Page 2 of Deadly Offer

“Two days. Three at most.” Grigorii didn’t flinch. “We’ve handled the issue with the inspector. He’s been... persuaded to look the other way.”

Reuben watched the interplay, cataloging the fine expressions on the men’s faces;

Túlio:skeptical but controlled.

Ramiro:agitated, possibly sleep-deprived, judging by the shadows under his eyes.

The third cartel member:wary, hand never straying far from his concealed weapon.

“My employer loses money every day that those guns sit in port instead of being put to use. Perhaps you’re reconsidering our arrangement?”

“Not at all.” Grigorii stepped closer, hands open at his sides in a gesture that appeared conciliatory but gave him better positioning if things went south. “The delay is unfortunate but temporary.” Grigorii’s words seemed to fall between the two men like stones. Túlio’s fingers drummed against his thigh once, twice, three times—the first crack in his otherwise composed façade. Behind him, Ramiro shifted his weight forward, his breathing pattern changing, as Grigorii continued. “We value your business. The delay is unfortunate, but only temporary.”

Water dripped from a leaking pipe overhead, each droplet marking time in the silence between words. Reuben shifted his weight, measuring the distance to the nearest exit. The manin the northeast corner, (the one who’d caught his attention earlier), had moved a little closer.

“Perhaps.” Túlio’s gaze slid from Grigorii to Reuben and back. “But my employer is not known for his patience.”

Reuben cataloged the warning signs before anyone else; Ramiro’s right hand flexing and un-flexing, the vein pulsing at his temple, his gaze darting between exits as if calculating escape routes.

Reuben could feel it in his spine, a tightening in his back that came with danger. These meetings with Grigorii were supposed to be straightforward. Observe. Learn. Not end up in the middle of a potential cartel standoff.

Everything happened fast after that.

Ramiro moved first, his hand reaching inside his jacket. Túlio barked something in Spanish that Reuben couldn’t catch. Stepan surged forward, positioning his body between Reuben and the threat.

“Stop.” Grigorii’s voice cut through the chaos, but Ramiro had already drawn his weapon, metal gleaming as he aimed it at Reuben.

Time slowed to a crawl. Reuben could see individual dust motes floating in the shafts of light that came through the high windows. Could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Could feel the weight of Nikon’s disapproval despite him being miles away.

“It’s alright.” Reuben raised his hand toward Stepan, who looked ready to take a bullet for him. “I’m fine.”

Stepan’s massive shoulders bunched beneath his suit jacket, but he took a half-step back—not retreating, just giving Reuben space while remaining close enough to intervene if the cartel man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Grigorii, on the other hand, hadn’t even reached for his own weapon. Instead, he leaned against a nearby shipping container, posture relaxed.

“My cousin is dead.” Ramiro’s voice shook slightly, the gun wavering in his grip. “Three days ago. Killed with weapons that were supposed to be ours.”

Understanding clicked. The delay had cost more than money.

“And you think pointing a gun at me solves that problem how, exactly?” Reuben kept his tone even and analytical. It was the same voice he’d used at poker tables to disarm opponents.

“Your man is jumpy, Túlio.” Grigorii hadn’t moved. Reuben wondered if Nikon had learned his unnerving calm from his older brother, or if that controlled stillness ran in their blood. Like a family trait as recognizable as their sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes.

“Well, Reuben?” Grigorii tilted his head, watching everything with an unsettling calm. “What do you think? Is he going to shoot?”

Reuben focused on Ramiro, absorbing every detail. The slight tremor in his gun hand—not fear, but exhaustion. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the warehouse’s cool temperature; his rapid blinking—four times in quick succession—was a classic anxiety tell. Grief etched itself into the tightness around his mouth, pulling downward at the corners.

“No. He’s not.” Reuben stepped forward, ignoring Stepan’s barely audible intake of breath. “You haven’t slept in days. Your eyes are bloodshot, and your hand is shaking. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. You’re angry, but not stupid. You know, shooting me accomplishes nothing except starting a war your cartel doesn’t want with the Matvei family.”

Ramiro’s eyes widened slightly.

“You want someone to blame,” Reuben continued, “but deep down, you know that even if the shipment had arrived on time,your cousin might still be dead. That’s how this business works. People die. Weapons change hands. The cycle continues.”

Túlio was watching Reuben now with something close to fascination. Even Grigorii had straightened slightly, his perpetual mask of indifference slipping to reveal a glint of...was that approval?

“And killing Nikon Matvei’s lover won’t bring your cousin back,” Reuben finished. “It will just ensure you never see another sunrise.”

The warehouse fell silent except for the distant sound of machinery at the port and water dripping somewhere in the shadows. Ramiro’s gun wavered, then slowly lowered.

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