Lydia approached silently and began placing down the glasses.
The Russian was speaking fast, his dialect rough, his cadence clipped by anger. Peterson translated in a strained voice.
“He says the shipping fees are too high, Mr. Cross. He says the route guarantees are inadequate.”
Damon did not look at Peterson. He kept his attention fixed on the Russian, as though he preferred reading danger from the source.
“Tell him the price is fixed,” Damon said. “And tell him the routes are secured through Newark and Red Hook. If he wants protection, he pays for it.”
Peterson relayed the message. The Russian laughed and slammed his palm on the table, then barked out another sentence, louder this time, his eyes flashing toward Damon and then the exit.
Peterson swallowed.
“He says he’ll take his contracts to the Triads if you don’t reduce your fee by twenty percent.”
Lydia’s hand stopped over the glass.
Because that was not what he had said at all.
She had studied Russian for years. Not classroom Russian. Real Russian. Regional shifts. criminal slang. historical variants. She knew the sentence as clearly as if it had been spoken into her own ear.
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