Deadly Offer (The House of Matvei #2)

Chapter 1

“ S he wants you to come for dinner again.” Grigorii checked his watch, the gold case gleaming briefly as he moved his wrist. “My wife. She says my son keeps asking about the man who can read minds.”

Reuben leaned against a stack of pallets, the rough wood catching on his suit jacket. “I’m not psychic. Just observant.”

“To a seven-year-old?” A barely perceptible lift appeared at the corner of Grigorii’s mouth. “It’s the same thing. My little Samuil, he thinks you’re like those American comic books. Next time, bring a cape.”

A puddle on the concrete floor reflected the industrial lights overhead, and the warehouse air hung heavy with the tang of metal and saltwater, undercut by the chemical sweetness of industrial lubricant.

The harbor smell was everywhere inside the building. It showed how close the Matvei business was to the outside world. Through the open doors, Reuben could see shipping containers with a specific trading company logo on them. It was one of the legal businesses that the Matvei’s ran.

Nine months ago, Reuben was just a scared poker player in Nikon’s casino. He had been afraid for his life. But now, things were different. Now he was joking with the head of the Matvei arms operation while waiting for a cartel representative.

Life took strange turns.

“I’ll remember the cape.” Reuben scanned the warehouse, taking in Grigorii’s men positioned strategically throughout the space. But something about one of them, (the one by the northeast corner), seemed off. Slight tension in the shoulders. Eyes that moved too often.

Probably nothing.

Grigorii checked his watch again. “You should come to my underground fights sometime. Stepan’s fighting Saturday.” He nodded toward Nikon’s man, standing silently nearby. “He won again last night. Big money.”

Reuben raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking to Nikon’s enforcer. “That why he’s here?” Reuben shifted on his feet. A chill permeated the concrete floor, seeping through the soles of his shoes. Reuben had learned that the Matvei’s preferred these industrial spaces—neutral ground where blood could be washed away with a pressure hose if negotiations failed. “Are you looking to recruit me for your fight club?”

“He’s here...” Grigorii’s eyes crinkled with amusement “... because my brother doesn’t trust me to keep you safe.” Grigorii’s mouth hardly moved when he smiled. Just a slight softening around the eyes and a subtle shift in his stance. Not like Nikon, whose rare smiles transformed his entire face. The family resemblance was there, but filtered through two entirely different personalities. “Still, the fighting would be good for you. Toughen you up.”

Before Reuben could respond, the side door opened, and three men walked in.

The leader—Túlio—strode forward with the confident gait of someone who believed spaces belonged to him the moment he entered them. His two associates flanked him, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

“Matvei.” Túlio nodded slowly, looking around the warehouse before focusing on Reuben. “And Nikon’s man.”

Reuben kept his expression neutral, though his stomach tightened. Being assessed by cartel members wasn’t on his list of favorite activities.

“Túlio.” Grigorii extended a hand. “Good to see you again. How’s business?”

“Business would be better if our shipment had arrived on schedule.” Despite the words, Túlio clasped Grigorii’s hand, his smile never reaching his eyes.

The cartel’s shipping schedule had shifted since their last meeting three weeks ago, another sign of the escalating tensions along the coast. Each port authority crackdown changed the rhythm of their operations, forcing adaptations that rippled through the entire network.

“Stepan.” Túlio acknowledged Nikon’s enforcer with something closer to genuine respect. “Good fight last night. You made me money.”

Stepan dipped his head a fraction of an inch, his massive frame shifting closer to Reuben. Nine months in the Matvei organization had taught Reuben to recognize protective positioning when he saw it.

“Underground fights?” Reuben glanced between Stepan and Túlio. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of the sport.”

Túlio’s laugh was genuine. “Sport? No. Investment. When a Matvei enforcer steps into the ring, smart money follows. You haven’t been?” He studied Reuben with new interest. “You should. Stepan here has quite the right hook.”

Grigorii cleared his throat, drawing attention back to business. “We have a small issue with the port authority. Nothing serious, but it’s caused a slight delay with your shipment.”

“Slight?” One of Túlio’s men—younger, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—stepped forward. “Three days is not slight when my boss is expecting delivery.”

The temperature in the warehouse seemed to drop. Reuben could sense Stepan tensing even further, preparing for trouble. The distant sound of gulls crying outside the open bay doors all of a sudden seemed very far away.

“Ramiro.” Túlio’s voice carried a warning, his gaze fixed on the younger man who had just stepped forward. “Let me handle this.”

But the damage was done. The atmosphere had shifted from cautious business to something more precarious.

“How much longer?” Túlio’s tone now was more guarded.

“Two days. Three at most.” Grigorii didn’t flinch. “We’ve handled the issue with the inspector. He’s been... persuaded to look the other way.”

Reuben watched the interplay, cataloging the fine expressions on the men’s faces;

Túlio: skeptical but controlled.

Ramiro: agitated, possibly sleep-deprived, judging by the shadows under his eyes.

The third cartel member: wary, hand never straying far from his concealed weapon.

“My employer loses money every day that those guns sit in port instead of being put to use. Perhaps you’re reconsidering our arrangement?”

“Not at all.” Grigorii stepped closer, hands open at his sides in a gesture that appeared conciliatory but gave him better positioning if things went south. “The delay is unfortunate but temporary.” Grigorii’s words seemed to fall between the two men like stones. Túlio’s fingers drummed against his thigh once, twice, three times—the first crack in his otherwise composed facade. Behind him, Ramiro shifted his weight forward, his breathing pattern changing, as Grigorii continued. “We value your business. The delay is unfortunate, but only temporary.”

