Page 114 of Kingmakers, Year Two

I gesture to the open side of the table. Moroz sits while his men remain standing, fanning out in the room.

I have to move fast, because the Princes and Alvaro Romero will want to get out of here as quickly as possible. They won’t want to do business with the Malina, nobody does. Not unless their greed is powerful enough to overcome their reservations.

“Marko Moroz has American dollars,” I say. “A large quantity from his operations out of Brighton Beach. He’s looking for an investment opportunity. The Malina can expand our distribution network from Germany all the way through Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, down through Belarus to the Ukraine, then across the Black Sea to Turkey. They can take the Bitcoin and use it to purchase property in Dubai. They’ll provide you with clean American dollars in return. For that service, they ask only a thirty percent cut of the profits, and an additional five percent for the exchange.”

“Ten,” Moroz cuts across at once. He smiles, showing several gold teeth. “Ten percent for the currency exchange, andfortypercent of the profit. It seems fair, for all I’ll be providing.”

This is not what we discussed, though I anticipated Moroz trying to strong-arm me at the first opportunity.

I smother my irritation, and the rising sense of panic that Prince and Romero won’t accept that deal. It has to be sweet, or they won’t work with Moroz.

“A ten percent exchange fee is reasonable,” I agree. “The profit should be split evenly three ways—33.3% each. Let’s keep it simple for the accountants, shall we?”

Dieter Prince watches closely to see if Moroz can be reasoned with.

Moroz takes a long time considering, then he gives a slow nod.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Let’s not confuse the accountants.”

“It’s agreed, then,” I say, glancing around at the Princes and Romero to confirm. “Equal profit share. Ten percent to the Malina for the exchange to American dollars. And an additional one percent fee to the bitcoin wallet. A bargain for clean washed money.”

It’s a beautiful bargain, and everyone at this table knows it.

Prince and Romero exchange glances. I kept the laptop screen turned toward them both, so they could watch the orders piling up even as we spoke. Several million dollars have already accrued in the short time the program has been running.

They don’t want to work with the Malina. They know the money is sitting in an open bear trap that could snap on their hands at any moment. But they also don’t want to refuse Marko Moroz while he sits directly across from them. I was counting on his intimidation factor to work both ways.

“What do you get out of this?” Mrs. Prince says, suddenly, surprising us all. She hadn’t spoken all throughout the meeting, sitting like a pale, silent shadow at her husband’s elbow.

“I get Zoe Romero,” I say, simply. “No money, no drugs, no cut. I only want her. In return, I hand over the platform, the server, the bitcoin wallet—all of it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dieter Prince snorts.

“That must be gold-plated pussy,” Moroz laughs, slapping his ham-sized hands on his thighs.

Romero scowls at the slight to his daughter, then immediately wipes his face smooth when Moroz glances in his direction.

“That’s what I want,” I say, quietly. And then, realizing that Zoe will require one other thing to be happy, I add, “Catalina, as well. No marriage contract for her. She marries whoever she likes, after she graduates.”

Romero is freshly outraged, sputtering down at the end of the table. He’s required to sacrifice the most of anyone present—the girls are his only two children. His only pawns. But after all, pawns aren’t worth much in the eyes of chess masters. With all the trouble Zoe has given him, he may be sick of marriage contracts.

The silence stretches out. No one wants to speak first.

Moroz has the least patience.

“What, then?” he demands, banging his massive fist on the table, making all of us jump. “I have a pile of cash and no time to waste. Do we all agree?”

“Yes!” Romero yelps, more out of nerves than anything else.

Dieter Prince looks at his wife. He seems to be searching for a way to extricate himself from this deal without getting in trouble.

Mrs. Prince has a different perspective.

“This way is better,” she says, softly. “More money. More allies. No marriage contract.”

Her blue eyes meet mine for one swift second.

She doesn’t say anything else, but I’m certain that deep inside of her, there’s some measure of sympathy for Zoe. And very little love for her son.

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