Chapter GRIFFIN #2
“Spectacular,” the man says the instant he’s close enough. “Simply spectacular, young man. We haven’t seen a finish like that in years.” He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes falling to my right shoulder. “And that?” He points with his chin to the metal prosthesis. “War story, I imagine?”
I look at the man, then at Alexei, who watches me with cold expectation.
If he wants me to sell a story, then I’ll sell it. I’ll give him the biggest logistical headache possible.
“It was a shark—can you believe it?” I blurt out.
Silence. Even the bald man with the vodka puts down his glass.
The man’s eyes widen slightly.
“Pardon?”
It’s all he finds that sounds appropriate.
Alexei just looks at me—his face alone says seriously? Seriously?
Very seriously.
“Shark. White,” I complete, without smiling. “I was a surfer. It tore off my whole arm.”
The man tries to decipher if it’s a joke, a challenge, or just pathology. The others follow suit.
Someone lets out a polite chuckle.
“Does that not affect anything? The prosthesis... logistics?”
Alexei hasn’t stopped me yet. So I continue.
“It does.” I hold his gaze and, on purpose, turn to Alexei. “But you don’t have to worry about maintenance, right, boss? We even have an exclusivity contract with the manufacturer.”
Alexei’s eyes narrow for half a second. Only I notice.
“Performance clause,” I invent. After this, he’ll need to get that contract. “If the prosthesis breaks in a sanctioned fight, they deliver the new model in less than 24 hours, free of charge. Ensures the product never runs out of stock.”
Alexei takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a full second. When he opens them, he forces a smile—twisted, strained. He taps the ice in his glass once, and I read in his eyes: you are unbearable.
The man buys it. “Impressive. That’s the kind of security we like to see.”
Alexei finally responds, smooth as silk. “The integrity of our champion is our highest priority.”
The look he gives me says otherwise. It says, you’re a son of a bitch.
“And how much do you ask per fight? What are the cuts?”
Alexei takes over the conversation from there. The executive, the man of numbers.
“The house gets 35% of internal bets and 20% of broadcasts,” he says. “The athlete receives 15% directly, 10% being...”
He continues, and I tune out. It’s another language. The men listen, take notes on their cell phones, nod in agreement. Business terms, logistics, percentages, and “contingency coverage”. They know this shit is illegal. They are investing in a new and promising money-laundering machine.
Every now and then, one of them turns to me. “And you, Griffin, are you prepared for the increased pace of fights?” or “How does your body respond to high-intensity training?” Before I can open my mouth, Alexei is already answering for me.
The conversation lasts another hour. Whiskey, cigars, numbers.
Finally, the man with the gold watch stands up, extending his hand to Alexei.
“I’m impressed, Malakov,” he says. “I want this to scale. Five cities in six months. Broadcast feeds, sponsors, a number I can sell to my own partners.”
Alexei shakes his hand, and he does that smile again. But this one isn’t for me.
“We’ll have all that for you,” he promises.
“Vania,” Alexei says. “Accompany Mr. Petrov to the car. Make sure his security team has no problems on the way out. It’s crucial that our partners feel the level of our hospitality and protection.”
Vania straightens up, his chest puffed out with importance. “Of course, Lyosha. Leave it to me.” He gives me one last warning look, a silent message of “I’m still watching you”, and then leaves, proud, alongside the other men.
They—investors—leave satisfied. Vania had no intention of leaving me alone with his cousin, and his camaraderie with me was only forged in front of others, but, with a mission from Alexei, he is inspired with a sense of importance. I already got it. He thinks he’s the strongest in the room.
The door closes.
It’s just the two of us—Alexei and I. He wanted to be alone with me, made a point of dispatching Vania.
Alexei turns to me. Satisfied with his own manipulation.
“Griffin, we need to—“
I don’t let him finish.
Fuck the plan. Fuck the patience. Fuck the game. I need to do something real after this performance.
I pull him by the shirt towards me and kiss him.
For a second, he tenses. But then his mouth responds to mine, one hand goes up to hold my waist. The same firmness from inside the car. I allow myself, this time, to melt into the warmth. I lean towards him, press my body against his until we’re against the wall.
The kiss is deep. This time, it tastes of whiskey.
But, as quickly as it began, it ends.
Alexei pulls away, just enough for our breaths to mingle. There’s a half-smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkle with an amusement that drives me crazy.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
But the fight, the men in suits, the fake smiles, his hand guiding me like a puppet... I think about all that shit.
