"You're asking me to bend. To let you renegotiate terms we both signed because market conditions—which existed when we made the deal—suddenly matter more than your word."
Marco's jaw tightens. I see the calculation in his eyes—how far can he push before this goes wrong?
Not far enough, apparently.
"Lev, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable." I lean forward slightly. "Reasonable would be honoring your contract. What you're doing is insulting my intelligence and wasting my time. And I don't appreciate either."
"We're simply pointing out economic realities—"
"That doesn't exist in our agreement." I stand slowly. Deliberately. "You signed a contract. You'll honor it. Or you'll find another supplier and explain to your boss why you destroyed the relationship that's been keeping you competitive for three years."
He stands too, face flushing red. Authority challenged. Pride wounded.
Stupid.
"Now wait just a goddamn minute—"
"No. You wait." I step closer, and his men tense, hands moving toward weapons. "You came into my house. Tried to fuck me ona deal we both agreed to. That's disrespect, Marco. And in my world, disrespect has consequences."
"To hell with those, Volkov, sit down, let’s talk.”
I hit him.
Fast, brutal, my fist connecting with his jaw hard enough to snap his head back and send him stumbling into the chair behind him.
His men move—reaching for guns—but Mikhail and my team are already there. Weapons out, trained on the Italians before they can clear leather.
"Don't." Mikhail's voice is flat. Final.
They freeze. I almost wish they didn’t. It’s not a bad idea to work out my current obsession and sexual frustration with some shed blood.
I grab Marco by his collar and haul him upright. Blood streams from his nose where my ring caught it. Eyes wide with shock—didn't think I'd actually do it.
Everyone makes that mistake once.
"You want to renegotiate?" I slam him against the wall hard enough that picture frames rattle down the hallway. "Let's renegotiate."
Because fuck it, I need to shed some blood.
I beat him methodically. Not in rage—rage is sloppy, inefficient. This is calculated violence. Every strike designed for maximum pain and damage without killing.
Break his nose—cartilage cracking under my knuckles, blood spraying.
Split his lip—teeth cutting through soft tissue.
Shatter his cheekbone—the bone giving way with a wet crunch that's satisfying in a way I stopped questioning years ago.
He's begging within ninety seconds. Trying to say the deal is fine, terms are acceptable, anything to make it stop.
I don't stop.
Because this isn't about the deal anymore. This is about the message. About making sure every Italian who hears this story knows exactly what happens when you disrespect Lev Volkov.
And maybe—just maybe—because I'm frustrated and obsessed and taking it out on Marco's face is easier than admitting I'm losing control over a girl who's probably working for my enemies.
When his face is hamburger, and he's choking on his own blood, I let him drop.
