“Gentlemen.”
I don’t miss the way Maksim immediately stops pacing, his stance shifting—just slightly, but enough for me to notice, his shoulders draw back, chin lifting a fraction. It’s subtle.
Tristan closes the door behind him and strides toward Anton’s desk, setting a file down with practiced ease. “I reviewed the claim,” he says, voice clipped and efficient. “It’s complete bullshit, as expected. They don’t have a legal standing, but they have enough connections to drag this out if we don’t counter properly.”
“Or, we could attack and make it very clear that they need to drop this shit.” Maksim says with an eye roll.
“That would be stupid.” Tristan counters, not even glancing at him and I feel Maksim stiffen.
“Excuse me?”
Tristan finally meets his gaze, his expression as blank as ever.
“I said it would be stupid to escalate this into something unnecessary.” He says, then shifts his attention to Anton.
“We handle this right, we shut them down legally, permanently. No loose ends. If we start something physical, they’ll have even more leverage against us.”
“Or,” Maksim interjects, “we tell grandpa about this.”
Anton looks up from the paper.
“Absolutely not.”
I sigh, “Maksim, think for a second.”
“I am thinking.” He replies with a scoff. “This project is too important. It’s been in talks and development for almost a year now, and suddenly, out of nowhere, some third-rate company thinks they can pull this shit? I don’t care if they’re a powerful Italian family.” He shakes his head. “Grandpa can deal with them. One warning, and they’ll crawl back into whatever hole they came from.”
Tristan exhales slowly, looking like he’s about to lose patience. “Bringing the Bratva into this is the worst idea you could have.”
Maksim’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing at him.
“It would be the fastest.”
Anton sets his pen down, fingers interlocking as he leans back in his chair. His expression is unreadable as ever, but his tone is firm. “Dad would never allow it. You know how he is about keeping Bratva influence out of our business.”
Maksim mutters a curse under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Dad is too soft on this shit.”
Tristan gives him an unimpressed look.
“Do you think throwing a tantrum will make them back down?”
The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. Maksim’s hands curl into fists, not in outright aggression—more like restraint, a beat of silence stretches between them and Anton sighs, muttering something under his breath about having a headache.
I suppress a smirk. Maksim rarely backs down in an argument. But I can see it in the way he holds himself—he’s not just frustrated about this. There’s something else. And if I had to guess, Tristan is part of it. I turn my attention back to the matter at hand.
“What’s the next move?” I ask.
Tristan straightens. “We hit them back with a countersuit, making it clear that we know what they’re trying to pull. If they push, we push back harder—legally. I’ll start drafting the filings first thing tomorrow.”
“Good,” I say with a nod.
By the time I step out of Anton’s office, the weight of business discussions is still lingering in my head, but I push it aside as I make my way to the elevator. Maksim and Tristan’s tension was obvious. The only thing more entertaining than watching them argue is waiting to see who snaps first.
The second I slide into the driver’s seat, my phone buzzes. I lean back, glancing at the screen.
Lucas:I’m here.
You’re not done with work?
