Page 126 of Violent Possession

I take two steps before I hear the door open and close again. The sound covers the click of Angélica’s heels.

I already know what she’s going to do. The warmth of her perfume reaches me before her voice.

“You did well,” she says.

“I survived.”

It takes me half a second to turn back and face her. She smiles, just enough not to be cold, and leans against the opposite wall. “He’s bluffing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“He knows he’s not going to last, so he needs to decide quickly. And he needs convincing excuses for the world if he chooses you and not Vasily.” She leans her face closer, lowering her voice. “You would be a failure if you didn’t know that.”

Her voice is sharp and warm at the same time. The same old trick: seduce with the truth, then slowly suck out the poison. I try to decipher where loyalty ends and self-preservation begins. “And what doyouget out of this, Angélica?”

She smiles, this time more sincerely.

“Stability. And maybe a vineyard in Tuscany when all this is over?”

She winks at me and turns, walking back to the king’s bedroom door.

“Good luck with your pet rat,” she says over her shoulder. She turns on her heels and disappears again, as quickly as she appeared, returning to my father’s room.

I go down the stairs, ignoring the frozen gaze of the doorman and the invisible tension that permeates every square inch of that luxury mausoleum.

The old man said one right thing: every treason needs proof.

On the mainscreen of my terminal, a red dot pulsates above a decrepit map of the industrial zone. Griffin.

Since I left the mansion, he has been in motion. The trajectory of the dot is a chaotic electrocardiogram, snaking through neighborhoods I only visit in financial reports. The purgatory of the damned. I see the dot stop near Schmidt’s tailor shop, then move through ill-reputed bars, alleys that don’t even have a name. I see the transactions from the card I gave him only with essential expenses.

The circle around the red dot pulsates, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, according to the biological sensor of the bracelet on his wrist. With each peak of adrenaline, a wave of anxiety runs through me:Is he in trouble? Is he killing someone? Is he rebelling for good and preparing an ambush for me?

The memory of the morning—him, stumbling in my kitchen with the gun in his hand, the “be careful, okay?” said without knowing if it was a joke or a threat—haunts me as I review the logs, the statements, the charts. The fear is that I cultivated Griffin’s chaos precisely to make it useful, and now the chaos has started to manipulate me. I don’t know if I admire or detest this idea.

It gives me a headache. The lack of data. The need to rely on a human variable that is, by definition, unpredictable.

The voice of one of my men, always correct, echoes on the intercom, “Mr. Malakov, your car is ready. The Kaito investors arrive at the Krestoran in thirty minutes.” The reminder sours my teeth.Kaito Corp is the future,they say.

I leave the terminal on maximum alert mode, programmed to beep at the slightest peak of movement or biometric change.

I look at the reflection in the glass in front of me: the dark suit, the silk tie, the immaculate haircut. The perfect mask of the heir ready to replace his monarch. But the skin under the fabric is burning. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The Krestoran restaurant is crowded, as always. The security guards make way through the lobby. The smell of truffles and cured meats mixes with the synthetic scent of the table flowers. The Japanese are already there, three men and a woman, all in perfectly aligned suits, all with the same automatic smiles. They stand up, make the usual bows, and in less than ten seconds, we are just partners trying to extort a few extra millions from each other.

The negotiation begins cold, mathematically precise. We talk about contracts, commodity movements, risks, and guarantees. My brain automates the responses, calibrated to seem generous without ever conceding anything real. Meanwhile, a third of my attention remains plugged into the phone.

At first, the Japanese play it safe, testing the waters. But they soon harden, begin to nitpick clauses, demand impossible guarantees, require external audits. I smile, I play back. At the same time, I think about the warehouse:a bidding war for information, a duel, a summary execution?The red dot, now immobile, is a hook stuck in my brain. It has been still for thirty minutes. Griffin’s heart activity: high, but not explosive.What the hell is he doing?

Mr. Tanaka, the chief negotiator, throws a question at me. It takes me half a second to register that he is quoting me by name. “Malakov-san, regarding the insurance clause, is that really sufficient to protect the assets in case of sabotage?”

I smile. “Mr. Tanaka, our reputation is our insurance. No one on this continent survives so long without shielding everypenny. If there is sabotage, you will have priority over all liquid assets. The risk, in practice, is zero.” The answer comes out automatically. As I speak, I check the red dot. Still.Fuck. Patience, I think. The game is long. The Japanese don’t show it, but they are satisfied. The contract is practically closed once they accept the risk of losing everything.

The meeting drags on for another hour.

Only when dessert arrives does the red dot move.

Griffin is leaving the warehouse. His heart rate goes up to double, then drops abruptly. He stops at a corner, waits, repeats the pattern. Running?