Alexei #5
I leave the terminal on maximum alert mode, programmed to beep at the slightest peak of movement or biometric change.
I look at the reflection in the glass in front of me: the dark suit, the silk tie, the immaculate haircut. The perfect mask of the heir ready to replace his monarch. But the skin under the fabric is burning. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The Krestoran restaurant is crowded, as always.
The security guards make way through the lobby.
The smell of truffles and cured meats mixes with the synthetic scent of the table flowers.
The Japanese are already there, three men and a woman, all in perfectly aligned suits, all with the same automatic smiles.
They stand up, make the usual bows, and in less than ten seconds, we are just partners trying to extort a few extra millions from each other.
The negotiation begins cold, mathematically precise. We talk about contracts, commodity movements, risks, and guarantees. My brain automates the responses, calibrated to seem generous without ever conceding anything real. Meanwhile, a third of my attention remains plugged into the phone.
At first, the Japanese play it safe, testing the waters.
But they soon harden, begin to nitpick clauses, demand impossible guarantees, require external audits.
I smile, I play back. At the same time, I think about the warehouse: a bidding war for information, a duel, a summary execution?
The red dot, now immobile, is a hook stuck in my brain.
It has been still for thirty minutes. Griffin’s heart activity: high, but not explosive. What the hell is he doing?
Mr. Tanaka, the chief negotiator, throws a question at me. It takes me half a second to register that he is quoting me by name. “Malakov-san, regarding the insurance clause, is that really sufficient to protect the assets in case of sabotage?”
I smile. “Mr. Tanaka, our reputation is our insurance. No one on this continent survives so long without shielding every penny. If there is sabotage, you will have priority over all liquid assets. The risk, in practice, is zero.” The answer comes out automatically.
As I speak, I check the red dot. Still. Fuck.
Patience, I think. The game is long. The Japanese don’t show it, but they are satisfied.
The contract is practically closed once they accept the risk of losing everything.
The meeting drags on for another hour.
Only when dessert arrives does the red dot move.
Griffin is leaving the warehouse. His heart rate goes up to double, then drops abruptly. He stops at a corner, waits, repeats the pattern. Running?
“Malakov-san?” The voice of one of the Japanese executives pulls me back. “Your opinion on the insurance clause is very important to us.”
It’s automatic for me.
“An empire that prides itself on preventing risks should never hesitate to invest in security. Therefore, the clause is approved,” I say.
The red dot accelerates. It comes in a straight line to the Krestoran, cutting through streets, alleys, dead zones of downtown.
The executives relax, all at once. Their boss bows his head and says, “You understand the value of trust like few others.” The look he gives me says the opposite, but it doesn’t matter.
This is the game, and what worries me is something else; it’s Griffin, coming here as if he were fleeing a death sentence—or carrying one.
The impulse is to recalculate the route, see if I’m delirious, but I can’t.
I need to finish this. Now.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “If we agree on the terms, we can sign.”
The contracts appear, pages and pages that we have already reviewed to the point of nausea. I sign where I need to, pass the fountain pen to Mr. Tanaka, who returns the gesture.
When it’s all over, the woman on the Japanese team stands up to straighten the folders, but her eyes fix on the corridor behind me. I hear a muffled commotion. A short scream. A car engine.
Tanaka extends his hand for the final handshake. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Malakov-san.”
The sound of a tire squealing on the wet asphalt. The roar of an engine accelerating too much. A man’s scream. And then, the unmistakable sound of tempered glass shattering.
The Krestoran’s facade explodes in a shower of shards. Instinctively, I raise my arm to protect my face, the Japanese jump from their chairs.
The car that crashed through the facade stops at a ridiculous angle, its crumpled hood inside the restaurant. The alarm screams a high-pitched, desperate sound. The smell of burnt tire mixes with the French perfume, and wine bottles fly into the air and shatter on the floor.
I lower my arm, feeling a thin trail of blood on my cheek.
And I see him.
He is a vision from hell. His clothes are soaked with something dark, his skin is splattered with blood that is not just his own, there’s a deep cut on his forehead, his shirt is torn at several places
The security guards draw their weapons, pointing them at Griffin.
“Don’t shoot,” I command, raising my hand.
They hesitate, but obey. They don’t know what to do. The chaos, which until then was just a threat, materializes. Terrified, the restaurant manager appears at the door and disappears again with the efficiency of someone who has seen too many executions to try to play the hero.
Griffin gets out of the car. He walks through the remains of the glass as if he had done nothing. He opens the trunk and, with force, pulls a man out.
I recognize him even before his face hits the ground: one of Ivan’s lieutenants. His face is swollen. He spits blood.
Griffin walks across the room, dragging the man by his collar, leaving a red, viscous trail on the white marble. In the center of the room, he raises his mechanical arm and hurls the body onto the negotiation table, where the newly signed contracts still gleam in the light of the chandeliers.
The papers fly along with the glasses and silverware, and a burner phone and a wad of dollars fall from the man’s jacket.
The silence is absolute. All that can be heard is the intermittent groaning of the man and the heavy breathing of Griffin, who now stares at me with the eyes of a semi-domesticated sociopath. He is happy. Elated. Like a dog that brings the dead pigeon to its owner, waiting for a pet.
“A little gift, boss,” Griffin says, spitting blood on the rug. “This one was selling your routes directly to your brother.”
He kicks the burner phone, which slides to a stop in front of Mr. Tanaka. The splashes stain the sushi platter.
Griffin’s artificial arm drips hydraulic fluid and blood. He looks at me with that animalistic glint, waiting for orders, or maybe wanting to know if he should kill someone.
I could order him executed right there, and maybe I would gain respect. But no.
Not him.
I could spit poetry or launch a missile into the room—the effect would be the same. The Japanese look alternately at me and at Griffin, who smiles like someone who has just received a baptism of blood.
And I know, at that instant, that I am forever fucked. Because I’ll never control this chaos again.
I can only keep him interested long enough to destroy who I need him to before he destroys the whole world.