Dirty Damage: Chapter 4

The boardroom air tastes stale, recycled through vents that haven’t been cleaned since the Bush administration. My collar digs into my neck.

No matter how many thousands I spend on bespoke tailoring, suits always feel like armor welded to my skin—necessary, but fucking confining.

I keep my voice steady as I gesture toward the final slide of my presentation.

“The cloaking system renders vessels virtually undetectable to standard sonar and radar technologies.”

Five of the six board members lean forward.

Leonie Xiao’s eyes gleam with the precise calculation of potential profit margins.

Rodney Weiss and Mae Malevich scribble furious notes.

Abdul Rahman nods, his expression thoughtful, engaged.

Even Dorothy Fulton, who typically reserves her enthusiasm for dividend reports, has perked up.

But Uncle Boris—the man whose support I need most—has surrendered to gravity. His heavy eyelids droop lower with each slide. The cappuccino that Irina brought him fifteen minutes ago sits untouched except for the thin skin forming on its surface. His chin dips toward his chest in microscopic increments.

Forty-two million dollars of my own money.

Eighteen months of seventy-hour weeks.

A team of engineers working like dogs.

All of it hinges on this dozing septuagenarian who still thinks the height of technological innovation was the fax machine.

“The patent alone—” I press a button, bringing up the projected revenue slide. “—conservatively estimated, would net us two billion in the first three years.”

Abdul whistles softly. Rodney’s pen stops mid-scribble. Dorothy allows her eyebrows to climb a centimeter.

Uncle Boris’s chin touches his chest. A soft snort escapes him.

The burn scar along my right jaw tightens—my body’s tell that I’m about to lose my grip on civility. I feel the beast inside me—the one that earned me my nickname—stir and stretch.

“These projections,” Dorothy asks, tapping a manicured nail against the table, “they account for potential military contracts?”

“They do.” I click to the next slide, my voice dropping an octave. “Pentagon interest is already substantial.”

Boris’s head snaps up as if yanked by a string. A small splash of cappuccino decorates his silk tie.

“Military contracts?” The question tumbles from his lips, thick with the Eastern European accent he’s never bothered to soften despite fifty years in America.

“Yes, Uncle.” I meet his rheumy eyes, registering the exact shade of Pavlov amber that runs through our bloodline. “As I’ve been explaining for the past forty minutes.”

The other board members shift in their seats, suddenly fascinated by their notepads or the abstract painting on the far wall.

Boris tugs at his tie, dislodging flecks of dried foam. “This pet project of yours… it has merit?”

My molars grind together.

It stopped being a “pet project” a long fucking time ago. After how much I’ve bled and sweat to make this shit into a reality…

It’s no fucking pet.

It’s a wild animal.

And if he’d pull his head out of his ass, he’d see just what kind of animal: a golden goose.

“It has more than merit.” I step closer to his end of the table. “It has the potential to redefine maritime security for the next half a century.”

Mother’s eyes find mine across the table. Like Boris, like me, she has eyes that gleam like polished bronze. Right now, those eyes are burning with warning.

Mind your tone, Oleg. You need his cooperation.

I don’t flinch. I’ve weathered worse storms than her disapproval.

I return to my seat, straightening the cuffs of my suit jacket. The scar tissue on my right hand pulls tight as I grip my pen.

A permanent reminder of what happens when safety takes a backseat to tradition.

Boris dabs at the mess on his tie with a monogrammed handkerchief, his face flushing red. The color deepens the network of broken capillaries across his nose—souvenirs from decades of vodka and entitlement.

“As I was saying,” I continue, voice steady despite the rage bubbling beneath my sternum, “the cloaking system isn’t just an upgrade. It’s a complete paradigm shift.”

Father understood this.

He rebuilt Pavlov Industries from the ground up, turning a stagnant yacht-building dynasty into something greater.

The old guard—my uncle chief among them—still clings to tradition like a life raft, never realizing it’s what’s dragging us under.

For three generations, the Pavlovs built luxury vessels for people with more money than God. Father expanded into materials engineering, military contracting, global logistics.

He understood evolution.

Now, he’s gone, and I’m the only one fighting to preserve his vision.

The vote takes fifteen minutes. I watch the hands rise one by one. Rahman, Xiao, Weiss—all in favor. Mother abstains, her face carved from marble. No surprise there. Fulton and Malevich side with Boris against.

I don’t need the official count. The weight of their combined shares ensures my defeat.

Boris clears his throat, folding his hands over his considerable stomach. “Perhaps in time, Oleg,” he reassures in that patronizing tone that makes me want to put my fist through his teeth. “The board simply feels that such a… dramatic shift… requires more consideration.”

What he means is, Stay in your lane, boy. I run this company now.

“Of course.” I gather my materials. The beast inside me paces and snarls, but I keep it leashed.

For now.

