Maksim:
Now watching ‘Cars.’ Kid says you’d be the angry red one.
I smile. At least someone’s having fun.
The Audi’s right on my ass now. Through the mirror, I can see Scarface gripping his steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it.
Enough playing around.
I slam on the brakes. The Audi swerves, nearly kissing a streetlight. I floor it, watching him scramble to catch up.
Suka, this is actually kind of fun.
We dance through the streets, my Brabus against his Audi. He’s good, but not good enough. Not Bratva good.
So, who the fuck is he?
Everyone knows that trying to clip my wings is a death sentence.
I glance in the rearview, catching a better look. His face is twisted with frustration, jaw clenched, white knuckles gripping the wheel. Desperation, maybe. But who the hell is desperate enough to follow me alone?
Unless…
Unless they don’t know who they’re dealing with.
Now that’s an interesting thought.
I check my mirror again. Scarface is sweating now, his face twisted in concentration.
Time to end this.
I take a hard left onto Canal Street, then immediately cut right into an alley. The Brabus barely fits, but that’s the point. The Audi’s wider, heavier.
The sound of scraping metal tells me I was right.
I burst out onto the next street, leaving Scarface wedged in the alley like a fat cat in a drainpipe.
Pulling into a spot behind the dollar store, I grab my phone.
Me:
Got a rat trapped on Canal and Bourbon. Send cleanup crew.
Maksim replies instantly:
On it, boss.
Blyat.
I check my Glock, sliding it back into its holster. The street’s mostly empty—just a couple of tourists too drunk to notice it’s barely noon. Perfect.
Adjusting my sunglasses, I step out into the weak October sun. My shoes crunch on broken glass as I approach the alley. The Audi’s wedged tight, black paint scraped raw against both walls. But Scarface? He’s just sitting there, hands on the wheel at ten and two, like he’s waiting for a fucking driving test.
Something’s off.
Most people panic when they’re caught.
Thissuka? He’s just sitting there, staring at me through the windshield. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reclines his seat all the way back.
