Kirill peers closer, then shakes his head. He steps back. "You're free to go."
"Great. Where's my shit?"
He points to a black bag on the table. "In there. But you don't get it back yet."
I vibrate with anger. "You're not keeping my wallet and shoes."
Arrogance washes over Kirill. "You will get them back when you take this seriously. Now leave on your own, or my guards will escort you out." He points past me.
I spin.
Four men with deadly scowls and built like brick houses stare at me.
I decide it's best to go quietly and not look back. I pass the guards, get on the elevator, and curse as it stops at every floor.
When I get outside, the cold gusts of wind nearly knock me over. I instantly regret not taking the hoodie out of the SUV, but luckily for me, my anger keeps me moving. Plus, it's not the first time I've walked in cold weather with barely anything on.
The déjà vu of my childhood comes roaring back. All the hustling, days of no food, nights spent in rain and snow, and every gangster face who wanted me as theirs are memories clawing through me.
I push past pedestrians, stomp around the corner, and the smell of rot in the alley makes me nauseous.
Two blocks down, a man wearing a thick coat and a gold chain yells, "Kid, come over here."
A scrawny boy about twelve cautiously approaches him.
When I get closer, I warn, "Careful, kid. You're his cheap labor or bait."
He pins tough, wide eyes on me.
"Mind your own business," the man threatens.
"Go to hell," I snarl, and keep moving.
It's all the same playground, just different predators. And I refused to be owned then, and I won't be now.
Then why do I feel cornered?
I didn't survive hell to kneel in another man's kingdom.
Sean's building appears before I realize I was heading toward it. I slip into the lobby when a group exits, and take the stairs, two at a time.
When I get to his apartment, I don't knock. The door's unlocked, and when I step inside, another round of rage hits me. "Jesus Christ."
Sean moves his head off the sofa pillow and winces.
I shut the door and assess him. One eye is swollen shut. The other hasa small slit. Both are purple and yellow. A blanket is half over him, and the rest of his body displays similar bruises and swelling.
He sighs in relief. "Thank God you're alive."
"You got a lot of talking to do," I state.
"You shouldn't have followed me," he asserts.
"Little late for that now," I point out, then add, "You look like shit."
A broken chuckle escapes him. He winces again.
I lift the blanket, asking, "Your ribs broke?"
