Chapter 3

Maron

"What the fuck do you mean it disappeared?" I roar into the phone, my grip tightening until my knuckles turn white. "How the fuck does a cargo ship just vanish into thin air?"

Pavel, my right-hand man, sighs heavily on the other end. "We don’t have the coordinates, boss. I've tried contacting Oleg Robarov, the captain, but the connection keeps cutting out. It's like they've gone dark."

I let out a string of curse words and run my fingers through my hair in frustration. This is the last thing I need right now. "This is not a fucking joke, Pavel. That ship is carrying the first batch of Tramoxine samples. Important people are relying on it."

"I know, boss," Pavel replies calmly. "Give me some time to figure out what happened. Robarov is a seasoned captain. If he's not answering our calls, it means something serious."

I place my palm against my temple. "Chert Voz’mi, Pavel! What the fuck do you mean serious?"

"Look, boss. Whatever it is, I can contact the chemical plant and have them send more samples on another ship. It’s solvable. They can send us the cargo in two days."

I shake my head in annoyance. "No. I'll handle backup samples. You focus on finding the damn ship." With that, I end the call.

I puff air out of my face. With all the shit that’s been going on in my life lately, this is the last fucking thing I need right now. But then again, there is no good time for important cargo to go missing.

I rise from my seat and make my way to the cupboard. I open a bottle of Stoli vodka and pour myself a shot. I quickly gulp it down, feeling the intense burn all the way down my throat.

Tramoxine. That's what my billion-dollar baby is called. The game changer pill that's going to bring new horizons to a world that's full of messed-up, addicted, traumatized people. The entire world is sick, and I've got the magic cure. 

The pill is the marriage of psilocybin and ayahuasca, two experimental, yet highly effective components used to cure trauma, mental illness, and addiction. The mix of the two that is Tramoxine, promises to surpass every single treatment that is currently available on the market. If used correctly, Tramoxine has the ability to rewire the entire human brain, eliminating past trauma, depression, insomnia, and other mental health disorders in just a matter of weeks. Sometimes days. In the early trials, we healed some pretty screwed-up people, with only a few sessions.

I drink another shot of Stoli.

Of course, most governments are too fucking narrow-minded to see the true power of substances like this, so the stuff is not strictly legal. Suits me fine. The dark web is crawling with potential customers who are willing to pay top dollar for a panacea cure like this.

All those Bratva boys, they're walking around with more baggage than a fucking airport. Who doesn't have a string of childhood traumas? Kids that grow up in the Bratva get beaten up and bullied all the time. Who doesn't have depression, and all of that fucked up shit? People take drugs and drink themselves stupid just to numb the pain, to forget the hell they went through. But not anymore. Since mental health has become such a hot topic on the internet, everybody wants to heal. And with Tramoxine, they finally can. In just a matter of weeks, it will free them from the confines of their fucked-up minds, with no shitty side effects.

I've poured billions of dollars into this little miracle drug, hired the best scientists money can buy. Research, development, trials - all of it happening under the radar at my state-of-the-art pharmaceutical plant outside of Moscow. Every worker hand-picked and vetted, loyal to a fault. And now, after years of blood, sweat, and more money than most people see in a lifetime, we're finally ready to run our first public trials.

My phone rings again. "Pavel. That was quick. Tell me what you found." I can practically hear his hesitation through the phone. "Boss, there's something else. That ship... it's not just carrying Tramoxine."

My blood runs cold. "What are you talking about?"

"The kidney is on board. You know, the transplant kidney."

"The kidney?" I echo, my mind racing. "For Jennifer Shirkova?"

"Da," Pavel says.

Blyad.

I grit my teeth as it all sinks in. The missing Tramoxine samples are a setback, yes. But losing that kidney is a whole new level of fucked up. No, it’s not just about an organ; it's an opportunity to end a long-standing feud between two powerful Bratva families. Mine and the Shirkovs.

Leonid Shirkov and my father had some serious territorial feud between the two of them. After some bloodshed and then a reluctant truce, the two turned into sworn enemies. Before they could fix their shit, my father died. Since then, the bad blood between our families has festered, just waiting for an excuse to explode all over again. But then, Shirkov's daughter, Jennifer, got sick and needed a new kidney to survive. That's when old Leonid Shirkov came to me with a deal.

