“I have a business proposition. I’d like to expand my operations into the territory currently controlled by the Kozlov family. I’m willing to pay a percentage of profits for your backing.”
“The Kozlovs have held that territory for fifteen years. Why would I destabilize a functional arrangement?”
“Because they’re weak. Ivan Kozlov is dying. Cancer. His sons are fighting over succession. The organization is fracturing. If someone moves now, the territory is open for acquisition.”
Interesting. I hadn’t heard about Ivan Kozlov’s health issues.
“What percentage are you offering?” I ask.
“Twenty percent of net profits from all operations in the acquired territory.”
“Fifty percent.”
“That’s excessive.”
“That’s the price of my backing. You’re asking me to go to war with an established family. Fifty percent compensates for the risk and resources required.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “Thirty-five percent.”
“Forty-five. Final offer.”
More silence. “Fine. Forty-five percent.”
“I’ll have my people reach out to finalize terms. Don’t move on the territory until we have a signed agreement.”
“Understood.”
I hang up and make another note.
Anna is staring at me again. “Was that about killing people?”
“That was about business expansion.”
“You just negotiated going to war with another family.”
“I negotiated backing someone else’s war in exchange for profit participation. There’s a difference.”
“People are going to die.”
“People were already going to die. The Kozlov succession fight will turn violent regardless of my involvement. I’m simply positioning myself to benefit from the outcome.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s pragmatic. Violence is inevitable in this business. The question isn’t whether it happens, but who profits from it.”
She looks like she wants to argue more, but the car is slowing. We’ve arrived at the docks.
I glance out the window. The warehouse district stretches along the waterfront, massive buildings with corrugated metal siding and loading bays. Shipping containers are stacked in organized rows. Cranes move cargo from ships to trucks. Workers in coveralls move between vehicles.
This is the legitimate side of my operations. Kestrel Maritime’s infrastructure is now merged with my own. Legal shipping, legal cargo, legal business. The illegal shipments move through here too, hidden among the legitimate ones. But on the surface, everything looks clean.
The car stops near a warehouse marked with the number seventeen. Pavel is already there, waiting beside two black SUVs.
I step out. Anna follows reluctantly.
“Stay close,” I tell her. “Don’t speak unless someone addresses you directly. This is business.”
“What kind of business?”
