Page 141 of Porcelain Lies

“Ah yes, those funds.” He reaches for a leather portfolio on his desk. “I’ve been meaning to discuss my latest humanitarian initiative. The paperwork was just finalized this afternoon, but it’s been in the pipeline for some time.”

He slides several documents across the desk. Clean, official transfers into a variety of charitable foundations and sustainable development projects. All perfectly legitimate. All impossible to attack without looking like I’m opposing children’s hospitals and renewable energy.

Clever bastard.

“I’ve always believed in giving back,” he continues smoothly. “These investments will create lasting positive change in communities that need it most.”

And probably funnel back to his fat coffers, the fucker.

My fingers tighten imperceptibly on the folder. He’s been preparing for this, moving his money into untouchable positions. What I thought was my trump card has been transformed into evidence of his philanthropic nature.

“Of course, there’s still much work to be done.” He closes the portfolio with a satisfied pat. “But I’m proud to be part of the solution rather than the problem.”

The smug certainty in his tone makes my blood boil, but I keep my expression neutral. I’ve been outplayed — for now. The rage simmers beneath my skin, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

“How… admirable,” I say, my voice carrying just a hint of ice. The word tastes bitter on my tongue.

“Are you here to discuss these matters with me? Because I believe the discussion regarding the arms contract is concluded. I hope you understand that my hands are tied.” His eyes are cool. The fucker knows I can’t work around this.

At least he thinks I can’t.

The solution crystallizes in my mind as I observe him for a moment. Gianni Maranzano has signed his own death warrant. My hands unclench as cold certainty replaces hot rage.

“I understand completely.” I rise smoothly, adjusting my cuffs. “These things happen in business.”

James blinks, clearly thrown by my sudden shift in demeanor. He doesn’t realize he’s just witnessed a man choosing murder over negotiation. The decision settles in my chest like a sheet of ice.

“Perhaps we can revisit this in the future,” he offers, standing to match my movement.

I nod, already mentally calculating how quickly Sasha can come up with a plan to neutralize Maranzano without drawing attention to ourselves. The Italian’s ego will make him easy to find — he’s never been one for subtlety or discretion.

“Of course.” I extend my hand, gripping his slightly too hard. “Thank you for your time, James.”

His relief is tangible as I turn to leave. He thinks he’s managed this confrontation well. He has no idea of the wheels he just set in motion.

As soon as I’m back at the hotel, I press Sasha’s contact and begin issuing orders. Some problems require diplomatic solutions. Others need a more permanent approach.

Once finished, I walk up to the window. The Peninsula suite offers a panoramic view of DC’s skyline, but I barely notice it as I pour myself three fingers of whiskey. The amber liquid burns, doing little to dull my rage at Whitmore’s betrayal. Ten years of partnership destroyed by Maranzano’s maneuvering.

My phone vibrates. Dr. Malhotra’s name lights up the screen.

“Mr. Tarasov.” His crisp Oxford accent carries unmistakable excitement. “I’ve just received the preliminary results from Bobik’s latest tests.”

I grip the phone tighter. “Go on.”

“The spinal regeneration markers are incredibly promising. The new treatment protocol…” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “Well, to put it simply, it’s exceeding our most optimistic projections.”

The whiskey glass freezes halfway to my mouth. “What exactly are you saying?”

“With the right combination of AI-guided therapy and targeted stem cell treatments, we could be looking at significant mobility improvements within months.”

My chest tightens. “Define significant.”

“Partial weight-bearing might be possible.” His voice carries carefully measured optimism. “Perhaps even assisted walking with proper support.”

I set the glass down, moving to the window. The city lights blur as I process his words. Walking. My son might walk.

“The risks?” I keep my voice steady despite the hope threatening to crack through.

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