Petros cleared his throat, careful not to let it echo too loudly. “Boss... should we proceed?”
Ruslan exhaled once, slow, deliberate, each breath measured like the release of a coiled spring.
The faintest pause stretched between the raindrops of yesterday and the sunlight of today. Then he spoke, voice low but unyielding, still watching the elephants as though they were more than mere animals—they were a testament, a puzzle, a final test.
“Refund the buyer. The baby elephant is no longer for sale.
The ripple of shock that passed through the group was immediate and electric.
One man’s head jerked up instinctively before he snapped it down. Another’s mouth opened slightly before shutting as if swallowing a curse.
Petros’s jaw actually dropped—an almost imperceptible flicker of disbelief—before he clenched it tight again, regaining control.
“Boss?” Petros ventured, cautious, every syllable weighed.
“Refund the buyer,” Ruslan repeated, this time colder, sharper, the words carved into the air like stone.
No discussion, no negotiation.
The authority behind them made it clear: compliance wasn’t optional. “The calf stays with its mother.”
The men exchanged stunned, fleeting glances. Petros recovered first, inclining his head with a deliberate snap. “Yes, sir.”
They moved almost in unison, ropes and harnesses abandoned, equipment lowered, all the while keeping eyes on him, expecting the command to shift at any second.
The air hummed with tension, a line drawn in silence that no one dared cross.
I remained frozen, my hands clenching at my sides, pulse hammering, watching the mother elephant nuzzle her calf as if she knew she had been granted mercy.
Ruslan finally looked at me.
Not the passing glance he’d given earlier—not the detached assessment he used on men who worked for him—but a full, deliberate turn of his head.
His sunglasses came off in one smooth motion, revealing eyes the color of storm clouds just before they break.
“And what,” he asked calmly, “makes you think you have any say over my property?”
The gentleness from moments ago evaporated.
Whatever indulgence he’d allowed himself—whatever softness had surfaced when he watched the elephants—was gone. His voice sharpened, edged with steel, each word measured and precise.
“That,” he continued, taking a step closer, “is the culture.”
Another step. Close enough now that I could feel the heat of him, smell clean soap and something darker beneath it. “I sell the calves. We’ve done it for generations in Greece. This land, these animals—everything here—exists because of that tradition.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward the clearing, where the mother elephant stood rigid, trunk coiled protectively around her calf.
“Of all my elephants, I have a particular fondness for Luna,” he said, eyes fixed on the mother elephant. “That’s why I brought her to California. My farm is in Greece, but Luna...” His voice flattened, almost brittle. “...she’s used to losing her young.”
The words landed like a slap.
I didn’t know if he was explaining himself—or warning me not to cross him again.
Fear clawed its way up my spine, cold and insistent, but I forced myself to stay where I was. To hold his gaze. To not shrink.
“I find it...” I said quietly, choosing each word with care, “...hard to speak when I’m being shouted at. Or when memories surface. Or when violence erupts around me.”
His brow twitched—just slightly.
