Not much got in Dimitri Afoniki’s way. There were good reasons he was called the Russian Tiger. When something or someone was stupid enough to get in his way, he had people to remove it, people who acted without having to be told once, let alone twice. If they forgot that, they got removed and new people took their place. There were those rare times when removal wasn’t possible. The world didn’t revolve around him. Yet.
He stared out the tinted window of his limousine, one long finger tapping the arm rest, frowning as he considered the problem that had taken him from his office and loaded schedule. He’d demurred, tried to delegate. His great uncle had accused him of being spoiled. Acted as if he should be embarrassed about it. Naturally he was spoiled. Why should he not be? He had money.
