Chapter 8
LUCA
Anna is in the garden with the twins when I find her.
She’s sitting on the grass while Mila braids flowers into a chain and Alexei digs in the dirt with a small shovel. She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and her entire body goes rigid.
We haven’t spoken since yesterday. Since my study. Since she left with my marks still on her skin.
“Get dressed,” I tell her. “Something appropriate for business. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
She stands slowly. “Where are we going?”
“The docks. I have a meeting.”
“Then go to your meeting. I’ll stay here with the twins.”
“No. You’re coming with me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife. People need to see us together. This is part of the arrangement.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m not going.”
I step closer, lowering my voice so the children won’t hear. “Yes, you are. You can walk to the car willingly, or I can have Pavel escort you. Your choice.”
She glares at me for a long moment. Then she turns to the twins. “Mila, Alexei, go inside with Elena. I need to change clothes.”
“But Mama—” Mila starts.
“Now, please.”
The children run toward the house. Anna watches them go, then looks back at me with pure hatred in her eyes.
“Twenty minutes,” I say again.
Eighteen minutes later, she’s in the backseat of the car beside me. She’s wearing a black dress, heels, and her hair is pulled back. She looks like what she is—the wife of someone powerful. She also looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.
The driver pulls out of the estate. Anna stares out the window without speaking.
My phone rings. Maxim.
“Talk,” I say.
“We have a problem with the shipment from Odessa.” His voice crackles slightly over the connection. “Customs flagged three containers. They’re holding them at the port.”
“What’s in them?”
“Two containers have the legitimate cargo. Textiles, electronics. The third has the rifles.”
I glance at Anna. She’s still staring out the window, but her posture has changed. She’s listening.
“How many rifles?” I ask.
“Four hundred. AK-pattern. Plus ammunition.”
“Who’s the buyer?”
“Markov’s people in Kyiv. They’ve already paid half upfront.”
“Then get the containers released. Pay whoever needs to be paid.”
“I tried. The customs official wants fifty thousand USD per container.”
“That’s triple the usual rate.”
“He knows what’s in the third container. He’s squeezing us.”
I consider this. Fifty thousand is nothing compared to the value of four hundred rifles. But paying inflated bribes sets a bad precedent.
“Counter at thirty per container,” I say. “If he refuses, pull the shipment and reroute through Constan?a. We have people there who won’t create problems.”
“Rerouting delays delivery by two weeks. Markov won’t like that.”
“Markov will accept what we give him. He needs those rifles more than we need his money.”
“Understood. I’ll handle it.”
He hangs up. I make a note in my phone to follow up tomorrow.
Anna is watching me now. “Rifles?”
“Business.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Most profitable businesses are.”
“You’re selling weapons.”
“I’m facilitating transactions between parties who have mutual interests. What they do with the merchandise after delivery isn’t my concern.”
“That’s a convenient way to avoid responsibility.”
“Responsibility is a luxury for people who can afford morality. I deal in reality.”
She turns back to the window. “You’re a criminal.”
“I’m a businessman who understands that laws are guidelines written by people with power to control people without it. I simply operate in the spaces between their rules.”
“That’s still criminal.”
“Only if you’re caught.”
My phone rings again. Pavel, this time.
“Status?” I ask.
“The cocaine shipment from Medellín landed in Lisbon this morning. Portuguese customs cleared it without issues. It’s being broken down and repackaged now. Should be in transit to Moscow by Friday.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred kilos. Marinho’s people are sending an additional three hundred next month if this shipment moves smoothly.”
“Purity?”
“Eighty-seven percent. Higher than the last batch.”
“Good. Make sure our distributors in Moscow know it’s a premium product. Price it accordingly.”
“Already done. Yuri is handling the Moscow distribution. He’s projecting we can move it within three weeks.”
“Tell him two weeks. The longer it sits, the more risk we carry.”
“Understood. One more thing. The heroin pipeline through Afghanistan is running into problems. Taliban are demanding higher fees for safe passage through their territory.”
“How much higher?”
“Thirty percent increase.”
I calculate quickly. Thirty percent cuts into margins but doesn’t eliminate profit. And the Taliban controls the territory. We don’t have alternative routes that are safer.
“Pay it,” I say. “But make it clear this is a one-time adjustment. If they try to increase again in six months, we’ll find another route.”
“Copy that.”