He said if I could get my hands on a kidney for his girl, he'd be willing to bury the hatchet. It is a chance to end this fucking multi-decade-long family feud once and for all. I jumped at the opportunity, pulled some strings, and got the perfect organ through my less-than-legal connections.

But now, the kidney's gone. Along with my Tramoxine samples. Vanished into thin fucking air. If I can't find it, and Jennifer Shirkova dies, all hell will break loose. The streets will run red as our families tear each other apart, and everything I've worked for will go up in flames.

Ublyudok!

I lean back in my chair, my jaw clenched tight. Fuck! This whole operation was supposed to be simple. Transport the Tramoxine samples and the kidney from Moscow to here, keep everything under the radar. But instead? Instead, everything's gone to shit.

"Keep trying to reach Oleg, and get the last satellite images of the ship," I order Pavel, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I want that fucking cargo found, Pavel. I don't care what it takes. You call in every favor, every contact we have. We're not losing that ship, you understand me?"

"Yes, boss," Pavel replies, his voice grim. "I'm on it."

I finish the call. This time, I pour myself a double shot of vodka and down it in one burning gulp. This is far from over. I will find that ship, even if I have to tear apart every fucking port from here to Moscow. And when I do, there will be hell to pay for whoever's responsible for this fuckup.

I glance at the clock. It’s only seven in the evening, which is relatively early. It’s not uncommon for me to stay at the office and catch some shut-eye on the couch if things get busy. Maurice, my wayward half-brother, is due to arrive soon, and I need to tie up some loose ends before his unwelcome presence darkens my doorstep.

Fucking Maurice. We were once close, a long time ago. But then, the death of our father drove a wedge between us. Many years have gone by and we only spoke a few times since.

With our inheritance, I chose the path of the wise, investing in legitimate businesses to mask the true nature of my power. Global Media, my crown jewel, grew so vast that I had to claim a skyscraper in the heart of New York to house it. It's the perfect facade for my true calling – the Tramoxine business. While the world sees me as a media mogul, they have no idea that Global Media's complex financial structure allows me to funnel money and resources into developing and distributing Tramoxine under the radar. As my father always said, "In the Bratva, you have to have a legal business that covers up your illegal one."

Maurice, the fool, squandered his wealth on fleeting pleasures - whores and extravagant escapades - until he found himself destitute. Our conflicts over his reckless behavior have left us estranged, and I can only imagine the desperate circumstances that bring him crawling back to me now.

There’s a small ray of hope, though. In our last phone conversation, Maurice told me he'd pulled his shit together and found himself a steady girlfriend. They are even planning to start a family. Amen. Fingers crossed for the girl.

After making a few phone calls, I decide to call it quits for the day; it's Friday and I could use a break. Checking the clock again, I see that it's almost 8 pm. Maurice should have arrived by now, but my half-brother is notorious for being late.

I stretch my arms and let out a loud yawn. I’m fucking tired. My company, Global Media, has been gaining new contracts left and right, but it also brings along other concerns. Like the fact that Ms. Mindy Williams, my chief accountant, seems to have something else on her mind whenever I see her. It also doesn’t help that every time I see her, my cock gets hard. “No, Maron, you don’t fuck your chief accountant, because you will suck cock with your finances afterwards,” - I remind myself every single time she appears.

If she wasn't so fucking gorgeous, I'd fire her. Or maybe not. Mindy Williams is a valuable asset to Global Media. She knows our finances in and out, when she is not fucking distracted that is. Like she was just a couple of hours ago. She made me mad and I wanted to punish her right there and then, by tearing off all her clothes, and taking her naked body against the wall.

Yes.

Maybe a little punishment would teach her a lesson.

A ping interrupts my thoughts, and I glance over to my phone, just to see another email arrive. To hell with it. I can't handle any more emails today. All I want is to go home, unwind, and fuck some girl before I commit myself to a stupid, old-school Bratva thing: an arranged marriage.

I've only met Elena Kubikova two or three times. Sure, she’s a nice girl, but she didn't initiate anything earth-shattering in me. Elena will be a nice warm body to fuck. That's pretty much it.

The main advantage is that Elena is the daughter of Grigory Kubikov, the head of the Kubikov Bratva. With the marriage, the two families will merge, which will solidify my position in the Bratva and give protection from other families, especially Leonid Shirkov. Who, by the way, is waiting for that fucking kidney to save his daughter’s life.

I puff air out of my face.

How on earth am I going to fix this shit I'm in?