Page 30 of Violent Possession
“Proof. The middleman’s name. The money trail. What really happened that night.”
The battle happens inside him: loyalty suppressed by fear, hope replaced by the instinct for survival. “I don’t know who the middleman was,” he tries, but he knows it won’t stick.
I stand up, walk slowly to the bar, and pour more whiskey. The sound of the ice hitting the glass is the timekeeper of this little torture. “There’s always a name, Kirill. Always someone to take the blame.”
He remains silent. He looks out the window, as if there were some comfort out there. He only finds the dead lights of Sacramento, reminding him that, here,no oneis irreplaceable.
He wavers. “You won’t protect me if I talk.”
“You’re already dead to them,” I say, one of the only truths he’s entitled to know. “To me, you’re only useful if you talk.”
He doesn’t need much.
“I heard the name. I didn’t see the face. Seraphim. That’s what Vasily called him.”
The name carries an absurd gravity. Vasily dared tooutsourcethings.
“The money trail?”
“Vasily used a shell company. The accounts are laundered through consulting contracts…”
“Did you keep copies? Information?”
“I wrote down an account number…”
“That’ll do.”
I take a burner phone from the drawer and slide it across the table to him, along with a small piece of paper. “Write. On the phone, there’s a pre-programmed number. They’ll give you an ID, a passport, and a one-way ticket,” I lie. “Don’t try to be clever. I’ll know.”
The man writes a sequence of numbers on the paper and takes the phone as if it were a sacred relic. His shoulders slump, and the entire survivor’s pose evaporates. He gets up, thanks me in a pathetic whisper, and leaves the office at a run.
He thinks he got away unscathed.
Vasily pretendsto read Karpov’s drone route report, but I know the choreography of his eyes well: they go restlessly over the lines, hunting for flaws, searching for the exact point where they can insert the blade and twist.
“The profit projections for the southern route seem optimistic,” Vasily declares, sprinkled with false casualness. “Do you really trust Karpov’s ability to manage a 30% increase in volume without something...getting lostalong the way?”
“The projections aren’t Karpov’s,” I say. “They’remine. Based on the security and logistics updates I implemented last week. Karpov’s only function now is to make sure his thugs don’t trip over the new servers.”
Vasily smiles. The silence that follows is a passive denial, a protest by omission. He hates to admit losing territory. He hates even more to admit thatIwas the one who dislodged him. Before, Ivan ran this operation like an irascible drunk: with shouts, cheap testosterone, and promises of violence for anyone who crossed the line. Now, with my intervention, everything runs with precision, and Vasily finds himself caged by processes he cannot corrupt. He doesn’t like processes that he cannot corrupt.
He tries one last offensive, flipping through the report. “And what about the Volkovs? If they discover the routes, not even all your ‘efficiency’ will prevent the losses.”
“The paranoia isflattering, Vasily, but the Volkovs are too busy with their own territories to respond with attacks. And you know that. Don’t waste my time with unlikely scenarios,” I finish, placing the sheet back in the envelope in front of me.
After taking Odessa from us, the Volkovs have only been organizing their own operations. Although they were alert to possible retaliation from us, they are not part of my list of concerns—attacking again now is out of character for them.
His gaze narrows in a glimpse of the old Vasily—the man who once slit a Yakuza consultant’s throat with a bottle cap just to prove a point during a business dinner. But today, he has no more blades at hand, only logical arguments, and those have bled enough.
I want him to feel it. I want him to see that there’s no more room for his kind of subtlety. We are beyond that.
Before Vasily can try a new trick, the door is thrown open violently. Ivan bursts in, breathing heavily and wearing a freshly brewed rage.
He freezes when he sees Vasily.
“Ivan,” Vasily sings, forcing a cordial tone. “Don’t you know how to knock anymore?”
Ivan ignores Vasily and aims at me. “I need a word. Urgent.”