He hangs up. I look at Anna. She’s staring at me like I’m a stranger.
“Cocaine and heroin too,” she says flatly. “Not just guns.”
“Diversification is a smart business strategy.”
“People die from those drugs.”
“People die from alcohol and cigarettes. Those are legal. The only difference is who profits and who gets taxed.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it? Both kill people. Both are addictive. One makes governments rich, the other makes people like me rich. The morality is identical. The legality is arbitrary.”
She shakes her head. “You actually believe that.”
“I believe in reality. Drugs exist whether I sell them or not. Weapons exist whether I move them or not. Demand creates supply. I’m simply a mechanism in that equation.”
“You’re a drug dealer.”
“I’m a logistics coordinator. I connect suppliers with buyers. I don’t manufacture the product. I don’t force anyone to purchase it. I facilitate transactions.”
“While people overdose.”
“While people make choices about what to put in their bodies. I’m not responsible for their decisions any more than a liquor store owner is responsible for drunk drivers.”
She turns away from me again. “I can’t believe I married you.”
“You married me to save your family. The methods I use to maintain my wealth were irrelevant to that decision.”
“I didn’t know you were a drug dealer.”
“You knew I was involved in organized crime. You chose not to ask questions about specifics.”
That silences her. Because it’s true. Viktor knew exactly what kind of man I was when he agreed to this arrangement. Anna could have asked questions. Could have demanded details. She didn’t because she didn’t want to know.
Willful ignorance doesn’t grant absolution.
My phone rings a third time. Unknown number. I answer anyway.
“Volkov.”
“Mr. Volkov, this is Gregori Rostov.”
I recognize the name immediately. Rostov runs a mid-level operation out of Minsk. Prostitution, gambling, and some minor drug distribution. He’s never contacted me directly before.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I have a business proposition. I’d like to expand my operations into the territory currently controlled by the Kozlov family. I’m willing to pay a percentage of profits for your backing.”
“The Kozlovs have held that territory for fifteen years. Why would I destabilize a functional arrangement?”
“Because they’re weak. Ivan Kozlov is dying. Cancer. His sons are fighting over succession. The organization is fracturing. If someone moves now, the territory is open for acquisition.”
Interesting. I hadn’t heard about Ivan Kozlov’s health issues.
“What percentage are you offering?” I ask.
“Twenty percent of net profits from all operations in the acquired territory.”
“Fifty percent.”
“That’s excessive.”
“That’s the price of my backing. You’re asking me to go to war with an established family. Fifty percent compensates for the risk and resources required.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Thirty-five percent.”
“Forty-five. Final offer.”
More silence. “Fine. Forty-five percent.”
“I’ll have my people reach out to finalize terms. Don’t move on the territory until we have a signed agreement.”
“Understood.”
I hang up and make another note.
Anna is staring at me again. “Was that about killing people?”
“That was about business expansion.”
“You just negotiated going to war with another family.”
“I negotiated backing someone else’s war in exchange for profit participation. There’s a difference.”
“People are going to die.”
“People were already going to die. The Kozlov succession fight will turn violent regardless of my involvement. I’m simply positioning myself to benefit from the outcome.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s pragmatic. Violence is inevitable in this business. The question isn’t whether it happens, but who profits from it.”
She looks like she wants to argue more, but the car is slowing. We’ve arrived at the docks.
I glance out the window. The warehouse district stretches along the waterfront, massive buildings with corrugated metal siding and loading bays. Shipping containers are stacked in organized rows. Cranes move cargo from ships to trucks. Workers in coveralls move between vehicles.
This is the legitimate side of my operations. Kestrel Maritime’s infrastructure is now merged with my own. Legal shipping, legal cargo, legal business. The illegal shipments move through here too, hidden among the legitimate ones. But on the surface, everything looks clean.
The car stops near a warehouse marked with the number seventeen. Pavel is already there, waiting beside two black SUVs.
I step out. Anna follows reluctantly.
“Stay close,” I tell her. “Don’t speak unless someone addresses you directly. This is business.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind that requires witnesses.”
Pavel approaches. “Mikhailov is already inside. He brought four men.”
“We have enough people here?”
“Eight men positioned inside. Three more in the secondary warehouse in case we need additional support.”
“Good.”
I start toward the warehouse entrance. Anna follows a step behind. Pavel falls in beside me.