“I hate this,” I whisper.
His hand, which was on my waist, slowly rises to my face. His thumb traces with unexpected lightness a cut on my lower lip—memories of a punch from today’s fight. The touch is soft, almost... careful.
“What?” he asks, softly.
There it is again. The warmth. A warm sensation rising up my neck, making my heart race.
I pull away. I take his hand from my face. He looks like my lover. It’s not supposed to be like this.
“All this shit,” I say. “You need to start warning me about things, Alexei. Suddenly, your killer cousin is in front of me and I’m the main attraction of a scheme I didn’t even know was happening.
And I hate being sold like a piece of meat.
What’s the next part of the propaganda? An inspiring story of the one-armed fighter who overcame difficulties? I’m not—I’m not that arm.”
He sighs. He watches me. The way he does it disarms me.
“Your reaction to anger is to kiss me?”
I feel my face contort. “Shut up.”
I go to the counter. The terrace has a beautiful bar in marble and brushed metal.
There are two half-empty bottles of whiskey, but I don’t want that.
I look for the cheapest-looking vodka on the shelves behind the glass panels, even though even that seems to cost a fortune.
I need something that burns, that reminds me of who I am.
He stops in front of the counter. I hear his footsteps, feel his scent.
“Story sells, Griffin,” he says, calmly. “To them, you’ll always be the one-armed fighter. The survivor. It’s a powerful narrative.”
“I’m not a fucking narrative.”
I pull the bottle from the shelf. I open it to kill the ridiculous knot that insists on appearing in my throat—I know how I’m seen, because it’s been like that from the beginning.
I complain about my life, but look at this armless guy.
We should be more grateful... look at that armless guy.
You think you have problems? Then look at that guy who doesn’t even have an arm.
I don’t want to be inspiring. I don’t want to be anyone’s fucking moral trophy.
“I know,” he says. His voice is soft.
He approaches me. Takes a thin silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opens it. Inside, a row of dark tobacco cigarettes. He takes one and extends the open box towards me.
It’s an offer of peace. Or, at least, a truce.
I take one.
He lights mine first, then his, with a metal lighter.
“I never saw you as a narrative,” he says, blowing smoke.
We stay like that for a while. Quiet. I have no answer for that. I can’t judge honesty with the vodka still burning my tongue.
“Your performance clause was creative.”
His tone is lighter now. I turn my face and he stares at me with an intensity that makes that idiotic warmth appear again—just now. To break the tension, to get out of a conversation that is becoming too vulnerable. I appreciate the change, boss.
“I’ll have to instruct my legal team to, in fact, create a contract with a manufacturer,” he says with a half-smile.
I smile too. Just a little.
“Can’t you manipulate them into thinking you have a contract, Machiavelli?”
“I could,” he says, arrogant as always. “But I prefer to start legitimately.”
“You’re talking about an illegal business.”
“What matters is it doesn’t look illegal.”
His eyes drop to the prosthesis. I have the urge to pull away and I fight against it.
“But you’re right,” he continues. “I should have provided you with a better prosthesis.” He looks me in the eyes again. Fuck. “I’ll arrange that—better haptic feedback and more precise joints. Consider it an equipment upgrade.”
A better prosthesis is something that would help me. Truly. The offer is so unexpected, so... practical. No one has ever worried about my “equipment” before. A “thank you” feels wrong in my mouth, an insult feels stupid.
I just nod, once. A short, rigid gesture that, I hope, communicates everything.
Alexei seems to understand.
The elevator, on the penthouse, beeps. Alexei gives me one last look before walking away, and the elevator doors open.
There’s his cousin and two security guards to escort us to the car.
The walk to the parking lot is silent. I walk between the two security guards, Vania in front, Alexei behind. I feel his gaze on my back. A prisoner being escorted.
Three black sedans wait. Vania gets into one. Alexei stops in front of the other and turns to me.
“My men will take you back,” he says. That voice is all business. “Rest. I’ll contact you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just gets into his car and leaves, probably with some invisible escort outside, leaving me with his guard dogs.
Things, before, were more discreet—I didn’t see many of Alexei’s guys. But, apparently, now I’m the poster child.
Being seen with them is just part of the package.
The apartment is too silent. Too luxurious. Too clean. And I can’t stand being here anymore.