Page 155 of Boardroom Sins

“Of course.” Kir steps aside and gestures magnanimously toward my beat-up Honda like he’s a valet at the Ritz. “Drive safe, ladies.” He holds Jillian’s gaze. “Highlydangerous roads out here.”

Then he’s sliding into his car, and the engine is purring to life, and he’s driving away through the barren trees like he was never here at all.

Jillian’s exhale fogs in the cold air. “What thefuckwas that?”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy trying to figure out which Lazarev I’m supposed to be afraid of now.

51

LUKAS

VOICEMAILTRANSCRIPT

Recipient: L. Lazarev (Private Line)

Caller: Harrison Miles, Esq. (Miles & Kagan LLP)

Date: 14 December 2025 | 01:29

Duration: 0:02:14

"Lukas. It's Harrison. I wouldn't be calling at this hour unless it was an emergency, so here it is..."

I’m deep in the Brooklyn industrial district, not far off the waterfront. Neutral ground, supposedly, though that term means nothing when you’re surrounded by men who’d slit your throat for the right price.

Or for any price at all.

A single bare bulb swings overhead. Every time it moves, the outlaw bikers assembled in front of me look less like men and more like Satan’s rejects that crawled up from hell.

Across from me, Mason “Reaper” Cole sprawls in a folding chair. He’s the president of this motorcycle club, the Iron Kings. He’s abig man—not as big as me, but close—with a braided black beard that reaches his chest and tattoos spider-walking up his neck. The crowned skull club patch on his cut is faded from years of sweat and road dust.

Behind me, Afon stands closest, his hand resting on the gun beneath his jacket. Two more of my vors flank the perimeter.

“Times are changin’, brother,” Reaper remarks.

I arch a brow. “That’s news to me.”

“Fifteen percent,” he says, lacing his fingers over his belly. “That’s the new number. My boys are taking real heat out there, Lazarev. DEA is sneakin’ all over the ports, those fuckin’ roaches. Every shipment we move is a federal case waiting to happen.”

I say nothing.

Reaper waits, but when it becomes apparent that I’m not answering, he glances over his shoulder at his boys.

This is how it works. You let men like Reaper talk themselves into circles while you sit there like a statue. Most men can’t handle the quiet.

In his defense, Reaper’s argument isn’t unreasonable. Port surveillancehasincreased in recent years. His menaretaking more risk. Twelve percent is where we’ll land, and he probably knows it, but he has to start high so his soldiers think he fought for them.

I’m doing the math myself. Twelve percent of projected quarterly volume, minus overhead, factored against the cost of finding alternative distribution if this deal falls apart…

But even as I calculate, something I’ve done effortlessly a thousand times before, my mind loses the thread and ends up somewhere else entirely.

Brown eyes. Swollen lips. Tears on flushed cheeks.

Blyat’.

“… You with me, Lazarev?”

I blink. I haven’t heard the last thirty seconds of negotiation.