Trina hides a grin behind her coffee cup. The suits exchange glances like condemned men.
Dmitri steps forward, explaining calmly and precisely what refusal will cost. In the first twenty-four hours, every Angeloff guard leaves Volkov’s shipping lanes, and his Caribbean routes stall. Within days, our aligned Swiss bank freezes three of his slush accounts, leaving one-hundred-twenty million dollars in limbo.
Any city council contracts we share will evaporate, and zoning probes on his warehouses will resume, while creditors circle and downgrade his bonds. Within six months, competitors will own his Gulf ports, prosecutors will reopen trafficking cases, and the brand will bleed from theNew York Timesto Interpol.
I let the picture sink in. Then I offer the balm. “Sign the transfer, and as goodwill, collect an extra two-percent dividend on our freight profits.”
Aleksander’s knuckles whiten as he grips the back of the chair. “And what exactly do you gain, besides the pleasure of humiliating me?”
“Stability. Family honor.” I hold his stare. “And proof that my family settles accounts with currency, not corpses.”
Across the table, Trina studies me.
“Trina, leave, now.” Aleksander growls.
“But Uncle?—”
“I saidgo.”
She glares at me then stands, leaving in a huff.
When she’s gone, Aleksander’s eyes narrow. “This is about the girl.”
“This is about debts,” I retort. “Your Christmas List is separate business.”
He bares his teeth. “Careful. I could add five more names before lunch.”
I let the silence stretch. He understands the threat underneath it—keep escalating and I double the interest demand. The CFO, sweat beading on his forehead, clears his throat and suggests a private sidebar. Aleksander jerks his head toward a corner. I follow, leaving Dmitri at the table.
Aleksander and I step to the farthest window wall, the boardroom murmurs fading beneath the hush of double-panedglass. Park Avenue glitters forty floors below, indifferent to the war being brokered above it.
“Killing Teresa won’t resurrect Maxim,” I say, my voice low. “It will only bleed your empire for the sake of sentiment.”
His gaze is icy, unblinking. “My empire is built on sentiment. Loyalty bought with blood. Your own Christmas List is proof of that.”
“Then settle this debt and take her off the list,” I respond. “Five percent buys you peace. Five percent lets me save face. Everyone lives.”
I watch the calculation twitch along the muscles of his jaw. Grief is heavy, but greed is heavier. After a moment, he jerks his chin toward the table. “Draft the paperwork. Escrow today.”
One of the suits nearly trips racing for his laptop.
It takes nineteen minutes to finalize the numbers, another five for legal to verify accounts. At ten-eleven a.m., the deed flashes green on the screen. Five percent of Volkov voting shares slide into an Angeloff shell without so much as a squeak.
I sign with deliberate calm. On the other hand, Aleksander’s signature is a violent slash that almost cracks the digital pad. The lawyer stamps it while the CFO exhales a breath that sounds like the end of a hostage situation.
Public optics say I settled a forgotten family debt. Private leverage says Aleksander can’t move against Teresa without tanking his own valuation and admitting he was outmaneuvered.
He closes the folio with a snap. His glare could melt steel. “Debt paid. She’s off the list.”
I smile at him. “Pleasure doing business with you, Aleksander.”
He glowers, not saying a word. But his feelings don’t matter. Teresa’s life does.
Dmitri and I take the elevator down in silence. When the doors open into the lobby, at last my lieutenant speaks.
“Expensive gesture,” he says. “You could’ve pressed for more interest, easily.”
“Five percent to save a life is cheap.”
