“Another hundred thousand on top of our deal, yes,” the masked man answers in his deep Russian accent. “What is the original deal?” I ask, my voice quiet as every man in the room stares at me. “Half a million and three month's worth of weapon supply,” Frankie responds. I can hear the amusement in his tone. “If we’re taking care of the paperwork and getting the girls to you, plus providing weapons, why would we pay you anymore?” I idly trace one of Frankie’s tattoos that thread across the back of his thumb, I keep my focus on Mikhail.
