Page 14 of Dirty Damage

Abdul Rahman nods, his expression thoughtful, engaged.

Even Dorothy Fulton, who typically reserves her enthusiasm for dividend reports, has perked up.

But Uncle Boris—the man whose support I need most—has surrendered to gravity. His heavy eyelids droop lower with each slide. The cappuccino that Irina brought him fifteen minutes ago sits untouched except for the thin skin forming on its surface. His chin dips toward his chest in microscopic increments.

Forty-two million dollars of my own money.

Eighteen months of seventy-hour weeks.

A team of engineers working like dogs.

All of it hinges on this dozing septuagenarian who still thinks the height of technological innovation was the fax machine.

“The patent alone—” I press a button, bringing up the projected revenue slide. “—conservatively estimated, would net us two billion in the first three years.”

Abdul whistles softly. Rodney’s pen stops mid-scribble. Dorothy allows her eyebrows to climb a centimeter.

Uncle Boris’s chin touches his chest. A soft snort escapes him.

The burn scar along my right jaw tightens—my body’s tell that I’m about to lose my grip on civility. I feel the beast inside me—the one that earned me my nickname—stir and stretch.

“These projections,” Dorothy asks, tapping a manicured nail against the table, “they account for potential military contracts?”

“They do.” I click to the next slide, my voice dropping an octave. “Pentagon interest is already substantial.”

Boris’s head snaps up as if yanked by a string. A small splash of cappuccino decorates his silk tie.

“Military contracts?” The question tumbles from his lips, thick with the Eastern European accent he’s never bothered to soften despite fifty years in America.

“Yes, Uncle.” I meet his rheumy eyes, registering the exact shade of Pavlov amber that runs through our bloodline. “As I’ve been explaining for the past forty minutes.”

The other board members shift in their seats, suddenly fascinated by their notepads or the abstract painting on the far wall.

Boris tugs at his tie, dislodging flecks of dried foam. “This pet project of yours… it has merit?”

My molars grind together.

It stopped being a “pet project” a long fucking time ago. After how much I’ve bled and sweat to make this shit into a reality…

It’s no fucking pet.

It’s a wild animal.

And if he’d pull his head out of his ass, he’d see just what kind of animal: a golden goose.

“It has more than merit.” I step closer to his end of the table. “It has the potential to redefine maritime security for the next half a century.”

Mother’s eyes find mine across the table. Like Boris, like me, she has eyes that gleam like polished bronze. Right now, those eyes are burning with warning.

Mind your tone, Oleg. You need his cooperation.

I don’t flinch. I’ve weathered worse storms than her disapproval.

I return to my seat, straightening the cuffs of my suit jacket. The scar tissue on my right hand pulls tight as I grip my pen.

A permanent reminder of what happens when safety takes a backseat to tradition.

Boris dabs at the mess on his tie with a monogrammed handkerchief, his face flushing red. The color deepens the network of broken capillaries across his nose—souvenirs from decades of vodka and entitlement.

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