Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aleksei
I help Bobik settle back into his room, my hands gentle as I adjust his wheelchair position by the desk.
His cheeks are still flushed from our game, eyes bright with lingering excitement.
“That was awesome, Papa . Can we play again tomorrow?”
“We’ll see, malysh .” I ruffle his dark hair, so much like my own. “First, finish your homework.”
He grabs his science textbook with an enthusiasm that makes my chest tighten. I push my worries down, focusing on his smile instead.
“Do svidaniya, Papa.”
I press a kiss to his temple, inhaling his boyish scent before straightening.
The hidden door clicks shut behind me, sealing Bobik’s laughter into silence.
Cold marble replaces the attic’s carpet under my shoes.
By the time I reach the stairs, my thumb already traces the knife sheath beneath my sleeve — a grounding ritual older than fatherhood.
My office feels cold after the warmth of Bobik’s presence. I drop into the leather chair as screens flicker to life with waiting messages. Weapons contracts. Territory disputes. The endless business of power.
My phone vibrates. Vasya.
“Da.”
“We have a situation with the Whitmore shipment.”
I grunt, already pulling up the relevant files. The father inside me recedes completely, replaced by the man who built an empire on blood and steel.
“Tell me.”
I listen as my brother details a series of terminated government contracts, my fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the mahogany desk. Three major buyers, all backing out within days of each other. This is no coincidence.
“Send me the documentation.” My voice remains steady despite the fury building in my chest.
The files appear on my screen. I scan through them, noting the identical language in each termination notice. Someone coordinated this.
“Looks organized, bratok ,” Vasya says, echoing my suspicions.
“ Pizdets ,” I mutter. “It does.”
I roll my shoulders, tension knotting between my shoulder blades.
The documents paint a clear timeline. Long-standing contracts that have been in place with the Germans, the British, and the US defense, have all started falling away within the past weeks.
“Get me the call logs.” My voice stays controlled despite rage starting to churn in my gut.
Vasya’s typing echoes through the line. Records flood my screen — incoming calls to each client in the days before cancellation. All from the same Los Angeles area code.
“ Blyad .” I lean forward, scanning times and durations. “Who has these numbers?”
“Only inner circle, bratan . And…” Vasya hesitates.
“Speak.”
“Looks like the calls originated from a burner phone,” Vasya continues. “But the GPS data shows movement within our own facilities.”
“One of ours?” The words come out as a growl.
“ Da. ”
My mind ticks over. “Find out everything. I want names, locations, suppliers… everything!” I snarl.
“Well… we have a fairly good idea of who’s behind it.” He pauses, giving me time to put it together.
“Maranzano,” I say softly, already putting the pieces together.
“Everything points in his direction,” he agrees.
“ Chertova pizda. ” My lip curls. Fucking Maranzano again. The cunt’s had his fingers in too many of my fucking pies. “Got any solid proof?”
Not that I need any.
“Been working on it,” Vasya says. “Got some files for you.”
I grunt approval.
More images appear on my screen, each one stoking my rage higher. Spreadsheets detail products sourced from a third-world operation — weapons manufactured at a fraction of my costs through the exploitation of children as young as eight.
“ Suka. ” I slam my fist on the desk.
“He’s been undercutting us by almost forty percent.” Vasya’s words add fuel to the fire.
My jaw clenches as I scan production figures.
Small hands assembling deadly weapons, working sixteen-hour days.
The spreadsheet blurs. For a heartbeat, the tiny fingers in the photos morph into Bobik’s — gripping his science book instead of rifle parts.
I shut the laptop hard enough to crack the screen.
“Their quality control is shit,” Vasya adds. “Had two weapons explode during testing last week. Killed three soldiers.”
Of course. Children can’t maintain proper safety standards. More blood on Maranzano’s hands.
“ Khorosho. ” The traitor will be dealt with. But first, I need to fix this fuck-up before it costs us any more money.
I pull up James Whitmore’s private number, already mapping out leverage points in my mind. Our high-level defense contact may have publicly distanced himself, but our relationship runs deeper than government contracts.
“Get me everything we have on Whitmore’s Miami property purchases,” I tell Vasya. “And his daughter’s college transcripts.”
“The ones from last month or the new ones?”
“All of them.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “How much did he move through our Cayman accounts in February?”
“Twenty-three million.” Vasya’s typing pauses. “Want me to freeze it?”
“Not yet. But have it ready.” I pause. “Get Sasha to arrange a meeting. Tonight.” I check my watch.
“Leave it to me, bratan .”
