Page 127 of Violent Possession

“Malakov-san?” The voice of one of the Japanese executives pulls me back. “Your opinion on the insurance clause is very important to us.”

It’s automatic for me.

“An empire that prides itself on preventing risks should never hesitate to invest in security. Therefore, the clause is approved,” I say.

The red dot accelerates. It comes in a straight line to the Krestoran, cutting through streets, alleys, dead zones of downtown.

The executives relax, all at once. Their boss bows his head and says, “You understand the value of trust like few others.” The look he gives me says the opposite, but it doesn’t matter. This is the game, and what worries me is something else; it’sGriffin, cominghereas if he were fleeing a death sentence—orcarryingone.

The impulse is to recalculate the route, see if I’m delirious, but I can’t.

I need to finish this. Now.

“Gentlemen,” I say. “If we agree on the terms, we can sign.”

The contracts appear, pages and pages that we have already reviewed to the point of nausea. I sign where I need to, pass the fountain pen to Mr. Tanaka, who returns the gesture.

When it’s all over, the woman on the Japanese team stands up to straighten the folders, but her eyes fix on the corridor behind me. I hear a muffled commotion. A short scream. A car engine.

Tanaka extends his hand for the final handshake. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Malakov-san.”

The sound of a tire squealing on the wet asphalt. The roar of an engine accelerating too much. A man’s scream. And then, the unmistakable sound of tempered glass shattering.

The Krestoran’s facade explodes in a shower of shards. Instinctively, I raise my arm to protect my face, the Japanese jump from their chairs.

The car that crashed through the facade stops at a ridiculous angle, its crumpled hood inside the restaurant. The alarm screams a high-pitched, desperate sound. The smell of burnt tire mixes with the French perfume, and wine bottles fly into the air and shatter on the floor.

I lower my arm, feeling a thin trail of blood on my cheek.

And I see him.

He is a vision from hell. His clothes are soaked with something dark, his skin is splattered with blood that is not just his own, there’s a deep cut on his forehead, his shirt is torn at several places

The security guards draw their weapons, pointing them at Griffin.

“Don’t shoot,” I command, raising my hand.

They hesitate, but obey. They don’t know what to do. The chaos, which until then was just a threat, materializes. Terrified, the restaurant manager appears at the door and disappearsagain with the efficiency of someone who has seen too many executions to try to play the hero.

Griffin gets out of the car. He walks through the remains of the glass as if he had done nothing. He opens the trunk and, with force, pulls a man out.

I recognize him even before his face hits the ground: one of Ivan’s lieutenants. His face is swollen. He spits blood.

Griffin walks across the room, dragging the man by his collar, leaving a red, viscous trail on the white marble. In the center of the room, he raises his mechanical arm and hurls the body onto the negotiation table, where the newly signed contracts still gleam in the light of the chandeliers.

The papers fly along with the glasses and silverware, and a burner phone and a wad of dollars fall from the man’s jacket.

The silence is absolute. All that can be heard is the intermittent groaning of the man and the heavy breathing of Griffin, who now stares at me with the eyes of a semi-domesticated sociopath. He is happy.Elated. Like a dog that brings the dead pigeon to its owner, waiting for a pet.

“A little gift, boss,” Griffin says, spitting blood on the rug. “This one was selling your routes directly to your brother.”

He kicks the burner phone, which slides to a stop in front of Mr. Tanaka. The splashes stain the sushi platter.

Griffin’s artificial arm drips hydraulic fluid and blood. He looks at me with that animalistic glint, waiting for orders, or maybe wanting to know if he should kill someone.

I could order him executed right there, and maybe I would gain respect. But no.

Not him.