Water dripped from a leaking pipe overhead, each droplet marking time in the silence between words. Reuben shifted his weight, measuring the distance to the nearest exit. The man in the northeast corner, (the one who’d caught his attention earlier), had moved a little closer.

“Perhaps.” Túlio’s gaze slid from Grigorii to Reuben and back. “But my employer is not known for his patience.”

Reuben cataloged the warning signs before anyone else; Ramiro’s right hand flexing and un-flexing, the vein pulsing at his temple, his gaze darting between exits as if calculating escape routes.

Reuben could feel it in his spine, a tightening in his back that came with danger. These meetings with Grigorii were supposed to be straightforward. Observe. Learn. Not end up in the middle of a potential cartel standoff.

Everything happened fast after that.

Ramiro moved first, his hand reaching inside his jacket. Túlio barked something in Spanish that Reuben couldn’t catch. Stepan surged forward, positioning his body between Reuben and the threat.

“Stop.” Grigorii’s voice cut through the chaos, but Ramiro had already drawn his weapon, metal gleaming as he aimed it at Reuben.

Time slowed to a crawl. Reuben could see individual dust motes floating in the shafts of light that came through the high windows. Could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Could feel the weight of Nikon’s disapproval despite him being miles away.

“It’s alright.” Reuben raised his hand toward Stepan, who looked ready to take a bullet for him. “I’m fine.”

Stepan’s massive shoulders bunched beneath his suit jacket, but he took a half-step back—not retreating, just giving Reuben space while remaining close enough to intervene if the cartel man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Grigorii, on the other hand, hadn’t even reached for his own weapon. Instead, he leaned against a nearby shipping container, posture relaxed.

“My cousin is dead.” Ramiro’s voice shook slightly, the gun wavering in his grip. “Three days ago. Killed with weapons that were supposed to be ours.”

Understanding clicked. The delay had cost more than money.

“And you think pointing a gun at me solves that problem how, exactly?” Reuben kept his tone even and analytical. It was the same voice he’d used at poker tables to disarm opponents.

“Your man is jumpy, Túlio.” Grigorii hadn’t moved. Reuben wondered if Nikon had learned his unnerving calm from his older brother, or if that controlled stillness ran in their blood. Like a family trait as recognizable as their sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes.

“Well, Reuben?” Grigorii tilted his head, watching everything with an unsettling calm. “What do you think? Is he going to shoot?”

Reuben focused on Ramiro, absorbing every detail. The slight tremor in his gun hand—not fear, but exhaustion. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the warehouse’s cool temperature; his rapid blinking—four times in quick succession—was a classic anxiety tell. Grief etched itself into the tightness around his mouth, pulling downward at the corners.

“No. He’s not.” Reuben stepped forward, ignoring Stepan’s barely audible intake of breath. “You haven’t slept in days. Your eyes are bloodshot, and your hand is shaking. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. You’re angry, but not stupid. You know, shooting me accomplishes nothing except starting a war your cartel doesn’t want with the Matvei family.”

Ramiro’s eyes widened slightly.

“You want someone to blame,” Reuben continued, “but deep down, you know that even if the shipment had arrived on time, your cousin might still be dead. That’s how this business works. People die. Weapons change hands. The cycle continues.”

Túlio was watching Reuben now with something close to fascination. Even Grigorii had straightened slightly, his perpetual mask of indifference slipping to reveal a glint of... was that approval?

“And killing Nikon Matvei’s lover won’t bring your cousin back,” Reuben finished. “It will just ensure you never see another sunrise.”

The warehouse fell silent except for the distant sound of machinery at the port and water dripping somewhere in the shadows. Ramiro’s gun wavered, then slowly lowered.

“Cojones,” Túlio let a reluctant smile tug at his mouth. “You have them, it seems.”

Reuben shrugged, though his heart still hammered against his ribs. “Just a keen interest in self-preservation.”

Ramiro holstered his weapon, avoiding everyone’s eyes. The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it shifted, becoming something more manageable.

“The delay was unfortunate, but unavoidable,” Grigorii stepped into the conversational gap. “An unexpected inspection was scheduled. And now we’re handling it.”

“Three days maximum.” Túlio’s eyes narrowed, his tone suggesting this was now a promise rather than an estimate.

“Three days.” Grigorii nodded once. “You have my word.”

The meeting wrapped up fast after that. Details finalized. Arrangements confirmed. Túlio and his men departed with nods of cautious respect, leaving Reuben, Grigorii, and a still-watchful Stepan behind in the cavernous space.

“You read him well,” Grigorii observed once the cartel members were gone. “Better than I expected.”

“Well, people under stress pretty much broadcast their thoughts.” Reuben straightened his suit jacket, which had bunched up during the confrontation. “Poker players. Angry men pointing a gun in my face. The tells are different, but the principle is the same.”

Grigorii studied him for a long moment, head tilted. “My brother chose better than he knew.”

The compliment caught Reuben off-guard. Grigorii wasn’t known for them.

“I can only imagine what Stepan will report back to Nikon about this.” Reuben nodded toward the enforcer, who remained impassive but was doubtless cataloging every detail for his boss.

“Yes. I expect my phone will ring within the hour.” Grigorii’s mouth quirked in one corner. “Think he’ll ever let you out on one of these port deals again?”

“After someone pulled a gun on me? Probably not?” Reuben laughed, the sound tinged with an edge of leftover adrenaline. “But maybe I can persuade him round.”

They moved toward the exit together. Outside, the port continued its normal work—ships loading and unloading, cranes moving cargo—all unaffected by the confrontation that had just occurred.

As they stepped into the open air, Reuben’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, unsurprised to see Nikon’s name.

“It’s Nikon,” Reuben held up the phone to show Grigorii. “Wish me luck,” he murmured, finger hovering over the answer button.