Chapter 144
Raven
I laughed, low and easy, and dropped into the leather chair across from his desk. Crossed my legs. Leaned back. Let him see exactly how comfortable I was in his territory. "It's all just titles and reputation, really. I'm here on legitimate business." I gestured toward Garrett, who stood frozen like a deer in headlights. "This gentleman is my friend's father. Thought I'd help smooth out your little negotiation."
Warlock's expression shifted from panic to confusion to something approaching obsequious joy. He practically tripped over himself getting to the tea cart in the corner. "Raven! A single phone call from you would've sealed this deal! You didn't have to come all the way here in person!"
But then I wouldn't have the pleasure of watching you squirm.
"Oh, I don't know," I said, examining my nails. "You seemed pretty confident a minute ago. 550, wasn't it?" I let the number hang in the air. "385 feels generous now, doesn't it?"
Warlock fumbled with the teapot, nearly dropping it. He set a cup in front of me with trembling hands. "Where are my manners? Please, Raven." He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. "With your... connections... I could go as low as 350. Easily negotiable!"
Garrett's jaw literally dropped. "Three hundred and fifty?"
Warlock shot him a glare that could've melted steel. The message was clear: Read the room, you idiot.
I clapped my hands together once. The sound made both men jump. "Deal! 350 it is!"
I reached over and plucked Garrett's contract folder from his death grip. "Go on. Change the numbers. Sign it."
"Wait, wait, wait!" His hands shot up, palms out, panic bleeding into his voice. "I was joking! Just joking!" He let out a strained laugh that died in his throat when he saw my face hadn't changed. "350 is—it's impossible in this market! The operating costs alone—"
I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just kept my eyes locked on his, letting the silence do the work.
Warlock's Adam's apple bobbed. He licked his lips, then tried again, his voice dropping to something almost pleading. "Look, Raven..." He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing what he probably thought was a friendly smile. "You and Julian—you're close, right? He mentions you all the time. Good friends."
Oh, we're playing the sentiment card now.
"So maybe..." He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. "We could negotiate a little more? A friendship discount, yeah? Something fair for both sides?" His voice cracked slightly.
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. Let a slow smile spread across my face—the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "Funny. I don't remember suggesting 350." I tilted my head. "That number came out of your mouth, not mine."
His face went pale.
Before he could stammer out another excuse, Garrett suddenly stepped forward.
"Sir, please—" His voice came out thin and reedy, almost a whisper. He wouldn't even look Warlock in the eye, just stared at some point on the floor between them. "I cannot—I absolutely cannot allow you to take such a devastating loss on my behalf."
He swallowed hard, his briefcase trembling in his grip.
"If it please you, sir... perhaps 385?" The words came out rushed, desperate. "It's more than generous. More than I deserve, truly. I would be honored—honored—to accept such terms."
Christ. The man's practically groveling.
But it worked. Warlock's expression shifted from panic to cautious relief, like a prisoner suddenly seeing daylight.
"Yes!" He seized on it immediately. "385! That's—that's very reasonable, Mr. Davenport. Very fair." His hands were already reaching for the contract, crossing out numbers with barely-disguised desperation. "A solid compromise. Good business sense."
I sipped the tea he'd poured—oolong, not bad—and let my gaze wander across his desk while he and Garrett signed their names. Papers scattered everywhere, most of them meaningless. Purchase orders. Shipping manifests. Then my eyes snagged on a contract half-buried under a leather portfolio.
Commercial Distribution Agreement
Party A: Crimson Brotherhood MC
Party B: Volkov Enterprises LLC
Contract Value: $1,000,000,000
My pulse didn't change. My expression didn't shift. But inside, every nerve lit up like a Christmas tree.
Volkov.
Nash's voice echoed in my head from last night: We've identified a family in LA with ties to The Surgeon. The Volkovs. Billionaires. Invisible. Dangerous.
"Who's Volkov?" I asked casually, tapping the edge of the contract.
Warlock glanced up from his signature, then followed my finger. "Oh! Small deal. Ten billion in premium spirits. We run clubs, casinos, lounges—you know how it is. Need suppliers."
Ten billion dollars. Small deal. Right.
"This Volkov... he's wealthy?"
"Wealthy?" Warlock barked out a laugh. "Try top three richest families in Los Angeles. But you won't find them on any Forbes list. They're ghosts. Cleaner than us, more invisible than the feds." He shook his head in admiration. "Smart bastards."
My mind raced. If Volkov was that deep underground, finding a connection to The Surgeon would be like hunting smoke. Every instinct I had screamed that this was the lead I needed.
But how do I get to him?
"Where can I find him?" I kept my tone light. Curious. Not desperate.
Warlock set down his pen, eyeing me with sudden wariness. "Most people can't. He's... slippery. Never shows his face in public. I've worked with him for years, and I've only learned one of his addresses by accident."
The air between us thickened. Garrett sensed it too—he'd gone very still, his eyes darting between us.
I leaned forward slowly, deliberately. Let the smile drop from my face. Watched as Warlock's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Where."
It wasn't a question.