I pick up my phone and scroll, hitting call when I find his name.
“This better be good. I’m with our girl.” His tone is lighthearted. Guilt tugs in my gut— knowing my next words will eviscerate that feeling.
“I found them,” is all I say. He’ll know exactly who I’m referring to. Ever since that day in the car, he’s known I’ve been searching.
“Fuck! When?” he asks, his joking demeanor vanishing.
“King is on it. He’ll be here within a day.”
The line goes silent. I have to pull the phone from my ear to make sure it’s still connected.
“I’ll be there,” Owen states and disconnects the call.
* * *
I watchon my screen as the slumped form of Lenkov is carried in a body bag through the service elevator of the Tombs.
“Is-is that really him?” Owen questions.
“Yes, that’s the fucker.
I turn to my friend— my brother and see a sheen of sweat beading on his forehead.
“O,” I start, “if this is too much for you, I go-.”
He cuts me off. “I’m fucking fine. There’s not a chance in hell I’d miss this opportunity,” he snaps.
I know his anger isn’t at me— it’s at the sick twisted dead man walking or, in this case, being carried.
The unknown of what they did to him sets my teeth on edge. I keep replaying the events of that day over and over. Was there something I could’ve done differently? Why did we follow Sam outside? How come it took so long for someone to find him? Should I have fought harder? The questions play on an endless loop in my mind, and as I take in the rigid posture of Owen— I wish for the umpteenth time it was me instead of him that stayed behind that day.
The door slides open, and King steps through, two of his men trailing behind him carrying the body-sized bag containing Aleksi.
“Privet, droog moy. It’s good to see you again,” King says, his Russian accent heavy as he extends his hand in greeting, and I return the gesture.
We aren’t friends, but we aren’t enemies either. I’m just not telling this disturbed fuck that.
King is a ruthless bastard. After he was almost killed by his uncle in order to take his spot for Pakhan, he moved to America to start over. Now he’s built one of the largest Bratvas stateside.
“King,” I reply, nodding my head in Owen’s direction. “You remember Owen.”
He steps back, exposing his massive wolf throat tattoo. Its open maw spans the entirety of his neck, the upper teeth lining King’s jaw, with the canines dripping in blood like the wolf just had a fresh kill. It’s often the last thing his victims see before their end. King jokes that he has to feed his beast before a kill.
King turns to greet Owen, “Of course, I do. Good to see you again.”
“You too,” Owen responds, the earlier strain in his voice gone, but when I look at him, I can see him fighting to keep it together.
I turn to watch as King’s calculating electric-blue eyes study Owen, his jaw flexing, trying to determine if he’s friend or foe.
A loud thud shifts my attention to where his men have dropped Aleksi to the table.
King clears his throat, refocusing my attention on him as he adjusts the sleeve of his black shirt before running his hands through his inky-black hair. “I brought the fucking mudak. He thought he was safe behind his gates— it took me five minutes to get in and tranq the bitch,” he boasts. “So much for quality security measures.”
Owen snorts. “His fuck up is our party.” His statement makes King laugh.
King claps his hands together once, and states, “I’ll leave you both to it then. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Levi. Until next time.” Then he and his men exit the same way they entered.
Once the door slides closed, Owen and I stand there and just look at the unmoving form still zipped in the bag. Neither one of us moves.
