Page 167 of Porcelain Lies

“Dear Mr. Tarasov,

After careful consideration, we have decided to terminate the existing contract for the Cyclone R9 shipments. Strategic shifts and more cost-effective alternatives have necessitated this decision. We appreciate your understanding and wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

James Whitmore”

I reread the words, each sentence pumping red hot rage into my veins. Strategic shifts. Cost-effective alternatives. More bullshit.

Khash shlyukha!

I have no doubt this is about Maranzano again.

That Italian cunt has been slithering too close for comfort. He undercut my prices, threatened Stella, and now, he’s evensunk his fangs into my biggest contract. He clearly doesn’t understand the implications of his actions.

Nyet.

I rise from my chair, my feet scraping against the floor. A surge of anger courses through me, hot and undeniable. This isn’t just a loss of seventy-five million dollars; it’s a direct attack on my reputation. An attack on me. And in my world, such offenses are met with absolute retribution.

I stride across the room, pulling out my phone. “Sasha,” I bark into the receiver.

“Da, boss?” His voice is immediate, alert despite the late hour.

“We must make a move on Maranzano. Sooner than we planned.” My tone carries a finality sharp as a gunshot.

“What do you want to do, boss?”

“I want him gone. No loose ends. Make it clean, and make sure it sends a message.” I say coldly.

There’s a brief pause. “Understood. I’ll assemble a team.”

“Good. I want it done by the end of the week.”

“On it.”

I end the call, my grip on the phone tightening until my knuckles whiten. The room feels stifling, the air too thick to breathe. My vision narrows, a red haze threatening to consume my thoughts.

Instinctively, I reach for the decanter of vodka on the side table, the clear liquid catching the faint light. I pour a generous measure into a crystal glass, the smell sharp and familiar. I raise it to my lips, but something stops me. An image of Bobik flashesin my mind — his hopeful eyes, the way he looks up to me. Then Stella’s face surfaces, her trust, her vulnerability.

Nyet.I slam the glass down, the vodka sloshing over the rim and spilling onto the table. Drowning myself won’t solve anything. I need clarity, not clouds.

Turning on my heel, I head toward the gym. The urge to hit something, to channel this fury, is overwhelming. The corridors of the manor blur past me until I reach the gym. The scent of leather and metal greets me, promising an outlet.

I strip off my shirt, tossing it aside. The cool air brushes over my skin, but the fire inside me burns hotter. Wrapping my hands, I approach the heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. It sways slightly, as if anticipating the onslaught.

I launch into a barrage of punches, each strike fueled by the image of Maranzano’s smug face. Left, right, hook. The bag shudders under the impact, chains rattling above. My breath comes in sharp bursts, muscles coiling and releasing with each movement.

“Ty dumayesh’, chto mozghesh’ igrat’ so mnoy?” I growl between hits. “You think you can play with me?”

I push harder, my fists connecting with brutal force. The leather bites back, the friction burning through the wraps and into my skin. Warmth trickles down my fingers — I glance briefly to see blood seeping through, staining the white cloth red.

Good.

The pain sharpens my focus, blurs the line between body and mind. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not until every ounce of this rage is spent.

Gianni’s treachery is more than just business. He tried to humiliate Stella, to use her as a pawn. The memory of her eyes when she told me about his threats ignites a protective fury I haven’t felt in years. No one harms what’s mine. No one.

I throw a final, devastating punch, the force sending the bag swinging wildly. I step back, chest heaving, the room spinning slightly from exertion. The ache in my hands pulses, but it’s a welcome distraction from the storm in my head.

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