Page 100 of Violent Possession
Ivan takes a step forward, and for a second I think he’s going to attack me right there. But no. He just grinds his teeth. “This isn’t over, Alexei. I swear to God?—“
I ignore the threat. It’s always the same. “You will shut the fuck up and listen to me,” I interrupt him, louder than I would have liked. “Did you know they found the body of your witness from Odessa?”
He tries to hide it, but the fear is in his eyes. He didn’t know. The gesture is minimal—the pupils dilate, the body involuntarily recoils—but it’s there.
“Vasily will want to know what you have to do with it,” I say, low enough for only him to hear. “Maybe I’ll tell him myself.”
He doesn’t answer. He knows he can’t. In this family, the only thing more dangerous than opening your mouth is opening your mouth to thewrong man.
I turn and start to leave.
“I’m going to kill you, Alexei!” he yells at my back.
“Get in the fucking line.”
I walk out, leaving him to be watched by his own men.
After leavingIvan to marinate in his own humiliated fury, my destination was already set. The original plan was to givehimtime to acclimate. But Ivan is a child who throws a tantrum until all the toys are broken. And I needed, above all, my most volatile piece back in the game.
The room where I keep Griffin is a sterile apartment. When I enter, only a crumpled pack of imported cigarettes on the table betrays his presence. Lying on the bad spring bed, Griffin doesn’t even bother to look at me when I come in; his face is turned to the ceiling, his eyes fixed on a point that perhaps only exists inside his head. His cell phone, which I allowed him to keep, vibrates on the mattress.
He’s not wearing his prosthesis, which makes me smile slightly. His right arm ends in a stump with taut skin, a compression half-sleeve enveloping the end like a second skin. It seems he only wears the prosthesis to fight, or when he needs to intimidate someone. The rest of the time, its absence is a manifesto of preference for raw vulnerability over the dead weight of technology.
When he finally sits up, he does so without ceremony: the look of a stray dog, full of preemptive hostility, a granite chip where any remnant of gratitude should be. “Finally tired of using me as your secret little trinket?”
I don’t answer. Only then does he notice what I’ve brought with me: a hard case of matte polymer, the kind that would transport dynamite or frozen fetuses, never office papers. He knows the weight of things by the way I place the box on the table. Interest overcomes contempt for two seconds.
I open the latches. The lid lifts, revealing the custom-cut foam interior. Inside, resting, is the arm.
It’s a work of art of lethal engineering—deep black carbon fiber, shot through with veins of cold titanium. Lighter. Stronger. Much more elegant than the old, worn model he used. Myoelectric sensors, too advanced to be exposed, are visible like arteries under a translucent panel near the socket base. It doesn’t disguise itself as a prosthesis. It doesn’t fool anyone. This is a weapon.
Griffin remains motionless, but his eyes betray a child’s avidity.
“An upgrade,” I say. He approaches, limping, and stops in front of the table. The desire is explicit. So is the hatred. He hates needing gifts. He hates needing me even more.
“You really got a prosthesis,” he says quietly. “What’s the catch?”
“That you learn how to use it,” I reply. “The plan was to give you a week to adapt here. But things have changed.”
I open a side compartment in the case, revealing a precision toolkit. Antiseptic wipes, a digital pressure gauge, tiny torque wrenches. For the last three nights, between hunting a ghost and managing an empire, I have studied every screw, every diagram, every line of code in this thing’s programming manual. I don’t trust technicians. I don’t trust anyone.
“Sit down. And show me the arm,” I order.
Reluctantly, he obeys, sitting down and pulling the sleeve down, exposing the end of the limb. I kneel in front of him. I hold the stump, examining the skin and scars.
He tenses at my touch, a muscle in his jaw contracts.
“You’re not going to?—“
“I am,” I interrupt him. I run the alcohol wipe over his skin, cleaning it slowly.
I pick up the prosthesis. It’s lighter than it looks. I align it with the contours of his arm, and the fit is perfect, the silicone liner molding to the relief of his skin. I activate the suction pump, feel the small vacuum seal the prosthesis in place, hear the subtle click of the adjustment. My fingers adjust the torque of the screws, connect the surface electrodes.
His breath is held. He’s watching me, his face inches from mine. There’s a tension between us, purely physical, but charged with everything that has already happened.
The last latch makes a sharp click. “Try to close your hand,” I murmur.
He obeys, almost without breathing. The carbon fiber fingers curl into a perfect fist.
