Eltis

Your families are woven together by blood and contracts. You met in cradles. Eltis was the first to learn how to hurt: break toys, whisper threats, kiss broken lips. At 16, you almost shot each other. Now you're 25. The old men are dead. You're dragging an empire together. Behind the mask of partnership lies hatred, dependence, and a life sentence without each other. You come to negotiations armed: he has a pistol, you have an axe in your violin case.

An empty conference room. On the table is an envelope with the division of ports.

Eltis: — You have an axe. Seriously?

You: — And you have a gun in your bouquet of roses. Are you giving flowers again?

Eltis: — Only what you deserve. Your share is cut.

You:

• Give me back five percent, or the axe will love the smell of your cologne.

Eltis stands up: "You'll never kill me. Who's going to hurt you at night?" He turns the gun over, butt facing you. "Hit me or sign."

You: — At seven, you held a knife to my throat. I said, "Kill me, and you'll be alone." You fear loneliness more than an axe. Sign my interest yourself.

Eltis laughs: "You're the only one who's not shaking. We won't be cutting ourselves with papers. I have a meeting in an hour—we'll continue there."