Page 135 of Porcelain Lies

My office feels cold after the warmth of Bobik’s presence. I drop into the leather chair as screens flicker to life with waiting messages. Weapons contracts. Territory disputes. The endless business of power.

My phone vibrates. Vasya.

“Da.”

“We have a situation with the Whitmore shipment.”

I grunt, already pulling up the relevant files. The father inside me recedes completely, replaced by the man who built an empire on blood and steel.

“Tell me.”

I listen as my brother details a series of terminated government contracts, my fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the mahogany desk. Three major buyers, all backing out within days of each other. This is no coincidence.

“Send me the documentation.” My voice remains steady despite the fury building in my chest.

The files appear on my screen. I scan through them, noting the identical language in each termination notice. Someone coordinated this.

“Looks organized,bratok,” Vasya says, echoing my suspicions.

“Pizdets,” I mutter. “It does.”

I roll my shoulders, tension knotting between my shoulder blades.

The documents paint a clear timeline. Long-standing contracts that have been in place with the Germans, the British, and the US defense, have all started falling away within the past weeks.

“Get me the call logs.” My voice stays controlled despite rage starting to churn in my gut.

Vasya’s typing echoes through the line. Records flood my screen — incoming calls to each client in the days before cancellation. All from the same Los Angeles area code.

“Blyad.” I lean forward, scanning times and durations. “Who has these numbers?”

“Only inner circle,bratan. And…” Vasya hesitates.

“Speak.”

“Looks like the calls originated from a burner phone,” Vasya continues. “But the GPS data shows movement within our own facilities.”

“One of ours?” The words come out as a growl.

“Da.”

My mind ticks over. “Find out everything. I want names, locations, suppliers… everything!” I snarl.

“Well… we have a fairly good idea of who’s behind it.” He pauses, giving me time to put it together.

“Maranzano,” I say softly, already putting the pieces together.

“Everything points in his direction,” he agrees.

“Chertova pizda.” My lip curls. Fucking Maranzano again. The cunt’s had his fingers in too many of my fucking pies. “Got any solid proof?”

Not that I need any.

“Been working on it,” Vasya says. “Got some files for you.”

I grunt approval.

More images appear on my screen, each one stoking my rage higher. Spreadsheets detail products sourced from a third-world operation — weapons manufactured at a fraction of my costs through the exploitation of children as young as eight.

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