Page 8 of Emerald

Babanin is a small man, as age-spotted and wrinkled as a tortoise. But I know he’s as sharp and methodical as ever. Which is why he surprised me by giving away my guns. It’s not like him to be so rash.

I go through the doorway first, Dom right behind me. Babanin has his goons stationed on either side of the door—the one on my left is a fat fuck. He looks like a sumo wrestler squeezed into a suit. The one on my right is a little more intimidating in terms of fitness, but he holds himself like a posturing peacock, not like a tactical fighter.

Without me having to give Dom so much as a look, he moves slightly to the left so that he and I are each lined up with one of the guards, in case something goes down.

But for now, my attention is on Babanin.

He’s pretending to shuffle papers around on his desk. I see the nervous darting of his eyes and the slight sheen of sweat on his bald forehead. He has a bottle of gin on his desk, and a mostly empty glass in front of him.

“Ivan,” he says, his voice hoarse. “You want a drink?”

“No,” I say, taking a step closer to his desk.

I can feel his bodyguard shifting his position behind me, keeping close. Too close, if he knew what he was doing.

“Where are my guns?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“My apologies,” Babanin says, his hand shaking slightly as he pours another shot of gin over his melting ice. “We had the shipment come in, just as expected, but unfortunately, an unseen complication arose. But I assure you, I can get more. I just need a little time to—“

“What was the complication?”

“They were, ah, confiscated.”

“You mean you gave them to someone else.”

“He didn’t give me any choice!” Babanin cries. “He knew exactly when they were arriving, he came in here with fifteen men, loaded them onto his truck—“

“Who?”

“Remizov.”

I let out my breath slowly. It’s what I expected, but I’d still hoped to hear otherwise. It’s an unpleasant complication.

Remizov is the head of a new crime syndicate. They’re not Bratva, not in the traditional way. Remizov doesn’t represent a family, bonded by blood, shaped over generations. He’s a nobody, who came from nowhere, just like his men. He doesn’t follow the rules of the Bratva, spoken and unspoken.

Which is why he’s taken my guns.

I have no desire to start a war with him. But he’s drawn the first blood. And in my world, that has to be answered.

But first, I have to deal with Babanin.

“I find it curious that you were afraid of Remizov,” I say, taking another step toward his desk. “Yet you failed to consider what my reaction would be.”

“I had no choice!” Babanin protests again, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Remizov and his men were armed! And he has connections—connections in the government, at the FSB!”

“I understand,” I tell him.

For a minute there’s a glimmer of relief on Babanin’s face. But then I continue. “You thought that our longstanding relationship would protect you. I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite. It only makes your betrayal all the worse. You don’t own this dock anymore, Babanin. It belongs to me now.”

Babanin stares up at me, sputtering with outrage, his eyes magnified behind his glasses so that he looks more like a tortoise than ever.

“What do you mean?” he says. “That’s outrageous! I’ve been controlling the shipments out of here since before your father was born, you . . . you . . .”

He trails off, seeing the look of fury on my face.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you leave here alive,” I tell him. “That’s the only courtesy you’ll receive from me.”

Babanin stares at me in shock. He can’t actually imagine getting up from that desk and not returning again. Like a tortoise, this office is his shell, his home, his protection, an integral part of himself. He thinks he can’t live without it.

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