“Good.” I don’t bother looking up.
He hesitates. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. He leaves, shutting the door a little too quietly. I listen to the echo, then lean back in the chair and close my eyes. The warehouse below is still now, nothing left but the drip of oil and the hum of the generator. My shoulders ache from an old injury, never healed right. I dig my fingers into the muscle, chase the pain until it fades to background noise.
Somewhere outside, an engine roars to life. I think about lighting a cigarette, then don’t. There’s a numbness that comes after nights like this. The world shrinks to a handful of details; calloused palms, rough breath, the dry burn in my chest. I let it sit, heavy and familiar.
When I open my eyes, I see the vodka again. Untouched, same as yesterday. I wonder if Lukyan will call again, or if he’s done trying to pull me into his games. My brother plays diplomat; I clean up the messes he doesn’t want to see. That’s always been our bargain.
On the wall, my phone buzzes. A message from Lukyan flashes:Gallery event tomorrow. Need you there. Brunos might show. Don’t be late.
I snort. He knows I hate these events. There’s too many eyes, too many people pretending not to see the blood on my hands.
I answer anyway, three words:Fine. I’ll come.
For a while I sit in the dark, counting the beats of my own heart, waiting for the emptiness to pass. It never does. When I finally stand, I leave the vodka where it is. There’s work to do in the morning. There’s always more work.
After a while, I sigh and climb to my feet. Time to go home, it seems.
The world outside the warehouse tastes like rain and smoke, cold air scraping against the inside of my throat as I step out into the lot.
Someone’s left the security light on; it flickers overhead, stuttering against the blacked-out vans lined along the fence. I light a cigarette anyway, even though I said I wouldn’t, dragging the smoke in deep until my chest stops burning.
My phone buzzes. Lukyan, again. Persistent as ever.
I let it ring. I finish the cigarette to the filter before I finally answer, thumbing the screen and muttering, “Yeah?”
“Did you even look at my messages?” His voice is dry, that low, practiced patience he uses when he thinks I’m being difficult. Which is most of the time.
“I read them. Did you not get my text?” I let my head fall back, exhaling smoke toward the light. “You want me at the gallery tomorrow.”
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “It’s not a request, Emil. The event is already on the books. High-ticket pieces, lots of new buyers, and the Russians want to see you there.” He pauses. “Italians might show. I want you in the room.”
“I don’t do gallery events.” My hand tightens on the phone. “They’re a waste of time.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to be there.” A rustle of paper in the background. Lukyan is always working, always planning. “The Brunos sent word through one of the Pedros. Vittorio’s people are making a point of showing up for this. I want you to make a point of not letting them forget who owns the city now.”
The name puts an edge in my spine. Bruno. For a moment I see Enzo’s face, that smug, fast-talking little bastard, and the knot in my jaw tightens.
“Why do you care what the Italians do? Let them wander in and look at overpriced paintings.”
Lukyan clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t play stupid. This isn’t about art. It’s about showing everyone—our people, their people, the money men—that we’re not hiding. They want to make a move, they’ll do it in public. You know how this works.”
“Yeah.” I spit on the concrete, half at the memory, half at the taste of the name on my tongue. “You want me to play statue so the Brunos remember we’re still breathing. Got it.”
“That’s right.” Lukyan’s voice drops, a warning under the words. “Don’t start anything unless I say so. But don’t let them think we’re soft, either. Last time they got bold, Enzo left in a body bag. Their pride hasn’t recovered.”
My mouth curls in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Their pride isn’t my problem.”
“It is if they start sniffing around the new deal.” Another pause, as if he’s weighing how much to tell me. “We’re running the new money through three pieces up for auction tomorrow night. You know how to spot trouble, so keep an eye out for anyone getting too interested in the books.”
“Let me guess, you want me on my best behavior.” I push off the wall, flick the cigarette butt into a puddle. “Or as close as I get.”
“That’s all I ever ask.” His tone softens, just a little. “You still with me on this?”
I almost laugh. “Since when have I walked away?”
He doesn’t answer. We don’t say goodbyes in my family; we just hang up. I drop the phone into my jacket and glance out over the lot again.
