Brielle sidles up to Henri. “Is that two swears, or three?”
“Definitely three. Jesus and Christ are used separately a lot.” She looks at me with innocent eyes. “Like in church.”
“They let Satan go to church?” Hangman mutters.
King says, “She’s sucking you in, Prez. Stay strong.”
Joker intervenes as he points to a backless padded bench against a wall. “Sit there. Don’t move.” He pauses. “No banging around, no talking to anyone but each other. Keep your voices low.”
“And I thought Eight was bossy,” Henri says with a smirk as she sits primly on the bench. Brielle follows suit. They cross their arms simultaneously. “We’ll be waiting right here.”
“What’s goin’ on?” the fuck who cornered Zero says from the open door.
Hangman storms up to Makorov and slams his fist into the goon’s jaw. “That’s what’s goin’ on, you fuckin’ sonofabitch.”
Makorov reels back, then hits the floor. “Fuck. Christ. Bugger,” he moans as he writhes around. “I think you broke my fucking jaw.”
“You’re gettin’ off easy. You touch one of mine again, and I’ll cut your dick off and make you eat it.” Hangman steps over him. “And quit your fucking swearing. There’re kids present.”
He storms into the main suite, the rest of us following, looking like the thugs we are.
The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows brightens up the room like a fresh coat of paint. White leather furniture adds to the light and airy atmosphere. It contrasts weirdly with the so-called Pakhan, Denis Kozlov, and his troupe of assholes.
Kozlov is standing next to the bar, his posture relaxed, a sardonic smile on his lips. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and jeans. No tie and the shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off his overabundance of chest hair. His Barretta is clearly on display, tucked into a shoulder holster and he’s got more rings on his fingers than Hangman has. He also has more tattoos. But unlike Hangman, who has long curly hair that stretches half-way down his back, Kosloz is bald.
“The custom in Russia is to greet someone by saying, Hello,” he says dryly.
“Fuck your customs,” Hangman replies. “This is America.”
“Land of opportunities,” Kozlov murmurs as he waves towards the couch. “Please have a seat.”
Joker and Hangman are the only ones who sit. The rest of us station ourselves around the room like it’s been rehearsed. Stark and Hash move themselves behind Hangman and Joker while King leans up against the wall next to a closed door.
The three of my brothers have an air of menace. Stark is tight-lipped like me, but his hostile expression never varies. Hash is leaner and shorter than most of us and also the most unpredictable. He’ll either say something sarcastic or shove a knife into your eye.
King, older than the rest of us, is a scary-looking motherfucker even though he’s gentle as a lamb. Unless provoked.
I’m next to the entrance door, keeping my eye on Hangman and my ear on the lobby. In hindsight, I regret bringing Henri and Brielle. I think of all the shit that could happen to two unprotected girls. Anyone could come up the elevator and grab them before I could even react.
It’s too late to do anything about it and I’m snapped back to the present by Hangman’s gruff voice. “Let’s get on with it.”
Kozlov sits in an armchair opposite Hangman, crosses his legs and steeples his hands. A caricature of all the bad guys in movies. Without moving his gaze off the prez, he says, “Gleb, a round of vodka please.”
“Fuck vodka,” Hangman grunts. “I wanna beer. And none of that imported shit.”
Kozlov gives a brief nod, then looks expectantly at Joker.
“Vodka’s fine,” Joker says.
“Pussy,” Hangman mutters to him.
After Gleb distributes the vodka and beer, Hangman says, “Your goons fucked up one of my brothers.”
“Seems like your brother came out of it better than Makarov.”
“Keep that in mind for future. You fuck with us, we’ll give it back in triplicate.”
“Noted,” Kozlov replies.
