Page 3 of Violent Possession
He freezes.
“And your sister? Still in architecture?” I don’t raise my tone. “Stanford is expensive. But worth it. Education is an investment.”
His shoulder sags half a centimeter. He leaves.
It’s always like this. There is no loyalty, only ballast. Love for family becomes debt. Ambition becomes a chain. Fear is the only contract that never fails, because it’s simple, mechanical, and requires nofaith.
And yet, I find myself coming back to that word. It has no value beyond what I drag to it.
Trust. It’s religious. This family swears it’s indispensable, that without it, there are no relationships, no life. They look at each other and believe it’s possible to let their guard down. As if the world were some kind of clean bed where you can lie down without waking up with your throat slit.
I only see cracks. Always. The more you look, the more they appear. A small lie, a calculated silence, an omitted detail. Trust is only useful as long as you don’t look too closely.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone who truly doesn’t see it. Who lives life believing in promises and handshakes, like Ivan, when he calls it “honor”. Perhaps people like that exist. People naive enough to sleep soundly, with lives less fucked up than mine.
My head never stops. It trembles at the wrong times with an arithmetic that never ends.
I don’t accept errors. I prefer to be the sole auditor of my own life.
“Alexei! My friend!”Karpov exclaims. I greet him with a handshake that lasts the bare minimum required.
“Karpov,” I say.
He throws a heavy arm over my shoulders, guiding me inside. Two of my own men follow, and I suppress the urge to pull away. Unnecessary physical contact.
“Come on, come on! The fun’s about to start,” he says, pushing me toward a raised area overlooking the ring, where two cheap plastic chairs have been placed. His men are there, watching the corners. The audience can’t see us from here.
I hate this place. I hate the smell of sweat, I hate the cheap beer stains, I hate the brainless noise of the crowd screaming for blood as the only form of entertainment their underdeveloped brains can process.
My own intelligence brought me here. I was the one who identified Karpov’s drone network months ago—a robust network left by his uncle. A shame, because Karpov is an idiot and doesn’t know how to manage it. I was planning a silent acquisition, to absorb the technology and discard the animal who ran it. But Ivan, with his nose for opportunities he can’t comprehend, smelled the money. He got here first, offering alliances and nights of brawling. And in doing so, he forced me to come here, to sit in this plastic chair and smile at this stupid smuggler wearing velvet in ninety-degree heat.
I made a plan, of course. If I’mforcedto be here, I’m takingsomethingout of it—something Ivan couldn’t.
“Get a beer. Relax. Tonight is our night!”
He points to a bucket with melted ice and bottles.
“I’ll pass,” I reply. I refuse to sit in that wobbly, three-dollar chair.
Karpov shrugs, grabbing a beer for himself. He takes a long swig. “After my boy Rat is done with the cripple, we’ll drink to celebrate our new friendship. Ourpartnership.”
I don’t know who “the cripple” is or who Rat is. It’s of no interest to me.
“It’s a business transaction, Karpov. Not a friendship,” I correct him, looking at the crowd. Primates. All of them. I try to bring the conversation back to the only reason I’m breathing this foul air. “Speaking of efficiency, your drone network. The encryption on the logistics terminals. I want the technical details.”
Karpov opens his mouth to answer, but his eyes drift, drawn by a sudden roar from the audience. One of the fighters in the ring just landed a dirty hit on the other.
“LOOK AT THAT!” Karpov yells, pointing with the bottle. “HE’S GONNA BREAK THE BASTARD’S ARM! BREAK IT! BREAK IT!”
He has a multi-million dollar operation in his hands, and his mind is focused on two animals trading punches for pocket change. Ivan sees him as an equal. The conclusion is obvious.
The winner raises his arms, bloody and exhausted. The crowd screams. I wait for Karpov’s euphoria to subside, a process that takes agonizing thirty seconds.
“Karpov,” I call out. “The route. We need to finalize the terms of exclusivity.”
He finally turns to me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, yes. The route. My word is my bond, Malakov. My route is strong becausemy menare strong. You’ll see.”
He’s about to continue his barroom philosophy when the organizer steps into the ring, and Karpov’s attention snaps back to it.
