Page 40 of Porcelain Lies

Sweat soaks through my shirt. Blood smears the bag. Still not enough. I switch to kicks, driving my shin into the leather until my legs tremble. The physical pain helps drown out the memories, gives me something tangible to fight against.

I don’t know how much time passes but my muscles are screaming when the rage finally starts to burn itself out, leaving clarity in its wake. Each breath comes easier, my thoughts sharpening like a blade being honed.

I rest my forehead against the cool leather of the bag, letting my pulse settle. The path forward crystallizes. No more helpless waiting. No more impotent fury. I have a target now.

Tomas Larkin will learn what it means to harm a Tarasov’s child.

Any child.

I grab my phone, knuckles still bleeding, and dial Sasha’s secure line. He answers on the first ring.

“Did Vasya speak to you?”

“About the doctor?Da, boss.” Sasha’s voice carries its usual calm efficiency. “He sent the file. We’re ready to go.”

I wipe sweat from my face with a towel, muscles burning from the workout. “Timeline?”

“A day, tops. The estate has multiple access points, minimal personal protection beyond the neighborhood patrol. Piece of cake.”

My breathing steadies as I process the details. A soft target, hiding behind walls and rent-a-cops. Pathetic.

“Good.” I nod, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction start to descend. It won’t give Bobik his legs back, but it’s something.

“What do we do about the wife, boss?” Sasha continues.

I purse my lips. I’ve never been a fan of collateral damage. It’s messy. Leads to complications. Besides, the poor bitch has enough on her plate being stuck with a cunt like that.

“Keep her out of it,” I say, tossing my towel into a nearby basket.

“Da, boss.” He’s silent for a moment and I know he’s waiting for additional instructions.

“Any immediate business requiring attention?” Professional instincts override personal vengeance, if only temporarily.

“The Italians are pushing back on the port agreement. They demand a larger cut of container shipments.”

I roll my shoulders, working out the remaining tension. “Schedule a meeting. Make them understand the consequences of greed.”

“Already arranged for tomorrow morning. Their underboss seems… receptive to negotiation.”

The familiar rhythm of threats and territory soothes like a well-worn routine.

“But there’s something else, boss.” Sasha’s tone shifts, carrying a weight that makes me grip the phone tighter. “The Genoa numbers came in.”

My jaw clenches. “And?”

“Three hundred thousand missing from distribution. Books don’t match the cargo manifests.”

Blood from my split knuckles drips onto the gym mat. “Who?”

“Nico Verona. Been handling the west side accounts for six months now.” Sasha pauses. “Numbers started looking funny about three weeks ago. Small discrepancies at first, then bigger gaps.”

I press my fingers against my temple. Verona. Young punk trying to play in the big leagues. Should have trusted my gut when he first showed up with those designer suits and fake Rolex.

“Where is he now?”

“Gone. Apartment cleared out yesterday. Phone disconnected. Bank accounts emptied.”

“Blyad.” I slam my fist into the bag one more time. “Get Vasya on it. Track his accounts, cards, everything. I want to know where that little shit’s hiding.”

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