I pull my sunglasses down and do what I always do—scan. First sweep: exits, cover points, blind spots. Second sweep: people, patterns, problems. Third sweep: anything that doesn’t belong.
It’s muscle memory now. Nineteen years of staying alive in a world where paranoia isn’t a disorder; it’s job security.
Blyat.
The rearview catches movement: two men walking past behind the car. Neon vests, sun-worn skin, callused hands. The kind of quiet you get from people who’ve been up since four and still have twelve hours ahead. One’s pulling a dented red cooler. The other lights a cigarette with fingers stained from grease or factory dye.
They don’t look into the car. Just walk. Purpose in their step. No hesitation, no curiosity.
Good.
But the habit gnaws at me anyway. Twenty years ago, I was watching corners because the streets would eat you alive if you didn’t. Ten years ago, I was watching because rival families had prices on heads. Now? I’m watching because my ownPakhanhas trust issues.
Igor’s paranoia is bleeding into mine. The old bastard sees traitors in his breakfast cereal and enemies in his shadow. Buthere’s the thing: when you’ve spent two decades cleaning up his messes, making his problems disappear, earning every ounce of respect through blood and precision, you start to wonder why you’re still the one being watched.
I earned my place. Carved it out of flesh and fear. I’m not his fucking nephew who inherited a chair. I’m not some boyhood friend who got lucky. I clawed my way up from a Brighton Beach gutter to second-in-command through nineteen years of saying “yes” to jobs that would break most men.
And still, he doesn’t trust me.
Still, I get white Nissans tailing me to diners.
The Desert Palms complex looks like it’s been baking in rot since the Reagan era. Stucco flaking like sunburn. Paint long surrendered to the Vegas sun. One of the railings on the second floor is held together with what looks like a bungee cord.
Perfect.
A skinny mutt tugs its leash toward the Charger, sniffs once, then lets out a sharp bark. The owner—a guy in basketball shorts and a backward hat—jerks the leash and mutters something. The dog stops barking, but it keeps staring.
I stare back through the dark lenses.
A moment passes. The guy notices. Palms go up in a little “no trouble” gesture. Then he pulls the mutt along and disappears behind a dumpster.
The rearview mirror stays empty after that. No sign of the white Nissan. Not yet.
I exhale through my nose, slow. Pull off the sunglasses and tuck them into my jacket.
I grab my duffel from the passenger seat and head toward the stairwell. No elevator until I’ve swept the building myself. The stairwell smells of piss and fresh bleach. Someone tried to clean, failed halfway. There’s a boot print in the grime on the second step. Small. Lighter than mine.
“Hey.”
I stop short at the turn.
A guy leans against the wall just past the second landing. Ball cap pulled low, grocery bag dangling from one hand. Something inside clinks—cans. His other hand scratches at the patchy stubble along his jaw.
“You movin’ in?”
He’s watching me. Not friendly. Just curious. Maybe a little too curious.
I don’t answer.
He stares a second longer. Smirks like he’s trying to place me. Or provoke me. Then shrugs and turns toward his door.
“Cool,” he mutters, disappearing inside without closing it all the way.
I keep climbing. Third floor hallway stretches like a morgue corridor; peeling numbers on doors, faded runner that reeks of industrial carpet cleaner and failed dreams. Someone’s left a mountain of yellowed phone books outside their door. Another unit sports a “Bless This Mess” sign hanging crooked above the peephole.
Halfway down, I spot a drift of mail scattered on the floor outside 3B. Bills mostly. Collection notices. A few pieces still sealed, but most have been torn open and discarded. The dates span three months. No forwarding address sticker on the door.
Whoever lived here bailed fast.
