“No, you can’t bring the buyers to Ural, Sergei,” I say into the phone and sigh. “Why the hell not? Did you look outside? It’s fucking freezing. My balls are going to fall off if I take them to the unheated warehouse and have to listen to their rambling for more than ten minutes.” “The last time you conducted a meeting in my club, the cleaning crew spent two hours trying to wash away the blood and brain matter from the VIP booth.” “That was years ago, Pasha!” he barks. “And you changed the upholstery to dark leather last month. Washing the blood off that is a piece of cake.” “I said no.”
