Page 15 of Dirty Damage

“As I was saying,” I continue, voice steady despite the rage bubbling beneath my sternum, “the cloaking system isn’t just an upgrade. It’s a complete paradigm shift.”

Father understood this.

He rebuilt Pavlov Industries from the ground up, turning a stagnant yacht-building dynasty into something greater.

The old guard—my uncle chief among them—still clings to tradition like a life raft, never realizing it’s what’s dragging us under.

For three generations, the Pavlovs built luxury vessels for people with more money than God. Father expanded into materials engineering, military contracting, global logistics.

He understood evolution.

Now, he’s gone, and I’m the only one fighting to preserve his vision.

The vote takes fifteen minutes. I watch the hands rise one by one. Rahman, Xiao, Weiss—all in favor. Mother abstains, her face carved from marble. No surprise there. Fulton and Malevich side with Boris against.

I don’t need the official count. The weight of their combined shares ensures my defeat.

Boris clears his throat, folding his hands over his considerable stomach. “Perhaps in time, Oleg,” he reassures in that patronizing tone that makes me want to put my fist through his teeth. “The board simply feels that such a… dramatic shift… requires more consideration.”

What he means is,Stay in your lane, boy. I run this company now.

“Of course.” I gather my materials. The beast inside me paces and snarls, but I keep it leashed.

For now.

“I’m hosting dinner onThe Anastasiatonight,” Boris announces, already moving on. “Seven o’clock. Dorothy, Rodney—you’ll join us?” His gaze slides over to me, challenge glinting in his eyes. “Oleg?”

“I have prior commitments.” The lie comes smoothly.

Let him think I’m sulking.

Let him underestimate me.

I’ve killed men before. At seventeen, Father took me to Moscow to connect with our roots. I earned my place among the Bratva brothers there—proved my worth in ways that would make these soft American executives piss themselves.

A bullet would solve the Boris problem permanently.

But I’m playing a longer game now.

I slide my tablet into its leather case, already recalculating. I’ll need allies. Capital. A corporate structure that can handle military contracts.

Most importantly, I’ll need patience—the one virtue I’ve never managed to master.

“Another time, then.” Boris shrugs, dismissive.

I nod, my face giving nothing away. There won’t be another time.

Not on his terms, anyway.

Father built this company brick by brick. I won’t watch it crumble because an old man can’t see past his own reflection.

I hope Boris chokes on his fucking dinner.

In the meantime, I have work to do.

But I don’t quite manage to reach it. Mother snares me before I can escape the executive floor.

She moves like a predator—all poise and purpose, no wasted motion—as she ushers me into her office with a grip that belies her delicate wrists.

---