“It creates weakness.”
We stare at each other across the table. The air in the warehouse feels heavier.
Mikhailov glances at his men, then back at me. “What if I’m not asking?”
“Then we have a different kind of conversation.”
His hand moves toward his jacket. Pavel’s gun is out before Mikhailov’s hand reaches the fabric. Two of my other men step forward, weapons drawn, trained on Mikhailov’s people.
Mikhailov freezes. His men freeze.
“Hands on the table,” I say calmly. “All of you.”
Slowly, Mikhailov places both hands flat on the table. His men do the same.
I stand and walk around the table until I’m directly beside him. “You came here to renegotiate terms. I declined. You tried to threaten me. That was a mistake.”
“Volkov, wait?—”
I pull my own gun from the holster at my back and press it against his temple.
“You have two choices,” I say. “Accept the original terms and leave. Or refuse and don’t leave.”
“This is insane. Over ten percent?”
“Over respect. Over the integrity of agreements. Over the fact that you thought you could threaten me in my own warehouse.”
His breathing is rapid. Sweat beads on his forehead. “Fine. Fine. Thirty-five percent. Original terms.”
“Too late.”
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot echoes through the warehouse. Mikhailov’s body slumps forward onto the table. Blood pools beneath his head, spreading across the metal surface.
His men don’t move. They’re surrounded by my people, guns trained on them from multiple angles.
“Anyone else have objections to our terms?” I ask.
Silence.
“Good. Take them outside. Put them in a car and send them back to their organization with a message. The terms are nonnegotiable. The next person who tries to renegotiate gets the same treatment as Mikhailov.”
Pavel and two others escort the four men out. They don’t resist. They’ve seen what happens when you do.
I holster my gun and turn to Anna.
She’s pressed back against her chair, face completely white. Her eyes are locked on Mikhailov’s body. On the blood still spreading across the table. Her hands are gripping the armrests so tight her knuckles are bone-white.
She’s not breathing.
“Anna,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
I cross the space between us and crouch down in front of her chair. “Anna. Look at me.”
Her eyes shift to mine slowly. There’s no color in her face. Her pupils are dilated.
