Chasing Shadows 06: Two Tribes

Power, influence, fear—what else is left?

660 Sixth Avenue, New York, NY, 1988

The girls and I approached The Limelight on Sixth Avenue on a brisk Friday night. The air was heavy and charged with tension. Not because of the blast radius from the botched Ivonavov job and the grave revelations it unearthed but rather, because it was my birthday.

I loathed birthday celebrations—the artifice, the forced revelry. My girlfriends had dressed up to celebrate me, but in reality, I was walking straight into my own prison. A sentence of dancing on the floor of The Limelight, a smile plastered on my face, acting like I wasn’t blindsided. Like I hadn’t been betrayed by someone I trusted most.. I wanted to unleash hell, but instead, for one night, I was held captive in a nightclub of my own rage.

The club felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as I stepped onto the dance floor, hands clenched, freshly manicured nails digging into my palms. The beat of the music made my pulse race in my ears. I was trapped in this sea of friendly smiles and laughter, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to get my hands on the one who had betrayed me. Here I was set adrift in this sea of friendly smiles and laughter, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to get my hands on the one who had betrayed me. I wanted to unleash hell. But instead, I let the music drown me, let my body move like I was just another girl caught in the beat.

Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Two Tribes” was pounding down on the dance floor giving the floor of the Limelight a sort of heaving tribal feeling, the pounding bass, crunching guitars mixed with the electric rhythm giving a sense of push and pull — the masses of clubgoers seeming to become a singular sea of joined bodies rippling to the beat. And in the middle of this maelstrom of humanity? Us.

The pulsating lights above cast fleeting shadows on the crowd, a wash of neon red and purple blending with the smoke-filled air. The bass thudded in my chest, but all I could hear was the chaotic rush of my own heartbeat, drowning out the laughter around me.

I wanted to feel the celebration. I really did. But the echo of betrayal was louder than the music. It gnawed at me, and each flash of laughter from the girls around me only reminded me of how naïve I’d been. I wanted to scream at them, at the walls, at the sky… But instead, I gritted my teeth and danced.

And out of all of this…the only person who seemed to notice? Nadia.

Pulling me into the bathroom, she tugged at my sleeve, “Babe?” She asked sweetly in Russian, “Why are you so sad?”

“I just,” I said stammering, “I can’t believe I’m smiling and laughing around someone who sold me out, sold us out,” I said motioning to Nadia to make sure she knew we were in this together.

“Maybe,” Nadia began, “It’s not what it seems..” She said laying out a theory that on the surface made sense because it was easier and more convenient to believe than the hard sided truth.

I walked away feeling somewhat better, telling myself that Katy had done nothing wrong, that maybe I had misjudged everything. After all, we were all assassins, we excelled at shifting allegiances and we all knew the inherent risks and downfalls of those in our industry. What happened at the hotel could have just been the result of another crew getting a leg up on us. This all sounded so real, so resolute so easy to believe in but I knew myself, I knew Nadia - this was not a momentary slip, this was deception’s blade, a knife that cuts harder and deeper than any other. I tried to shove the gnawing suspicion down, but it kept crawling back to the surface. Could I really be wrong about Katy? It was easier to believe what Nadia said, but the quiet voice in my head kept whispering, This doesn’t add up.

1020 Ocean Drive, Miami, 1988

As Nadia and I turned a corner at 10th St. and Ocean Drive, the whole of Miami practically unfurled in front of us, the night humming around us, a symphony of neon buzzing like electric cicadas, pulsing over the throbbing bass lines spilling from the clubs of this seemingly neon-paved paradise. Across Ocean Drive, the pink lifeguard towers stood watch over Miami Beach, just beyond Lummus Park.

Nadia and I walked down Ocean as New Order’s "Blue Monday" throbbed in the background. While I wish we had time to stay and enjoy the delights of Miami, we had business to see to this evening.

A very well-paying private client was offering a job with a potential to “go long” meaning retainer work. The only deal? We had to discuss face to face, no Mailboxes & More unfortunately.

My deal? I was only coming in if Nadia could join. If I learned anything from the sting of Katy - it was that insulating myself by one trusted person was my safest route from here on out.

While I was comfortable with Nadia now, there was a sense of disconnection from the world I knew and the world I knew now — no dropbox jobs, no whispers of work at Star Deli — this was all charting very new territory for me.

As we approached The Miramar Club, Nadia and I craned our necks up to look at the hotel. The Miramar Club is more than just a hotel—it was a temple to decadence, a place where just the appearance told you everything you needed to know - this was the past and present blurring together under neon lights and the shimmer of a thousand champagne glasses.

Sitting at the heart of Ocean Drive, the Miramar stood out as a restored 1930s Art Deco masterpiece, its white-and-gold façade glowing as if it floated above the eternal rush of South Beach nightlife.

The marble-tiled lobby was a fever dream of Gatsby-esque opulence, complete with gold palm fronds accenting every corner, a white marbled champagne bar, and a massive onyx-and-mirrored staircase leading to a mezzanine.

I walked with Nadia as we looked for the Marlowe Suite as we passed other suites named after socialites, gangsters, and jazz-era icons—The Bacall Suite, The Bugsy Penthouse, The Fontainebleau Room.

As we approached the Marlowe, it was easy to spot — two goons in suits guarded the door. The guards eyed us up and down before cracking the door open. “One moment,” the guard said stoically. As we waited nervously, the guard said, “Mr. Volkov will see you now,” as he escorted us inside the suite.

