationship. But Dmitri left that part unsaid, as he felt it very obvious to the former dancer.


 
Lizaveta let a confidential smirk build over her lips.

"The gentlemen and Moscow and I have an understanding," she told Dmitri quietly. At some subtle, unspoken question as to whether he could smoke, Lizka -- ever a gracious hostess, of course -- made a reciprocal motion basically begging him to light up if it made him more comfortable. She instantly unfolded herself, crossed to the coffee table to pick up a heavy-bottomed crystal ashtray, and brought it over to where they sat, placing it at Dmitri's side for convenience. As she did these movements, she continued on: "Grigori's business -- now my business -- is information. Knowing how to get it and from where. Knowing what to do with it. Knowing to whom it can be traded and for what." She sat again, crossed her legs like the femme fatale she was rapidly becoming. A subtle, bare suggestion of a shrug across her elegant shoulders.

"Perhaps most important of all is being trusted not to let it fall into the wrong hands. And when it comes to the information this organization has collated about the big names in Moscow..." She looked at him over the rim of her drink as she took a sip, blue eyes glacial but somehow also tainted with mirth. "...let's just say that it is in no one's interest for all the information I have to come out. The NUSA and the Soviet government would be problems -- of course -- but not hardly the worst of their problems. And I have safeguards in place so that that information would come out in the event of my... incapacity."

Or death.

"So, you might say I am an associate of theirs. I hope that answers any of your un-answered questions about my longevity." Swirling the vodka around in her glass. She wasn't sure whether the war that would surely result from having the families' secrets shared, reawakening old grudges confirming suspected betrayals, would suit Antonov. Perhaps the chaos would allow him to take a larger stake in things, or distract them from what was happening here in Night City. Or perhaps the implied power of the Organitskaya that he was trying to project in Night City would be dimmed. In any event, it would be obvious that Elizaveta had at least some bargaining position with the bigwigs.

"I quite agree," Lizka said in response. "I am not in the market for new enemies. Only new friends." Her eyes were cool as they met his once more. Not new masters, either, hung unspoken between them, clouded by the smoke from his cigarette. "I don't know what you have in mind, Dmitri," Lizaveta said conversationally, drawing one of her own cigarettes too. She didn't light up yet, merely tapped it against the inside of her wrist thoughtfully. "I'm certain what I do can be of assistance to you. I occasionally come across little bits of information that might prove uniquely interesting to you. For the sake of friendly relations -- to say nothing of our bond as countrymen -- I could pass along this information. No charge, naturally."

 
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