Chapter 8 #2
“What am I walking into?” I ask quietly.
“Mikhailov wants to renegotiate the shipping route percentages. He’s claiming increased costs on his end justify a larger cut.”
“We agreed to terms six months ago.”
“He knows that. He’s testing boundaries.”
I push open the warehouse door. Inside, the space is massive. Metal shelving units hold crates and pallets. Forklifts sit idle near the loading bay. In the center of the floor, a table has been set up with chairs.
Mikhailov stands near the table. He’s in his fifties, heavy build, graying hair. Four men flank him, all armed, based on the bulges under their jackets.
My own men are positioned throughout the warehouse. Casual positions, but strategic. Covering exits and sightlines.
“Volkov.” Mikhailov extends his hand. “Good to see you.”
I shake it briefly. “This is my wife, Anna.”
He nods at her. “A pleasure.”
Anna says nothing.
We sit. Anna takes a chair slightly behind me and to the left. Out of the direct line of conversation but close enough to hear everything.
“Let’s get to it,” I say. “Pavel said you want to renegotiate terms.”
“The shipping routes through the Baltic have become more expensive to maintain. Fuel costs are up. Port fees increased. My margins are getting squeezed.”
“Those are operating costs. They affect everyone equally.”
“Which is why I’m asking for a percentage adjustment. Instead of thirty-five percent, I need forty-five to make the routes profitable.”
“We agreed to thirty-five percent six months ago. Those terms were fair then, and they’re fair now.”
“Circumstances change.”
“Circumstances are always changing. That’s not a reason to renegotiate every six months.”
Mikhailov leans back in his chair. “I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a sustainable arrangement. If I can’t make profit on these routes, I’ll have to pull out entirely.”
“Then pull out. I have three other operators who would take the contract within a week.”
His expression hardens. “You’d throw away six months of functional partnership over ten percent?”
“I’d protect the integrity of our agreements. If I let you renegotiate after six months, everyone else will expect the same treatment. That creates chaos.”
“Or it creates flexibility.”
“It creates weakness.”
We stare at each other across the table. The air in the warehouse feels heavier.
Mikhailov glances at his men, then back at me. “What if I’m not asking?”
“Then we have a different kind of conversation.”
His hand moves toward his jacket. Pavel’s gun is out before Mikhailov’s hand reaches the fabric. Two of my other men step forward, weapons drawn, trained on Mikhailov’s people.
Mikhailov freezes. His men freeze.
“Hands on the table,” I say calmly. “All of you.”
Slowly, Mikhailov places both hands flat on the table. His men do the same.
I stand and walk around the table until I’m directly beside him. “You came here to renegotiate terms. I declined. You tried to threaten me. That was a mistake.”
“Volkov, wait—”
I pull my own gun from the holster at my back and press it against his temple.
“You have two choices,” I say. “Accept the original terms and leave. Or refuse and don’t leave.”
“This is insane. Over ten percent?”
“Over respect. Over the integrity of agreements. Over the fact that you thought you could threaten me in my own warehouse.”
His breathing is rapid. Sweat beads on his forehead. “Fine. Fine. Thirty-five percent. Original terms.”
“Too late.”
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot echoes through the warehouse. Mikhailov’s body slumps forward onto the table. Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the metal surface.
His men don’t move. They’re surrounded by my people, guns trained on them from multiple angles.
“Anyone else have objections to our terms?” I ask.
Silence.
“Good. Take them outside. Put them in a car and send them back to their organization with a message. The terms are nonnegotiable. The next person who tries to renegotiate gets the same treatment as Mikhailov.”
Pavel and two others escort the four men out. They don’t resist. They’ve seen what happens when you do.
I holster my gun and turn to Anna.
She’s pressed back against her chair, face completely white. Her eyes are locked on Mikhailov’s body. On the blood still spreading across the table. Her hands are gripping the armrests so tight her knuckles are bone-white.
She’s not breathing.
“Anna,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
I cross the space between us and crouch down in front of her chair. “Anna. Look at me.”
Her eyes shift to mine slowly. There’s no color in her face. Her pupils are dilated.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
She takes a gasping breath. Then another.
“That’s it. Keep breathing.”
She’s shaking now. Full-body tremors that she can’t control.
This is what she needed to see. What she needed to understand about the world she married into. The violence isn’t theoretical. It’s real. It’s immediate. And it’s part of who I am.
“We’re leaving,” I say. “Can you walk?”
She nods, but when she tries to stand, her legs buckle. I catch her before she falls and steady her against me. “I’ve got you.”
She pulls away from me immediately. “Don’t touch me.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I said don’t touch me.”
She forces herself upright through sheer will and walks toward the warehouse exit on unsteady legs. I follow a few steps behind, ready to catch her if she collapses.
Behind us, Pavel is already coordinating cleanup. By tomorrow morning, this warehouse will look like nothing happened.
But Anna will remember.
She’ll remember exactly what kind of man she married.