Page 63 of Violent Possession
“Spectacular,” the man says the instant he’s close enough. “Simply spectacular, young man. We haven’t seen a finish like that in years.” He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes falling to my right shoulder. “And that?” He points with his chin to the metal prosthesis. “War story, I imagine?”
I look at the man, then at Alexei, who watches me with cold expectation.
If he wants me to sell a story, then I’ll sell it. I’ll give him the biggest logistical headache possible.
“It was a shark—can you believe it?” I blurt out.
Silence. Even the bald man with the vodka puts down his glass.
The man’s eyes widen slightly.
“Pardon?”
It’s all he finds that sounds appropriate.
Alexei just looks at me—his face alone saysseriously? Seriously?
Very seriously.
“Shark. White,” I complete, without smiling. “I was a surfer. It tore off my whole arm.”
The man tries to decipher if it’s a joke, a challenge, or just pathology. The others follow suit.
Someone lets out a polite chuckle.
“Does that not affect anything? The prosthesis... logistics?”
Alexei hasn’t stopped me yet. So I continue.
“It does.” I hold his gaze and, on purpose, turn to Alexei. “But you don’t have to worry about maintenance, right, boss? We even have anexclusivity contractwith the manufacturer.”
Alexei’s eyes narrow for half a second. Only I notice.
“Performance clause,” I invent. After this, he’ll need to get that contract. “If the prosthesis breaks in a sanctioned fight, they deliver the new model in less than 24 hours, free of charge. Ensures the product never runs out of stock.”
Alexei takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a full second. When he opens them, he forces a smile—twisted, strained. He taps the ice in his glass once, and I read in his eyes:you are unbearable.
The man buys it. “Impressive. That’s the kind of security we like to see.”
Alexei finally responds, smooth as silk. “The integrity of our champion is our highest priority.”
The look he gives me says otherwise. It says,you’re a son of a bitch.
“And how much do you ask per fight? What are the cuts?”
Alexei takes over the conversation from there. The executive, the man of numbers.
“The house gets 35% of internal bets and 20% of broadcasts,” he says. “The athlete receives 15% directly, 10% being...”
He continues, and I tune out. It’s another language. The men listen, take notes on their cell phones, nod in agreement. Business terms, logistics, percentages, and “contingency coverage”. They know this shit is illegal. They are investing in a new and promising money-laundering machine.
Every now and then, one of them turns to me. “And you, Griffin, are you prepared for the increased pace of fights?” or “How does your body respond to high-intensity training?” Before I can open my mouth, Alexei is already answering for me.
The conversation lasts another hour. Whiskey, cigars, numbers.
Finally, the man with the gold watch stands up, extending his hand to Alexei.
“I’m impressed, Malakov,” he says. “I want this to scale. Five cities in six months. Broadcast feeds, sponsors, a number I can sell to my own partners.”
