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Yuri Orloff leaned back on a comfy sofa inside the Kremlin in snowy Moscow. The window beside him provided a view of the broad square below, where flurries of slow danced through the air. His eyes suddenly flew open. Had he dozed off for a moment while drunk? Cold sweat drenched his forehead.
“What...? Was that a dream...?”
As reality dawned on him, a sigh of relief escaped him. At the same time, he ground his teeth in fury.
“It’s been a while... since I’ve dreamed of that time.”
Yes, it was just a dream—a nasty nightmare, nothing more.
Look at me now.
He sat in the heart of Russia, the Kremlin itself, surrounded by every imaginable luxury. This was his reality. Yet no matter how far he’d climbed, no matter how much he’d achieved, certain memories still haunted him.
“Goddamn it!”
Yuri snatched up the crystal bottle resting on the table in annoyance. It was thirty-year-aged Scottish whiskey, each bottle worth several thousand dollars. Just a few years ago, he couldn’t have afforded even a sniff. Now, he tipped the priceless liquor to his lips and drank greedily.
Then, without warning, he hurled the bottle to the floor. The deafening sound of glass shattering echoed through the Kremlin halls. The several-thousand-dollar...
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