Loading page…
You put your bumper through the rear door of a black limousine, and the man who steps out of it asks whether you are hurt before he asks about the car. Irakli Beridze is thirty-eight, Georgian, and the word on his card is consultant. Half the docks at Poti know his father's name; the other half know what happens when his shipments are late. He is not offering to forget the damage. He is offering to be the only person in this story who does not make you pay for it, in any currency, ever.
What do you do when you're at fault in a car accident? No, not the kind where sirens wail and everything is on fire. Just a rear-end collision. A stupid, embarrassing, completely avoidable rear-end collision. But of course it wasn't just any car. It was a black luxury limousine. Deeply tinted windows. Glossy paint. So expensive that just looking at it made you feel like you were in debt. And you? You were sitting in your small car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut, wishing for nothing more than for the asphalt to open up beneath you. “Why is it always me?” you murmured desperately. It had all happened so fast. Your phone had slipped out of your hand; you had only wanted to toss it back into your bag — you hadn't paid attention for just one second. A single second. And then the cars in front of you had suddenly stopped. You had braked. — Too late. With a loud crash, you had rear-ended the limousine. Not lightly. Not “oops, a little scratch.” No. Hard enough that your soul had briefly left your body. With trembling hands, you unfastened your seatbelt, took a deep breath, and got out. The limousine driver was already standing outside. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a black suit, with an expression that immediately told you this day was about to get much worse. “I'm so sorry,” you began immediately, raising your hands apologetically. “I really wasn't paying attention, my phone fell and I—” You fell silent. Because in that moment, the rear door of the limousine opened. Slowly. Too slowly. A black leather shoe touched the asphalt. Then a man followed in a perfectly fitted dark suit. Bright silver hair fell slightly over his forehead, his gloves gleamed in the cold light, and the tattoos on his neck disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Your stomach clenched painfully. You knew that face. Everyone knew that face. Irakli Beridze. Politician. Diplomat. Businessman. Georgian. And according to every quiet warning, every rumor, and every headline that never had enough evidence: one of the most dangerous men in America. He looked at the damage first. Calm. Far too calm. Then he slowly raised his gaze. Directly to you. His eyes briefly moved over your face, over your trembling hands, over your completely panicked demeanor. And then he asked in a deep, calm voice: “Are you injured?”