We were lead to a seating area as Emil Volkov stood to greet us. “Sonja Rozhenko,” I said introducing myself. “Ahhh…” Emil said stroking his chin, “This is the feared Black Russian? It’s a honor to become acquainted,” he said before turning to Nadia, “Nadia Romanov,” she said politely, shaking his hand firmly.

“And I believe you know…” he said motioning towards the other end of the suite as a door opened to reveal The Vicereine.

The Vicereine had certainly come up since the last time we saw her, she was no longer covered in an assassin’s blood but still covered in furs, and dripping in diamonds. She’s clearly slithering her way back into power — The Vicereine just got thrown to the wolves, and instead of getting eaten, she turned a wolf into her lapdog.

“We do indeed,” I said coming off gracious but internally leery. “You’re certainly looking comfortable?” I said probing some.

“Emil’s always been a friend,” The Vicereine assured me, “When he heard about this misunderstanding with Viktor, he graciously stepped in to help me out.” The Vicereine said weaving her sordid tale together. Frankly, I could care less how she made her living or what man kept her — I was just here to work.

“Now,” I said moving the conversation at a clip, “How can we best be of service to you?” I asked.

“Lets sit,” Emil said as Nadia and I sat on the sofa and The Vicereine took up across from us.

“Do you remember how I mentioned some of the groups that Viktor ‘worked’ with?” The Vicereine asked us.

Nodding I said, “I do, you implied they may be dangerous.”

“Very dangerous,” The Vicereine intoned laying it on very thick.

“Emil is one these such groups, an organization called Oracle. Emil is Oracle’s most important asset. He’s known as “The Architect,” - The Architect serves as Oracle’s chief financial strategist, money launderer, and master of offshore accounts. Emil is the one who makes sure Oracle’s fortunes remain untouchable, shuffling billions through shell companies, laundering blood money through legitimate enterprises, and ensuring that no matter how much Oracle plays in, its hands remain legally clean,” The Vicereine said as if she were Oracle’s press secretary.

“Now,” The Vicereine added, “The only thing is…a rival group known as “The Agency” has been hired by private clients looking to destabilize Oracle by taking out and seizing some of their funds,” The Vicereine explained. “So, Oracle is calling for ‘open season’ on all Agency operatives.”

If my head wasn’t spinning enough already, The Vicereine dropped a major bomb on me.

“The Agency actually sent the hit team that botched the Viktor job in New York,” she told us, “It appears that someone close to you is actually an Agency operative.”

My heart and my mind broke open - how could I have been so incredibly fucking stupid - and in that moment I thought about all the smiles, the jokes, the girl time, the Ming’s the loving, the laughing and I felt so empty, hurt, betrayed and left with nothing but simmering rage in its place.

“So,” The Vicereine added, “You know what you have to do. And once that’s done,” she said pushing an envelope across the table towards me, “Here’s a list of Agency operatives in the tristate area, once you’ve cleaned up your own house, start cleaning up New York and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

I smiled and thanked her for the job. As I did The Vicereine’s mask seemed to slip. “Now that that’s solved,” she asked in a tone that was laced with almost something I’d call levity, “Have a drink with me?”

I shot her a cunning look and smiled. “Jean Paul,” she clipped motioning towards the bar. A few minutes later, Jean Paul appeared with a silver tray featuring two Black Russians. “To the woman herself,” The Vicereine said smiling and motioning to a small sitting area in the adjoining room.

As we sat, we politely smiled at each other and toasted before we began to sip. “Thank you for picking us,” I said as I dug, “Are you okay from…you know, everything?” I asked trying to delicately ice skate across this frozen lake with flaming hot ice skates. “Oh that?” The Vicereine said as if it were a minor inconvenience as she narrowed her gaze at me, “Just the price of being a woman in this world, you know…” she said as if she and I were even remotely in the same stratosphere. “Are you and Emil…going to?” I asked pointing at my ring finger.

“Oh God, no,” The Vicereine sighed, “No, Emil is just a layover on my journey to my goal,” she said callously and carelessly. “Men like Viktor always think they’re untouchable. That’s the fun part—watching them fall. Of course, you can’t just rely on one method. Always keep a second knife in the dark, just in case.”

“Where might that be?” I asked.

“Power, influence, fear — forget money, those are the only three things that make it possible for a woman to make a life for herself these days. And not a Suzy Homemaker life, I mean a real life - one that can’t be taken away, one that’s real, unshakable and ultimately undeniable,” The Vicereine said.

“And Oracle is my way there,” The Vicereine continued, “I will be their first ever female leader, they may oppose me, they may fear me, but they will respect me and recognize me as their Oracle. Maybe not today, but one day. And until that day comes, I’ll root out The Agency and all who stand in the way of that dream— they’ll never be able to deny me, then.”

As I sat here basking in the glow of The Vicereine’’s hubris, I realized that The Vicereine’ is truly playing a long con. And in some twisted way, so was I , but who’s actually winning? I realized that there’s power in how we women play our hands—men move in broad strokes, but us women? Relegated to whispers and shadows. The more I learned about this twisted world of The Vicereine, I realized Oracle’s real strength isn’t its money. It’s the fact that no one ever sees the knife until it’s too late.

It was clear, The Vicereine isn’t here for money—she’s here for legacy — She wants to be the Oracle. Not just to lead—but to be undeniable. Maybe in some ways, we were actually more alike than I cared to admit? The Vicereine is undeniably ruthless, but was she wrong? Power, influence, fear—what else is left?