Page 136 of Porcelain Lies

“Suka.” I slam my fist on the desk.

“He’s been undercutting us by almost forty percent.” Vasya’s words add fuel to the fire.

My jaw clenches as I scan production figures. Small hands assembling deadly weapons, working sixteen-hour days. The spreadsheet blurs. For a heartbeat, the tiny fingers in the photos morph into Bobik’s — gripping his science book instead of rifle parts. I shut the laptop hard enough to crack the screen.

“Their quality control is shit,” Vasya adds. “Had two weapons explode during testing last week. Killed three soldiers.”

Of course. Children can’t maintain proper safety standards. More blood on Maranzano’s hands.

“Khorosho.” The traitor will be dealt with. But first, I need to fix this fuck-up before it costs us any more money.

I pull up James Whitmore’s private number, already mapping out leverage points in my mind. Our high-level defense contact may have publicly distanced himself, but our relationship runs deeper than government contracts.

“Get me everything we have on Whitmore’s Miami property purchases,” I tell Vasya. “And his daughter’s college transcripts.”

“The ones from last month or the new ones?”

“All of them.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “How much did he move through our Cayman accounts in February?”

“Twenty-three million.” Vasya’s typing pauses. “Want me to freeze it?”

“Not yet. But have it ready.” I pause. “Get Sasha to arrange a meeting. Tonight.” I check my watch.

“Leave it to me,bratan.”

I end the call, already composing my approach. Whitmore’s precious daughter, Katherine, and her cocaine habit provide the perfect pressure point. One hint of exposure would destroy both their carefully maintained public images.

My phone buzzes with confirmation of the meeting. I text back a single word:

“Good.”

Time to remind the Minister exactly why he can’t afford to cross me.

I grab my jacket, already dialing Sasha’s number as I stride from the office. He answers on the first ring.

“Got the plane ready for the Whitmore visit?”

“Da, boss. Security detail?”

“Just you.” I check my Glock’s magazine before sliding it into my shoulder holster.

“Got it.” Sasha’s efficiency is why he’s my right hand. “Meet you outside in fifteen.”

Good. Enough time to change and pack a bag.

I end the call, my footsteps making my way down the hallway. Diana appears at the intersection, her concerned expression telling me she’s heard about the contracts.

“Not now,” I cut off her questions before she can speak. “Handle things here.”

She nods, understanding the unspoken command to watch Bobik. I don’t slow my pace as I pass her.

The night air hits my face as I exit through the side entrance, Sasha already waiting with the Bentley idling. I slide into the back seat, checking my phone one last time. No updates. But sometimes, no news is good news.

The trip to the airfield is smooth and uneventful. I settle into the leather seat of my private jet, the familiar scent of power and privilege doing nothing to calm my murderous mood. Sasha takes his position near the cockpit, giving me space to think.

The engines roar to life as I loosen my tie, focusing on how to handle Whitmore. The man’s arrogance makes him predictable — he’ll expect threats about his daughter’s drug habit, giving me the perfect opening to blindside him with the property documentation.

My phone buzzes with another update from Vasya. More contracts being cancelled. The losses are mounting into hundreds of millions.

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