I end the call, already composing my approach. Whitmore’s precious daughter, Katherine, and her cocaine habit provide the perfect pressure point. One hint of exposure would destroy both their carefully maintained public images.
My phone buzzes with confirmation of the meeting. I text back a single word:
“Good.”
Time to remind the Minister exactly why he can’t afford to cross me.
I grab my jacket, already dialing Sasha’s number as I stride from the office. He answers on the first ring.
“Got the plane ready for the Whitmore visit?”
“ Da , boss. Security detail?”
“Just you.” I check my Glock’s magazine before sliding it into my shoulder holster.
“Got it.” Sasha’s efficiency is why he’s my right hand. “Meet you outside in fifteen.”
Good. Enough time to change and pack a bag.
I end the call, my footsteps making my way down the hallway. Diana appears at the intersection, her concerned expression telling me she’s heard about the contracts.
“Not now,” I cut off her questions before she can speak. “Handle things here.”
She nods, understanding the unspoken command to watch Bobik. I don’t slow my pace as I pass her.
The night air hits my face as I exit through the side entrance, Sasha already waiting with the Bentley idling. I slide into the back seat, checking my phone one last time. No updates. But sometimes, no news is good news.
The trip to the airfield is smooth and uneventful. I settle into the leather seat of my private jet, the familiar scent of power and privilege doing nothing to calm my murderous mood. Sasha takes his position near the cockpit, giving me space to think.
The engines roar to life as I loosen my tie, focusing on how to handle Whitmore. The man’s arrogance makes him predictable — he’ll expect threats about his daughter’s drug habit, giving me the perfect opening to blindside him with the property documentation.
My phone buzzes with another update from Vasya. More contracts being cancelled. The losses are mounting into hundreds of millions.
Pizdets.
I pour myself two fingers of vodka, letting the chilled liquid swirl in the crystal glass. Maranzano’s betrayal burns deeper than the alcohol. The fucker clearly stole my weapons contracts and undercut my price to win over the Ministry of Defense.
“Calm down, mudak .”
First I’ll deal with Whitmore. Then, Maranzano will learn exactly why no one fucks with my empire. I crush the ice cube between my molars. Let the Italian enjoy his victory… for a minute. It’ll make his scream sweeter when I carve it from his throat.
The plane levels out at cruising altitude. The leather seat creaks as I shift, studying the latest contract terminations on my tablet. The numbers paint an ugly picture — we’re hemorrhaging market share faster than I anticipated.
Maranzano isn’t just undercutting prices.
He’s systematically hitting my entire distribution network, using inside knowledge to hit weak points I didn’t even know existed.
He’s not even bothering to be subtle about it.
Does he really think he can slip under the radar and vanish to fucking Argentina before I notice?
“ Blyad .” The curse slips out as I scroll through Vasya’s analysis.
I check the latest financial reports, looking for patterns. The systematic dismantling of my weapons business bears all the hallmarks of a coordinated attack. He wants me desperate, off-balance, scrambling to plug the leaks.
The vodka glass freezes halfway to my lips as a new theory forms. What if the weapons contracts aren’t the real target?
What if this is about something else entirely?
What if Maranzano’s going for total destruction?
The leaked client information, the targeted contract cancellations — he’s not trying to compete. He’s trying to bleed me dry.
“Chert voz’mi!” My fingers tighten around the glass.
The lost contracts aren’t just about revenue — they’re about credibility. Each cancellation makes the next one easier, creating a domino effect that could bring down everything I’ve built.
The glass shatters in my grip. Sasha glances back but knows better than to comment as I brush crystal shards from my lap.
Blood beads where glass nicked my palm. I watch it drip, remembering other betrayals, other lessons taught in blood. Maranzano thinks he’s clever, using my own tactics against me. But he’s forgotten one crucial detail.
I didn’t build this empire by being predictable.
The city lights of Washington spread below as we begin our descent. My jaw clenches, tension radiating through my shoulders. Ten years of careful planning, building an untouchable weapons business — I won’t let some pizda like Maranzano tear it all down.
I check my watch. Two hours until the meeting with Whitmore. Plenty of time to remind him exactly who he’s dealing with.
My phone buzzes again. Diana.
“Everything okay?” I keep my voice neutral, though my grip tightens on the armrest.
“ Da . Just checking your ETA. Bobik’s asking about badminton tomorrow.”
“Tell him I’ll be back soon.” The promise steadies me, reminding me exactly what I’m protecting.
I end the call as we pull into the hangar. Time to focus. Whitmore needs to understand that crossing me isn’t just bad business — it’s suicide.
Anyone trying to tear my empire down will learn that lesson in blood.