Page 1 of Violent Possession

CHAPTER 1

THE BONE COUNTER

ALEXEI

The whiskey in my glass is a 25-year-old Macallan.

At 21, Ivan got a loud, useless sports car for doing nothing. At 23, I earnedthis, for dismantling a rival in Monaco without firing a single shot, using the stock market and three emails. Ivan hates this bottle and everything it represents.

That’s why I drink it in front of him.

“It’s a done deal!” he says, slamming his palm on the polished office desk. It’s the same triumphant tone he used at twelve, after breaking a rival kid’s arm and running to hide behind his grandmother’s skirts. I don’t move. “Karpov controls the drone logistics from Fresno to the border. He’s the key to the south. The deal’s on the table, Leshy.”

What aclevername. A small imp who lurks in the murky corners of a forest and tricks wandering souls. Ivan has never missed an opportunity to deliver backhanded compliments that belittle his subject.

My brother beside him, suppressing a smirk, obviously loves the joke.

Behind them, the silent shadow of Vladimir stares at me. He waits, because heunderstandsthe offense—understandingmy cousin is synonymous with it. Built with the same lack of subtlety as a sledgehammer, his only function in life is to translate my brother’s growls into broken bones; he, too, waits for the order to leap at my throat. He knows that, at some point, it will come. We all do. It’s an unspoken thing that will happen sooner or later.

“The deal of a man whose security network is sorobustthat he schedules business meetings at a glorified dog fight,” I say. His name alone—Karpov—makes me sick. He has the IQ of a brick wall and the self-confidence of an armed micro-influencer. A clinical case of performative noise masking incompetence. “Karpov is a walking security risk.”

Ivan lets out a crooked laugh. “I know you’re not used to it, here with your air conditioning and polished wood, but this is howreal mendo business. With a handshake, watching a brawl, having a drink. Or do you think you’ll faint if you see a little blood?”

Ivan is an arrogant little shit. The eternal second place, always resentful, always seeking the approval of the loudest primate in the room. His alliance with Vasily is as predictable as it is pathetic. Always two against one.

“You and your friend Karpov are a waste of oxygen and time,” I say. “The only blood I’m worried about is what the family will lose when your stupidity inevitably blows up in our faces.”

“But Alyosha,” my brother says, taking on a singsong tone. He must think I’m an idiot. “The world out there is more visceral than your numbers. Karpov respectsstrength. It’s the language the Malakovs—the rest of the family—speak.”

The language ofcheap intimidationis the one he himself used to convince me to approve the investment in the Odessa dock. He conveniently omitted that the main contact was a federal informant. The operation cost us control of the port. Vasily apologized afterward, of course. He always does.

An apology doesn’t cover a nine-figure loss or the humiliation of being outplayed. The numbers Vasily presented on the Odessa fuck-up don’t add up. No one has explained the reason for the failure of theonlyoperation I didn’t participate in, and no one talks about the port manager who supposedlydiedwith no body to be found, a loose end their incompetence left behind. A loose end thatIwill, eventually, have to tie off.

Vasily always makes a point of drawing this line in the sand. Ivan, the brute. He, a conniving little son of a bitch, with his ability to feign innocence being the only thing that saved him in Istanbul years before. And all the other cousins, brothers, and uncles who understand the world through the sights of a gun or the bottom of a glass. And me. The bean counter. The black sheep who happens to be the fucking brain that keeps all the wolves fed.

This mutual contempt is the only thing that still binds us.

“It will cost us millions when Karpov’s network is inevitably compromised by his own stupidity,” I say. “I’m out.”

Ivan leans over the table. He usually reacts to everything with anger, but not this time. That’s how I know he has one last card to play.

“What a shame,” he says, a victorious smile spreading across his face. “Because I spoke with the old man this morning. He agrees the alliance is vital. And he thinks your caution is...admirable. That’s why he wants you to go to the meeting. To ensure the intelligent part of the business is taken care of.”

Of course, he did. When logic fails, he runs to the old man’s throne, whining about tradition and honor. Ivan appeals to a higher, sentimental authority. Pathetic.

Vasily looks at me with false compassion. Ivan looks at me with pure triumph.

I drink the last of my whiskey. The liquid burns as it flows down.

Fuck it.

“As you wish,” I say.

I stand, buttoning the middle button of my suit.

“That’s how it’s done, Leshy. Sometimes you just need to have balls.” Ivan gives me two condescending pats on the shoulder as I walk past him. Vladimir glares at me, a veiled threat, his eyebrow split by an old scar, perpetually furrowed. “Try not to fall asleep during the show.”

“This kind of place... it’s not for you,” says Vasily. “If it gets too loud, you can call us.”