Page 160 of Violent Possession

He moves to an improvised chair made of rusted metal, runs his hand—protected by a white leather glove—over the seat, and wipes away a layer of gray dust.

“Sit down, Malakov. It will be a long night.”

I remain standing. He appreciates my refusal and doesn’t insist. Instead, he continues:

“He sees you in a surprisingly good light, you know? Despite everything. He believes you are a man of your word. It’s because ofthatfaith that I am here, breaking my own rules.”

“His faith is irrelevant,” I reply, even though I’m not sure I believe that. I feel his name, Griffin, hanging between us. “Let’s skip the sentimentality. I know you helped my brother in Odessa. And I know that if you are here now, offering his head on a platter, it’s not out of kindness. So, tell me, Seraphim. What is your price?”

His smile returns, this time showing white teeth. “Tellme, Alexei. How did a man as careful as I leave a trail that led to Odessa? I’m curious. Was it my mistake or the merits of your investigation?”

He’s testing, of course. Looking for cracks, cross-referenced information, the line between threat and a plea for help.

“You made no mistake. My brother, on the other hand, inherited only half the family’s intelligence.”

He nods. The smile becomes satisfied. He pulls a chair back and sits on it, leaning on the backrest with casual confidence.

“You know, your brother put a gun to my head more than once,” he says casually. “All these situations have something in common—it’s his response to being contradicted.” He exhales smoke with a humorless smile on his lips. “He doesn’t know that you—or Griffin—found out about me. Otherwise, he would have set fire to all my points of interest, all the places that are minimally important to me, because he knows I would put a bullet in my own head in exchange for peace for my people. It would be a good ultimatum, don’t you think?”

Seraphim watches me, smoking his cigarette, and he no longer smiles. I see where he’s going with this.

I initially thought he would ask for money. Funds for his business, if money was what drove him to make deals with someone he speaks of with as much contempt as Vasily. But no.

He knows that, even with the possibility of his information neutralizing Vasily, we are still talking about the Malakovs.

“You want protection,” I say.

He shrugs. His eyes drift to the city, and he blows smoke. The dim lighting, accentuated by distant neon lights, gives him an ethereal, androgynous air. “More than that,” he says. “I wantguarantees. A safe passage for me and my people. And… due separation. Even if there comes a time when any Malakov wants my head again for somethingIdid, I want guarantees that the consequences will be reserved for me alone. No kidnapping of a convenience store cashier, Alexei.”

Of course, it reached his ears. But he knows, and I know, that I’ve come too far to be shaken by such an ultimatum. Kidnapping civilians is not standard practice, it’s not common, nor should it be. But for very high stakes, drastic measures are taken.

“You have an irritating sense of drama, Seraphim,” I say, and I almost smile. He notices. He finds it amusing.

I slowly put the gun back in its holster. The top of the Metropol groans with the wind, the old structures protesting.Sit down, Malakov, he said—I doubt Seraphim has ever sat down by concession in his life.

“Let’s suppose I grant you this amnesty,” I say. “Your services aren’t just charity, and you, I imagine, align with whoever pays best. You even foresee this with your extra condition. So enlighten me: how could I open a safe passage for a mercenary who invariably acts against the interests of my own empire? If you sold services to Vasily, what you do is not only illegal but will, one way or another, intersect with the foundations of my family.”

I think of something else. I think of what I don’t know. I don’t know what Vasily asked for: if it was raw intelligence, system sabotage, an execution, or just planting false files. I only know that Seraphim, if he has survived this long, never worked for lost causes, never mixed with those who couldn’t pay in lives or clean money. And if Odessa is the axis, everything he has done could be a time bomb embedded under our feet, ready to demolish the Malakovs from within.

As if reading my mind, he smiles at me.

This smile is different. Disconcerting.

“Do you want to know what I sold your brother?”

I narrow my eyes. He touches the back of the adjacent chair, with the affected delicacy of someone who has never gotten their hands dirty, and makes a gesture:sit down, for real this time, come and hear the secret.

I don’t accept immediately. I maintain my distance, inspect the floor, the surroundings, the way he holds his cigarette—left hand.

“I’ll tell you,” he says. He tilts his head toward his invitation, waits.

So I pull out the chair.

I sit.

“Coherent lies, sometimes, begin with a truth,” he says. He takes a matte plastic card from his pocket, which gleams dully under the rooftop light. He holds it between two fingers. “Sample card from M.I. Trust,” he says, with a smile.

I inspect the card before taking it.