Page 116 of Porcelain Lies

An email notification pings, and suddenly, the government contract from James Whitmore fills my screen. My eyes scan the specifications for the Cyclone R9 order — five thousand units, specialized modifications, expedited delivery timeline. The potential profit margins make Sofia’s pathetic demands look like pocket change.

I pull up the technical blueprints, studying the requested modifications. They want enhanced targeting systems, specialized ammunition compatibility. The R9’s base design already dominates the market, but these changes would push it into new territory.

My hand reaches for the glass of vodka as I examine the firing rate requirements. The numbers don’t add up. This level of performance would require significant retooling of our production facilities.

“Blyad.” I mutter, spotting a critical flaw in their specs. The enhanced barrel would overheat at these speeds, potentially catastrophic during sustained fire.

I tap my secure line to our engineering department. “Viktor. The R9 modifications — run simulation checks. Focus on heat dispersion under maximum load.”

The familiar satisfaction of identifying technical problems settles over me. This is what I excel at — seeing the patterns, catching the details others miss. It’s why the government keeps coming back despite knowing exactly who they’re dealing with.

My eyes drift to the proposed timeline. Six months for full delivery. Tight, but manageable if we shift resources from other projects. The profit potential justifies the strain on our facilities.

I scan through the profit projections one more time. The numbers don’t lie — this contract would be lucrative. Yet something nags at me, an echo of my mother’s voice about blood money.

My thumb traces the edge of the weapons blueprint. Each modification represents another level of lethality. More efficient killing. More collateral damage. More orphans.

“Chert voz’mi.” I drain my glass, the vodka burning away sentiment. This isn’t about morality. It’s about power, about securing my position. About protecting what’s mine.

The image of Bobik flashes through my mind. His medical treatments, his special care, the renovations to keep him safe — none of it comes cheap. And now with Stella and the baby…

I pull up our current revenue streams. The legitimate businesses provide decent cover, but the real money comes from arms. Always has. My father understood that much, even if he was a drunkenmudakwho couldn’t handle the pressure.

The modified R9 specs stare back at me. Five thousand units. Each one capable of tearing through body armor like tissue paper. Each one finding its way to some battlefield, some urban conflict, some government target.

The Bratva may be ruthless, but we don’t come anywhere close to state-sanctioned mass murder.

I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance behind my lids. Sentiment is weakness. The Bratva taught me that lesson early. You either control the weapons trade, or someone else does.

My decision crystallizes. I reach for my phone to call Viktor back. The engineering modifications will proceed. We’llmeet their timeline, exceed their specifications. Build better weapons than they even knew they needed.

The familiar coldness settles over me as I outline the production schedule. This is business. Just business. And I excel at business.

I sign the digital contract with a few practiced swipes, satisfaction coursing through me as the confirmation appears. Seventy-five million. The kind of deal that cements power, ensures stability.

My watch vibrates, the biomarker alert cutting through my moment of triumph. Stella’s heart rate has spiked well above normal parameters. The weapons contract forgotten, I pull up her vitals on my monitor.

Blood pressure elevated. Cortisol levels climbing. Her location marker shows her near the hidden entrance to Bobik’s wing.

“Der’mo.” I switch to the security feed, quickly picking her up in the medical bay. She’s found the concealed doorway. She examines the panel, curiosity evident in every movement.

My jaw clenches. I’d made the rules crystal clear — she was to stay in her room. Yet here she is, testing boundaries already.

The camera catches her expression — that familiar mix of determination and defiance that first drew me to her. But this isn’t about attraction. This is about protecting Bobik.

I tap my secure line. “Sasha. The Left Wing. Now.”

Her vitals continue climbing as she examines the door mechanism. The sight of her investigating my secrets sends a surge of possessive anger through me. My son’s quarters liebeyond that doorway. Not to mention that she’s carrying my child. She should be resting, following the plan.

Instead, she’s poking around where she doesn’t belong.

Neposlushnaya suka!

I resist the urge to rise from my desk, my fingers drumming against the surface as I watch her. Any other person investigating my secrets would already be bleeding in the basement. The thought of punishing her sends an unexpected twist through my gut.

Blyad.

Since when do I hesitate? Isolation, deprivation, punishment, consequences. The Bratva playbook is clear on handling disobedience.

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