The words “eye for an eye” are written in dried blood on the wall.
The scene is grotesque and unsettling, even for me. I can’t imagine how horrified Terina would have been if she’d seen this. I’m so fucking grateful she’s not here.
I’m grateful and enraged.
But this sort of anger isn’t explosive. This is the sort of deep-rooted fury that goes white-hot and silent like magma ready to pour down a mountain and annihilate an entire city with slow and steady totality.
No survivors.
No mercy.
The thing that bothers me most is knowing whoever came here knew Terina wasn’t here. They came prepared to stage this scene with the intent to terrorize an innocent woman. They’re playing with us, and I hate games.
This motherfucker’s days are numbered.
I make a couple of calls to get cleaners sent up—the professional kind who handle this sort of stuff under the radar—and let Renzo know what I’ve found. While I wait for the crew to arrive, I scour the hallway security footage from the cameras I installed. I didn’t use motion sensors because they can malfunction, which means I'll have to go through hundreds of hours of footage.
I haven’t spotted the perpetrator entering by the time the crew arrives, so I put that on the back burner to continue once I return home. Once I’m comfortable leaving, I set out late afternoon for the dive bar known as The Half-Mast. It’s located in the outskirts of Little Odessa in Brooklyn, which houses the largest concentration of Russian immigrants.
The bar is a locals-only joint. Not that tourists wouldn’t be allowed, but it’s doubtful any would walk through the door voluntarily. The exterior isn’t exactly inviting, with its unlit metal sign bolted to the orange brick building and its blacked-out windows revealing nothing about what goes on within.
The interior is an eclectic mix of tarnished old-world relics and smoke-stained modern conveniences. It suits the handful of individuals currently patronizing the establishment like a worn leather recliner molded to its owner’s body after decades of use.They’re a hardened, rugged lot who don’t look at all pleased with my appearance.
Zero fucks given, I make my way to the bar and order Grisha’s favorite vodka because it’s a niche make that might gain me a tiny bit of goodwill.
“You new to the area?” the bartender asks, paying particular attention to the tattoos on my arms. The Russian underworld uses tattoos more than the rest of us to signal status and allegiance. He’s likely looking to discern whether I’ve been sent by a rival from out of town.
I down the shot and motion for another. “Not exactly.”
The heavyset man, about ten years older than me, refills my glass rather than dirtying a clean one. “Maybe you’re not new to the city, but you’re new here.”
“I am.” Keeping my eyes on him until the last moment, I down the second shot. “I’m looking for a man named Misha Savin. Ever heard of him?”
No reaction. He doesn’t even blink. And the rest of the room seems to have gone noticeably silent as well.
Excellent.
I’ve come to the right place.
The man takes the vodka bottle and sets it on a shelf below the counter out of sight. It seems the bar has closed where I’m concerned.
“You’re brave to walk in here asking questions,” he says with an amused tilt to his head and steel in his eyes.
The scrape of chairs sounds behind me.
I’ve found over the years that men seem to find my size a personal challenge, as though by merely being tall and built that I have insulted their masculinity. People fucking love to fight me. Most of the time, it’s a pain in my ass. Today, it’s a welcome relief. I have a shit ton of tension I’d love to work off while rearranging some faces.
I stretch my neck from one side to the other, then turn to face my opposition.
The two men flanking me don’t even give me a chance to fully turn before one throws a punch. The only problem is, my arm is already in motion to block. I deflect his strike and nail him with one of my own. As he flails backward, his buddy tosses a punch with a roar, but he’s not positioned well to get any real heat behind the strike. My head pops to the side briefly before returning my pissed-off attention to him. His eyes widen and nostrils flare.
That’s right, asshole. You’re in over your head.
Both are young and smaller than me. They probably thought they had the advantage since it’s two-to-one. They were mistaken.
I backhand the shit stain with my fist, sending him crashing to the wooden floor, where he stays motionless.
The first guy is a better fighter, and now that he’s recovered from my right hook, he’s snarling for more.
