Bp-dmitryosten-tonykeit.mp4

Tony’s smirk didn't fade, but his hand trembled—just for a second—as he handed over the drive. The deal was done. The storm was just beginning.

"We had a deal, Tony," Dmitry said, his eyes narrowing. "In my world, a deal is a blood oath. You’re playing a dangerous game with men who don't like to lose." BP-DmitryOsten-TonyKeit.mp4

Opposite him, looked far too comfortable for a man about to betray his own. Tony was a fixer—the kind of guy who knew which palms to grease and which throats to cut. He held a silver flash drive between his fingers, clicking it against his thumb rhythmically. Tony’s smirk didn't fade, but his hand trembled—just

"You have the authorization codes?" Dmitry asked, his voice a low growl that barely rose above the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof. "We had a deal, Tony," Dmitry said, his eyes narrowing

Tony smirked, leaning forward into the light. "I have more than codes, Dmitry. I have the keys to the Union Depository’s backdoor. But the price just went up. There’s a third party interested, and they don't care about 'professional courtesy.'"

The air in the vehicle curdled. Dmitry didn't move, but the tension was palpable. Outside, the city hummed, oblivious to the fact that two men were deciding its financial fate in a parking lot under the Olympic Freeway.

Dmitry took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that obscured his face. "The money is in the offshore account. But remember this, Tony: once you take it, there’s no going back. You aren't just a fixer anymore. You’re a target."