“I’m hosting dinner on The Anastasia tonight,” Boris announces, already moving on. “Seven o’clock. Dorothy, Rodney—you’ll join us?” His gaze slides over to me, challenge glinting in his eyes. “Oleg?”

“I have prior commitments.” The lie comes smoothly.

Let him think I’m sulking.

Let him underestimate me.

I’ve killed men before. At seventeen, Father took me to Moscow to connect with our roots. I earned my place among the Bratva brothers there—proved my worth in ways that would make these soft American executives piss themselves.

A bullet would solve the Boris problem permanently.

But I’m playing a longer game now.

I slide my tablet into its leather case, already recalculating. I’ll need allies. Capital. A corporate structure that can handle military contracts.

Most importantly, I’ll need patience—the one virtue I’ve never managed to master.

“Another time, then.” Boris shrugs, dismissive.

I nod, my face giving nothing away. There won’t be another time.

Not on his terms, anyway.

Father built this company brick by brick. I won’t watch it crumble because an old man can’t see past his own reflection.

I hope Boris chokes on his fucking dinner.

In the meantime, I have work to do.

But I don’t quite manage to reach it. Mother snares me before I can escape the executive floor.

She moves like a predator—all poise and purpose, no wasted motion—as she ushers me into her office with a grip that belies her delicate wrists.

“A moment, Oleg.”

Not a request. Never a request with her.

Her office is a study in calculated intimidation. Antique Russian furniture with fanged edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Palm Beach’s skyline. Awards and photos strategically placed to remind visitors of exactly who they’re dealing with.

Oksana Pavlova didn’t climb to the upper echelons of male-dominated industries by accident.

She closes the door with a soft click that somehow sounds like a jail cell locking.

“You know,” she says, settling behind her desk, “it would be a lot cheaper to get married and have children than to keep sinking millions into one-upping your uncle.”

I lean against the credenza, arms folded across my chest. This again.

The marriage gambit.

“An angry ex-wife could easily take half my fortune,” I counter. “That’s substantially more than the money I’ve invested so far.”

Mother waves the thought away “Don’t piss off your wife, then. And get an iron-clad prenup.”

The morning light catches on her amber eyes—my eyes, our family’s eyes.

She leans forward, voice dropping low. “With a wife and heir, you can wrest power from Boris and take your rightful place as pakhan. If you prove you’re serious about carrying on the family legacy, the rest of the family in Russia will force him to retire.”

There’s a hunger in her expression I recognize all too well. She’s sensed weakness—blood in the water. She believes she’s closer than ever to securing my capitulation on this particular front.

Since Father’s death twelve years ago, she’s been waging a silent war against Uncle Boris. The throne, in her mind, should have passed directly to me, not sideways to my father’s brother.

“The Pavlov name needs continuity, Oleg.” She reaches for her phone, tapping at the screen with manicured nails.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t bother looking. I know exactly what she’s sent—more profiles of “suitable wives” for her wayward son to consider. Polished, accomplished women with the right backgrounds, the right connections, and the right level of malleability.

“Not my type,” I tell her without bothering to look.

Her answering smile is glacial. “At this point, I don’t care. Marry the first damn woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.” She pauses, eyeing me. “I know you have it in you.”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it.

If my mother had seen the last woman I’d laid eyes on, she’d be whistling a different tune.

Heat surges through my body at the memory—the daycare teacher in the locker room yesterday. Feisty. Curves that didn’t quit.

And absolutely, completely inappropriate.

The way she clutched those paper towels to her chest, defiance in her eyes even as her nipples betrayed her…

I shift my stance, trying to redirect the blood flow in my body.

“Okay,” my mother says, sensing advantage in my momentary distraction. “Think about this. If you marry a woman and she’s pregnant within the next year, I’ll throw all my shares, all my power, and a considerable chunk of cash at your anti-surveillance idea.”

That catches my attention. “Any woman I choose?”

She swallows audibly, the only tell in her perfect poker face. “Yes.”

I can’t control my laughter then. Mother has never approved of my revolving door of lovers—the models, the actresses, the socialites—but she knows I have my reasons for keeping it casual.

Which is precisely why her desperation amuses me. My reasons will never go away.

“It’s a generous offer.”

She leans even closer. “So you’ll do it?”

I take my time answering. Shoot my cuffs, dust invisible lint from my jacket.

Then I meet her gaze.

“No.”

Her face falls. “Oleg⁠—”

“I don’t like being manipulated, Maman,” I say, straightening to my full height. “And I don’t like being tied down. Not by you, not by Boris, and certainly not by a wife and family. I’ll fund this project on my own and I’ll reap the benefits on my own.”

She shakes her head, disappointment etching lines around her mouth. “Your pride may fill your bank account—but it will deplete your power, Oleg. It’s not a good exchange.”

I turn to leave, dismissing her warning.

Power isn’t something granted by others.

Power is a state of mind.

And my mind is made up.