Chapter One:A Chess Match Between
Misha picked up her latte from Gregory Coffee and stepped out of the café. She walked toward a side street, barely a few steps in, when a Chevrolet Suburban pulled up a short distance ahead.Two mountains of men stepped out. They looked like professional wrestlers, except they were dressed in sharp, impeccably tailored suits.One of them turned to her.Man: You've been asking to meet someone for a while now. Get in.Misha froze. She swallowed hard and pulled herself together.Misha: If I'm the one who asked for the meeting, what's with the theatrics? Move aside. I'll get in.She climbed into the vehicle, though her hands were ice-cold. Yes, she had asked for this meeting. Yes, she had no other choice. The biggest opportunity of her life depended on it.Near Hunts Point, the car stopped beside a building that looked like a workshop. Misha got out, and the two men escorted her inside.A stocky Black man sat on a chair beside a table in the center of the room. He looked at her.Man: What do you want with me?Misha hesitated, then spoke.Misha: Are you Mr. Cross?The man raised his voice.Man: I asked you what you want with me.Misha was terrified and instantly regretted coming. As always, whenever she got nervous, she stuttered. And now she was stuttering.But she was stubborn. Shamelessly determined.Misha: Look, if you're not Mr. Cross, you're wasting your time—and mine. I don't talk to third parties.The man stood up.Misha stepped back instinctively.He glanced behind her. At that exact moment, someone brought over a small tray with a syringe and a glass vial.In her head, Misha began composing her farewell poem.They're definitely going to kill me with an injection.The man picked up the syringe—no needle—and emptied its contents onto the floor. Vapor rose from the ground.Acid.Then he took another syringe, filled it from the vial, and handed it to Misha.Man: You're a screenwriter and a writer. For you, the finger is everything. I'm going to offer you the best option. If your brain is so defective that instead of drinking, socializing with intellectuals, and being a literary person, you chose this path and ended up dealing with Damian Cross, then you need to learn how to associate with your betters, little girl. Life isn't always a joke. Sometimes it's serious.The color drained from Misha's face. Everyone knew how sensitive she was about her appearance. But all she said was:Misha: Finger?She paused.Misha: Well, stop with the long-winded nonsense. Setting the scene is my job. When I write a book, I include an introduction. What am I supposed to do with this acid now?The man smiled.Man: I like you. You're tiny, but you've got nerve. Your eyes look pretty mischievous too. Whether you admit it or not, you're also a little pretty. So I'll give you a double bonus.He paused, looking at her hands.Man: Whichever hand you write with stays free. With the other, choose one finger. Pour the acid on it, and then you'll get to see Mr. Cross.Misha felt heat rush through her. Her fair skin quickly turned red.But in situations like this, her usual decision was that the end justified the means. It was as though Niccolò Machiavelli inside her had decided to make a personal appearance.She took the syringe from the man and, without a moment's hesitation, poured the entire contents onto the little finger of her left hand.Idiot! You crazy idiot! Why did I pour the whole thing? I should have used less!Misha had always been an idiot. She valued quantity over quality.Suddenly, she noticed that a few drops had fallen onto the floor—yet there was no vapor, no chemical reaction.Idiot!She stared at the man, mouth open.Even funnier was the look on his face—and everyone else's. They were all staring at Misha with their mouths hanging open.Like a complete idiot, she spoke.Misha: Why isn't it burning? Shouldn't there be a chemical reaction on my skin by now?Then she heard a voice.She turned.A man—probably mixed-race, Black and something else—extraordinarily handsome, came down the stairs in a designer suit. He had beautiful gray eyes, and everyone knew Misha had a strange weakness for blue, gray, or unusual-colored eyes.Misha was still wondering when her finger would disintegrate when the man extended his hand.Damian: Damian Cross.Misha was stunned by his face and still confused about the acid. Startled, she quickly shook his hand.Misha: Misha Papkov. The writer of the screenplay you're opposed to making into a film.Damian laughed in surprise.Damian: Ms. Papkov, how did you know there was water in that bottle?Only then did everything click.With her usual honesty, she answered:Misha: Mr. Cross, I had no idea.
