Page 2 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

“Knox bet me five grand you’ll threaten to remove at least one body part during negotiations,” he says, deadpan.

I glance at Knox, who grins shamelessly .

“Left pinky finger,” Knox clarifies, wiggling his own. “Very specific bet.”

“You’re betting against your own brother’s diplomatic skills?” I ask.

Vane snorts. “Diplomatic. That’s like calling a shark merciful because occasionally it kills with its first bite.”

“I prefer efficient,” I counter. “And you lost money, Knox. I only remove body parts when it’s necessary. These negotiations won’t require it.”

Knox sighs dramatically. “There goes my new sound system.”

“You have three,” Landon points out.

“Different frequencies for different... activities,” Knox replies with a wink.

I straighten my jacket, preparing to enter the room, when Vane clears his throat.

“By the way, preparations for the Hollow’s Hunt are behind schedule. The contractor states the new maze section won’t be ready.”

This catches my full attention. “It begins in two weeks from now.”

“Hence my concern,” Vane replies. “Though personally, I think you’re overcomplicating things. The women enjoyed being hunted through the regular club spaces last year.”

“Regular isn’t memorable,” I say. “And I don’t do forgettable.”

Knox laughs. “Nothing says ‘memorable’ like being hunted by masked men through a custom-built labyrinth in an underground sex club. ”

“It’s tradition,” Landon adds quietly. “Father always said?—”

“Father isn’t here,” I cut him off. “But his standards remain. The Hunt happens as planned. Please inform the contractor that I’ll visit tomorrow. Personally.”

All three brothers exchange glances.

“Poor bastard,” Knox mutters.

“Better him than us,” Vane adds.

I push open the door. Time for business.

I enter the private room with calculated strides, my brothers flanking me like shadows. Three Russians occupy the far side of our mahogany conference table, with a broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit at the center—Ilya Orlov. His eyes follow my movement, searching for weakness.

I don’t offer my hand. Instead, I take my seat at the head of the table, signaling my brothers to sit with a subtle nod.

“Mr. Orlov. You’re early.”

His jaw tightens. “Time is money, Mr. Blackwood. And I’ve invested considerable time waiting for you tonight.”

Vane shifts beside me, ready to snap back. I silence him with a glance.

“And yet,” I respond, voice level, “here you remain. Which tells me you value what I offer more than you value punctuality.”

Orlov’s bodyguards exchange glances. The one on the left rests his hand near his jacket—a tell I file away.

“Perhaps I’m merely curious if America’s infamous Blackwood family lives up to their reputation.” Orlov leans forward, his accent thickening with challenge. “In Moscow, we hear stories. Some say you control half the eastern seaboard. Others say you’re simply rich boys playing gangster.”

Landon’s expression remains neutral, but I feel his attention sharpen. Knox, surprisingly, stays silent.

I pour myself a glass of water from the crystal decanter, unhurried. “Curious how many men never return from my meetings.”

The temperature in the room drops. Orlov’s smile falters.

The tense silence stretches between us for several calculated seconds. I allow it to linger, watching Orlov’s confidence waver. A lesson I learned early: power isn’t simply about what you do—it’s about what you allow others to believe you might do.

“Let’s dispense with theatrics,” I say finally. “What exactly are you offering that I can’t already acquire elsewhere?”

Orlov recovers, leaning back with forced casualness. “Volume, Mr. Blackwood. Pure and simple. My connections can double your current supply. Immediately.”

I keep my expression neutral despite the interest this piques. “And your price point?”

“Competitive with your carnival friend.” He smiles, revealing too-perfect teeth. “Yes, we know about Tyson. Efficient operation, but... limited. You’ve outgrown him, haven’t you?”

I tap my finger once against the tabletop. Knox and Vane exchange glances, but Landon remains perfectly still, watching Orlov’s security.

“Tyson has been reliable. I value reliability over claims.”

“Not claims, Mr. Blackwood. Guarantees.” Orlov slides a phone across the table.

On it are photographs of warehouse spaces, transport vehicles, and products.

“First shipment is ready when you give the word. Enough to saturate Ravenwood Hollow and push into neighboring counties. The expanding territory we discussed in our preliminary communications.”

I pick up the phone, examining the images with scrutiny before passing it to Landon.

“We have no exclusivity arrangement with Tyson,” I state plainly. “But I have no intention of severing that relationship either.”

“Two suppliers, then.” Orlov nods, understanding perfectly. “We can accommodate that arrangement.”

“Your offer is worth considering,” I concede. “Landon will review your numbers and routes. If they meet our standards, we will proceed with a test shipment. One-quarter of what you’re proposing.”

Orlov considers my counteroffer, his expression calculating. After a moment, he nods.

“A prudent approach, Mr. Blackwood. Quarter shipment as a demonstration of good faith.” He reaches into his jacket and produces only a business card. “My direct number. When your brother completes his assessment, call me personally. No intermediaries.”

“Acceptable,” I reply, pocketing the card without looking at it. “Expect contact within forty-eight hours. Assuming your numbers align with your claims, we can proceed immediately.”

Orlov smiles, the gesture not reaching his eyes. “To profitable partnerships, then.”

“To verification before the celebration,” I counter, extending my hand across the table.

His grip is firm, perhaps intentionally too firm—a childish display of dominance I’ve encountered countless times. I maintain eye contact, neither increasing nor yielding pressure. Power plays are often used by men who feel insecure in their positions. I release his hand first in dismissal.

“My associates will see you out,” I state, nodding toward the door.

Once the Russians depart, Knox immediately props his feet on the table.

“Well, that was boring. Not a single threat of dismemberment.”

Vane snorts, loosening his tie. “Disappointed?”

“Devastated,” Knox corrects, reaching for the decanter. “I had my heart set on seeing Xavier’s ‘diplomatic’ approach.”

Landon examines the photos from Orlov’s phone, which he’d transferred to his tablet. “Their operation looks legitimate, but something feels off. The quantities they’re offering would require infrastructure we haven’t encountered.”

“Hence the test shipment,” I reply, standing. “Verify everything. Twice. ”

“Always so trusting,” Vane drawls.

I straighten my cuffs, a habit when contemplating the next move. “Trust has nothing to do with it. Orlov wants our distribution network more than we need his product. That makes him dangerous—and useful.”

As my brothers continue debating Orlov’s proposal, my thoughts drift to the upcoming Hunt.

New players, new complications, new opportunities—the board grows increasingly complex.

But complexity has always been where I thrive.

After all, a man with only one move is predictable.

And in my world, the predictable rarely survive.