“Alright,” Lev says, somewhere behind me. “Why the hell are you staying in this shithole?”
“It’s quiet,” I say.
Even now, my eyes are moving. Scanning the sidewalk across the lot. Some lights are on in her building; second floor, someone cooking. Faint clang of a pot. Dog barking from a unit further down. Something metallic hits the pavement behind the dumpster; probably a stray cat, or worse.
The street beyond is mostly empty, save for the slow crawl of an old Nissan with one headlight. It turns the corner and disappears.
Still no sign of her.
“It’s moldy. And sad. And there’s a leak in the ceiling.”
“Still quieter than a Bratva suite.”
He stands now. Joins me at the railing. “You do remember you own a building here, right? Full penthouse. Blackout elevator. Triple-layer windows. Panic room with a fridge better stocked than my apartment?”
I stare ahead.
His grin stretches. “Forgot, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Jesus, Anton. You’ve got a seven-figure hideout and you’re playing motel roulette next to a meth lab and a coyote den.”
“I needed to disappear.”
“You could disappear in Egyptian cotton and a tub with water pressure that strips paint.”
I shake my head, more to myself than to him. But Lev’s not done. Not even close.
He watches me for a beat, then huffs out something close to a laugh. “Of course. The noble act. Go low. Blend in. Remind yourself what dirt tastes like.”
He’s pacing now. Not for effect; he’s wound up.
“You remember what it was like, don’t you? When we had nothing? One burner phone. Sleeping in shifts. Dima stitching you up with kitchen thread because we couldn’t risk a hospital. All of us thinking that if we made it one more month, we’d quit. Start over. Go legit.”
I tap a knuckle once against the railing. Lev notices. Always does.
“We didn’t quit,” he says. “We built it. The shell companies, the casinos, the maid supply front, the fucking logistics firm that moves real freight now. And for what? So you can crawl into a closet and play dead while the rest of us hold the line?”
Still, I say nothing.
He takes one step closer, voice lower now. “You want to be loyal to Igor? Fine. But you know why we’re here. For you. Not Igor. So don’t forget who you are. Not even for him.”
I glance down at the street below. Two kids stand by the corner store’s busted soda machine, passing a bag of chips back and forth, heads on a swivel for whoever might take it from them. Same look I remember wearing once. Hungry but trying not to look it.
I turn back to Lev. He’s waiting. Tired, annoyed, but steady as always.
He’d die for me. So would Dima. Boris too, wherever the hell he’s holed up tonight. We survived too much together to break now. I’d bleed for them the same way, no question. But that’s not what this is about.
“Done?” I ask.
Lev doesn’t smile. Just tilts his head, like he’s weighing whether it’s worth pushing more.
“Tell me honestly,” he says. “Why are we here?”
I look past him, out at the street again. Not because I’m done listening… because I heard every word.
“Why?” he adds.
