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James stands near an open crate, his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the gap between what’s there and what’s supposed to be. Eight crates of military rifles. Only five remain. The other three vanished somewhere between Bucharest and Odessa.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He just exhales, slow, and pulls a tablet from the stack of paperwork beside him. The interface lights up at his touch.
“Track batch 47C,” he says.
The system responds instantly, tracing the path of the shipment through a dozen ports. It’s clean until it isn’t. Three crates redirected to a private storage under a fake consignee ID. He zooms in, checking the authorization key. The signature is unmistakable.
Alexei Ivanov
James stares at the name for a long moment before shutting the tablet off. Ivanov had been dependable once. Not bright, but loyal enough to make up for it. Lately, though, there’d been talk of gambling, missing funds, unpaid favors. Predictable. Messy.
No shouting. No public spectacle. James prefers problems that can be turned into opportunities.
When he reaches the Ivanov estate, guards move aside the second they see him. Alexei is already waiting in his study, half a glass into whatever passes for liquid courage.
“Le Mécène,” he says with a forced smile. “I heard there was a misunderstanding...”
“There was,” James cuts in. He sets his tablet on the desk and brings up the footage: Alexei’s men loading the stolen crates into a truck with his own branding. “I’m sure you can explain this.”
Alexei’s face twitches. “My men thought it was another order. I was going to return them.”
James keeps his tone level. “You forged my seal, rerouted a shipment through your name, and lost me close to two million in product. That isn’t confusion, Alexei. That’s theft.”
“I can pay you back,” Alexei says quickly. “Give me a week.”
“I don’t want your money. You don't have enough to matter,” James replies. “I want something worth the trouble.”
Alexei hesitates. “What do you mean?”
James glances around the room, eyes settling on a family photo: Alexei, a few associates, and a young woman standing off to the side. Blonde hair. Unreadable stare. He’s heard of this one before. Lorelai Ivanov. The ghost Alexei kept close and rarely mentioned. A hitwoman who finished jobs other men refused.
“You have someone who works for you,” James says. “Lorelai Ivanov.”
Alexei’s throat tightens. “She’s family.”
“She’s also a professional,” James says. “One I could use.”
Alexei shifts in his chair. “She’s not easy to manage. She… has her moments.”
James smiles faintly. “So do I.” He picks up the tablet and pockets it. “The debt is cleared. She works for me until I say otherwise. Better that than whatever comes next.”
Alexei doesn’t argue. He just nods, sweat shining at his temples.
James steps away from the desk and straightens his cuffs. “Have her sent in. I’d like to make introductions personally.”
He moves toward the window, the low light cutting across his face as he watches the driveway outside. The Ivanovs’ guards are murmuring into radios. Footsteps echo somewhere down the hall.
When the door opens, James doesn’t turn around immediately. He just says, calm and even,
“Lorelai Ivanov. We finally meet.”