“Benyamin,” I say by way of greeting. “Thanks for joining me.”
Benyamin Meninsky, the leader of a cartel of Israeli weapons exporters, nods low, taking the center space in the sofa opposite me. His watery eyes ignore all else to stay focused solely on me.
His righthand man, Omer, plops down next to him, draping his arm along the back of the sofa and lounging like he owns the yacht. I’m well-accustomed to his false sense of bravado.
The one I’m interested in is the new face. He’s younger than I would have expected to see at a meeting like this. And he bears a striking resemblance to Benyamin.
“Introducing the boy to the family business, are we?” I guess.
“I’m no boy,” he cuts in before his father can.
I raise my eyes at the pale-faced youth. If he’s older than twenty-three, I’ll eat my fucking gun. He’s only now starting to outgrow the acne that clings to his jawline.
“A man would have known to keep his mouth shut,” I snap while his old man gives him a deadly side glare.
“Forgive the boy,” Benyamin says, doubling down on the word that had so offended his son. “Moshe is new to all this.”
I raise my brows. “You should have started him sooner.”
The boy, Moshe, looks like he’s teetering between anger and annoyance. He wants to be considered an equal, but he’s yet to earn his mark. From the looks of it, he has a long way to go still.
“Dinner will be ready shortly,” I inform them. “But I like to get business out of the way first. That way, we can all enjoy dessert.”
“As you wish, Don Stepanov,” Benyamin agrees.
“Excellent. Then let’s begin.”
Lev comes in and takes the seat to my right. Yulian hovers at the door for a moment before walking over to flank me on the left.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “What do you have for me, Benyamin?”
“A whole shipment of new weapons,” he says. His eyes flash greedily.
Omer glances at his boss and then back to me. There’s an unease between the two of them tonight. The boy isn’t helping matters.
“But…”
“I don’t like ‘buts,’” I growl.
Benyamin shrugs, not apologetic in the least. “There’s a forty percent increase from the last time.”
“Ten percent?” I say with amusement. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Anton—”
“You’re owed a markup,” I say generously. “But forty percent is highway robbery.”
He exchanges a glance with Omer. I don’t miss the surge of communication that passes between them.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.
“We’ve had to increase our profit margin,” Benyamin explains haltingly. “We lost a big client recently.”
“What’s that got to do with me or my Bratva?”
“We lost the client because of you,” he explains.
It only takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. Lev gets there two seconds after I do. “Rodion,” he says in a hushed voice.