Page 173 of Violent Possession
“It’s already done. Tomorrow, the first thing will be to audit all the accounts Vasily touched. Review every line of every contract, every agreement. I’ll call Ankara and isolate any compromised contact.”
Her eyes narrow in a gesture of approval. “That’s why I bet on you.”
“You bet on yourself, Angélica. You just used my name on the ticket.”
Her smile widens. “And it was awinningticket. If you need someone to deal with the internal vultures, you know where to find me.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I say.
It’s enough. She understands the promise contained in those words.
I let her go first, watching her steps get lost in the damp gravel. One last look, and she disappears among the shadows of the cars.
I take a deep breath, my chest finally expanding, and I’m preparing to get into the car when I hear my father’s voice—not as strong as before, but still impossible to ignore.
“Alexei.”
The entrance light now reveals the old man, leaning on Ivan’s shoulder. The contrast between them startles me: the father, diminished by illness and old age, and Ivan, a trembling giant,the hatred on his face already replaced by doubt. They wait for me as if they actually want to talk.
I approach them.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Vasily is gone,” says the old man. “But his businesses remain. The laundries, the schemes, the accounts. Without him, we’ll have a hole in six months.”
Ivan lets out a humorless laugh. “A hole is an understatement. It’s a fucking tidal wave. Half of our profits passed through his hands.”
I see the calculation forming in the old man’s eyes. He’s trying to understand if he will survive what he has just created.
“Everyone’s sure you’ve blown up the family,” Ivan adds, “and now everyone’s going to eat dirt together.”
They couldn’t be more wrong.
“Vasily’s ‘labyrinth’ was an open sewer,” I say. “Inefficient, risky, and outdated. He used methods from the nineties. I was already building the solution.”
I take my tablet out of my pocket again, the same one I used to condemn one brother. Now, I will use it to take his kingdom. I open a file and turn the screen to them. A detailed org chart of a clandestine fighting circuit, headed by one name:Karpov.
“This,” I say, “is the future. I’ll legalize more than half of the structure in two years. I’ve already closed an exclusivity contract with Titan Energy. Vasily only cleared the way.”
Ivan looks at the diagram, his mouth open, and only now does he realize how much he underestimated everything. “…That’s why you?—“
He connects the dots. My sudden interest in Karpov’s scheme, which he thought was just about Griffin.
“The money is already flowing. Vasily’s network won’t be missed,” I say.
The old man examines the screens, looking for typos that could invalidate my victory. He finds none. He just lets out a long sigh.
Ivan puffs out his chest, ready to explode in protest. “But—but fighting is my thing,” Ivan tries, in a voice that mixes childish anger and threat. The old man speaks over him, “Blood will flow before the first month is out.” The certainty in his voice disconcerts me, because never, not even in his days of delirium, did I doubt that Ivan would trade any cent of profit for a bloodbath and fame.
And, by extension, that I would have to clean up the mess afterward.
“The circuit is yours because you understand what can’t be taught,” says the old man. He points to Ivan with what’s left of his trembling hand. “The streets are yours because you will die in them, but you will die as a Malakov. That is your inheritance, Ivan. So, do what you want with it.” To me, he says, “What’s left of the modern world is yours. The contracts, the laundering, the millions that no one sees.”
Two dogs running in opposite directions, both tied by the family’s leash. The old man ends the audience with the dignity of those who have buried too many brothers.
“You are Malakovs,” he says. “My brother is dead. Our inheritance is among the sons that are left. I don’t need to remind you what happens to those who play against their own bloodline.”
Ivan receives all this with an expression of pride etched on his face. He never wanted to rule, only the right to destroy. And now he has permission.
