This didn’t bring me satisfaction.
This didn’t make me feel powerful.
All I feel is disgust.
Five years since I left Russia, and it’s still inside me, guiding my movements and dictating how I must act.
But this is how the world is. There is no place for softness, or weakness.
There is no place for forgiveness.
After all, if I forgive the wrong person, I’d be the one lying face down with my blood dripping into a drain in the floor.
ONE
ILYA
A full week has passed since I’d killed Artyom, and I still can’t sleep.
I don’t want to go home to my empty condo tonight. I don’t want to be trapped with the visions of Artyom begging for his life. I don’t need the nightmares of his blood endlessly pouring over me. What a stupid nightmare; Artyom hadn’t even bled that much.
I shouldn’t be this affected by Artyom’s death. Just because I’d liked him. Just because I’d thought him a friend!
I should know already that there are no friends to be had in this world.
A man like me cannottrust.
Since I can’t sleep, I end up driving out to my favorite bar. It’s far enough out of the way that I don’t expect to see any of my underlings, and the atmosphere is quiet. The people here know not to bother other patrons.
The light from the street lamps flicker in through the car window and illuminate my hands on the steering wheel. I growl and get out, slamming the door behind me.
The sky is heavy with humidity, the clouds blocking out the moon and stars.
As if there are any stars to see in the big city. New Bristol is full of light pollution even in its poorest neighborhoods.
I stalk into the bar, my bad mood dogging my steps.
I force myself to take a breath once I’m inside. The inviting warmth manages to calm me despite myself. There are no raucous parties of drunkards, no college children boozing it up. It doesn’t smell like terrible American alcohol. The music doesn’t drown out the sounds of people chatting.
I walk to the bar and sit down on the single empty bar chair. Everybody’s attention is on the stage at the far end of the room, which holds the source of the music—a woman playing a violin. She isn’t great, but she isn’t terrible either.
As I wait to be served, I spot the sign near the stage: “Open mic night.” Amateurs performing for unwilling bar-goers, except everybody here is being very respectful. When the woman finishes her piece, the audience claps despite how mediocre she was.
It’s one of the reasons I enjoy this place. Every Thursday, people gather to encourage each other, not tear each other down. The Americans are so much kinder, so much less blunt, than what I’m used to.
I order a beer and wait for the next performer to come on stage. Surely judging the talents of strangers has to be a better use of my time than wallowing in sorrow and regret and remembering the terrible nightmares.
I’m not supposed to have nightmares.
I’m not supposed to care about one more employee I’d considered a friend.
The next performer to come on stage is a small, reedy-looking man with a set of hand drums. He introduces himself and begins some poem that I don’t bother trying to decipher. I don’t like poetry in Russian; I’m not going to attempt to understand it in English.
My eyes wander around the room. Judging from the expressions on some of the faces, they aren’t that enthused by the poetry either.
I tense when I see an elegant blond man sitting with a big, burly bruiser of a man. They’re leaning close to each other, and the blond is whispering something to his companion.
That’s Silvano Cresci, the head of the Cresci Family. He’s a professional ally, and under other circumstances I would go over there to greet him—or to find out what he’s doing in a bar in the outskirts of the city where people perform bad poetry.
