I turn down the hallway, my heels clicking against concrete as the music fades to a muffled thump behind me. It's darker here, colder. The walls are exposed brick, industrial fixtures casting harsh shadows. No signage, no helpful arrows pointing toward restrooms.
Maybe this was a mistake.
But going back means dealing with Brad, and I'm not ready for that conversation. Not yet. I just need a minute to breathe, to figure out how to end this night without being rude or, worse, putting myself in danger by rejecting him too directly.
The hallway branches. Left, or right?
I go right, following what I hope is logic. Bathrooms are usually near exits, right? And exits are usually...
I stop.
There's a door at the end of the hallway. Heavy, metal, the kind with a push bar. It looks like it leads outside, or at least toanother part of the building. I can slip out, call a cab, text Brad some excuse about getting sick.
I'm already reaching for the door when I hear voices on the other side. Male voices. Low, clipped, speaking in a language I don't recognize.
My hand is already on the push bar, my shoulder braced against the heavy door, and it’s swinging open, and then I’m stepping through.
Only it’s not a bathroom. Or the outside. Crates are stacked against the walls. The overhead lights are harsh and fluorescent, illuminating a space that's somehow both massive and claustrophobic. A table covered in guns…money… and the men standing in a loose circle around it are looking straight at me.
Oh fuck.
Leon
The Romanian's hands shake when he opens the first crate.
Not much. Just enough that I notice. Enough to tell me he's either nervous about the deal or stupid enough to think he can fuck me over.
I'm betting on nervous.
"Twenty AK-74s," I say, my voice flat. "Modified firing pins, untraceable serial numbers. Ammunition included." I gesture to the second crate without looking at it. "RPGs. Six launchers, forty rounds. The third crate has the Semtex you requested."
Valentin, the Romanian, runs his tongue over his teeth. His suit is too tight across the shoulders, cheap fabric straining. He thinks dressing like a businessman makes him legitimate. It doesn't. It makes him look like what he is—a mid-level arms dealer trying to play in a league he doesn't understand.
"The price we discussed—" he starts.
"Hasn't changed," I cut him off. "Two million. Half now, half on delivery of the next shipment."
His jaw works. "That's more than I’d pay elsewhere."
"Then go elsewhere." I keep my face flat, my eyes cold. If he doesn’t know where he stands right now, he will before the end of the night. I don't raise my voice either. The four men standing behind me, silent and still, are explanation enough. So is myreputation. If he doesn’t know where he stands right now, he will before the end of the night.
I don't negotiate. I don't haggle. I procure what people need, and they pay what I ask, or they deal with someone less reliable. Someone who might sell them faulty merchandise. Someone who might tip off the authorities. Someone who doesn't have the Dubovich name backing every transaction.
Valentin swallows. "Of course. No disrespect intended."
"None taken."
He nods to one of his men, who steps forward with a briefcase. My guy, Slav, intercepts it, checking the bills with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times because he has. He pauses, then gives me a slight nod.
One million. Clean. Perfect for laundering through my brother’s club on the other side of these walls.
"We'll arrange the second delivery within the month," I say. "My people will contact yours with the location."
"And discretion is—"
"Guaranteed." I let the word hang there, cold and final. "I haven’t built this business by talking."
The truth is, I don't stay in business by caring either. Valentin could take these guns and start a war, or he could sell them to someone who will. Not my problem. My problem is procurement. Acquisition. Making sure the Dubovich Bratva has the connections, the resources, the leverage to operate without interference.