Page 76 of Violent Possession
“And the docks?” my father asks. “Are the Volkov men still quiet after the beating we gave them?”
Ivan lights up at the command. His hand withdraws from the old man’s body, and he puffs out his chest, adjusting into the militiaman pose that only he finds elegant. “Yes, sir. The guys don’t even look up. I put two of my men to rotate patrols at the docks, and no one dares to come near. The message was sent.”
I watch the scene, bored. The family theater unfolds as always. My father questions Ivan about the loyalty of the henchmen, about territorial disputes, about the violence of everyday life. The language Ivan understands. He praises him for his strength, for his loyalty. At least, for now, Ivan didn’t let out about Griffin’s role as aVolkov agentto my father.
But today there’s a new noise. Vasily’s “unforeseen event” rings a bell. Why did Vasily, accustomed to ignoring everything that isn’t a bank calculation, move so much in recent days that he invented an absence on the boss’s deathbed? I think of Griffin. What would he do if he knew all this? Probably what he always did: bleed, devour, survive.
Something is happening. And I don’t like not knowing my variables.
It’s dark outside now.From my office window, the city appears in industrial, orange and yellowish lights, year-round, never truly seeming dark—but today there’s a kind of gloom beneath every street. Ivan hasn’t shown a sign since my father’s house. Vasily, of course, vanished like gas: silent, invisible.
I ignore my fraternal ghosts, for now; to win, one must know how to prioritize the enemy of the moment.
Today, the battlefield is this meeting room on the 31st floor, and the immediate adversary goes by Eriks Karpov.
He occupies the leather chair with his arms inadequately spread, trying to project comfort where there’s only sweat and nervousness. It’s almost comical, if not for the figures at stake.
I slide a pair of thin, black-framed reading glasses down my nose. I flip through the profit and loss report from the last event. I skip the pages on fixed costs and security bonuses; I already know they’re inflated because I ordered the inflation myself. What interests me are the bolded lines: bar revenue, bets, VIP table sales. My left hand leafs through, my right keeps the red pen ready. I note minimal discrepancies here and there. A note about the difference between initial and reported ending inventory.
I get to the point. Page 12. I tap the document lightly with the pen cap. I look over the top of my glasses until I meet Karpov’s eyes, which are reluctant to lift from the table. He fidgets slightly, and sweat trickles down his temple—even with the air conditioning at sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He knows he’s in deep shit; he just hasn’t calculated the depth of the hole yet.
“Seventy percent of your beverage revenue wasn’t declared, Eriks.”
My voice is calm, factual. And, I know, absolutelyterrifyingto him.
Karpov clears his throat and stutters, his eyes darting from me to the paper, then to an imaginary stain on the wall behind me. “Mr. Malakov, I... it must have been an accounting error, maybe on the last cash register’s spreadsheet... I’ll check, I can?—“
I think about how Vasily would handle it: a polished speech, a veiled warning, perhaps a bribe under the table. Ivan would have already pulled one of the poor guy’s teeth right there, just to make a point. Not me.
I lean back in my chair, taking off my glasses. “You won’t check anything, Eriks. Starting tomorrow, all revenue, down to the last dollar in tips for the waitresses, will be processed by my system, and you will send me a report every twenty-four hours with all your defined gains and losses. No double books, no straw men, no phantom supplier advances. We’re redefining your role. You’re the face, the loud promoter the crowd loves. I’m theowner. Are we clear?”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nods, voiceless, fear finally overcoming the urge to argue.
“Good,” I say. “Now let’s talk about how to increase the revenue you will declare. That energy drink company you mentioned last week. ‘Titan Energy’. Schedule a meeting with their CEO. I want a seven-figure proposal. And an exclusivity contract. If you close it, I’ll triple your bonus. If not, I’ll make sure you end up selling energy drinks at the traffic light on J Avenue.”
Karpov’s will to survive is stronger than his will to question. He just shakes his head, jotting everything down in a notepadwith a trembling hand. He didn’t expect it would be like this when he first saw me. But the hierarchy needed to be defined.
“They’re... big. Aren’t they already tied up with others?”
Karpov was raised in a world where great fortunes have walls, security, decades-long contracts. He doesn’t understand the pleasure in tearing down those walls with one hand and rebuilding them from scratch with the other. Yes, they’re expensive. Yes, they’re loyal tomy brother. Vasily has been using them to launder drug money for years through inflated sponsorship contracts with other venues, including the music halls that, ironically, bear my mother’s surname. Small empires within the empire, each with its owner and its own rules.
But only one rule interests me: if you want the top, everything below is a step or an obstacle.
They are the first domino I intend to knock down. And Karpov, of course, doesn’t need to know that I’m using him to steal from my own flesh and blood’s business partners.
I don’t blink.
“They’ll listen to the proposal,” I state. “Especially after last night.”
I don’t even need to complete the sentence: Karpov’s face lights up in understanding. “Oh, yes! Griffin! The kid’s a sensation, Mr. Malakov! A goldmine! Everyone was talking about him! He—he bit that guy’s face and the crowd went wild! People are already willing to pay triple for tickets to the next fight?—“
He doesn’t even seem like the man who wanted to kill him for dismantling a ridiculous champion. I don’t encourage his enthusiasm.
“He serves his purpose,” I say. “Make sure you serve yours, Eriks. Schedule the meeting.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” he says, getting up hastily. “Thank you, sir.”
He forces a strained smile, says goodbye, and finally leaves my office.
