My stomach turned.
Gennady reached up and brushed one loose strand of hair near my shoulder. I jerked away before he could touch skin.
His face went flat. “Careful.”
“No, I understand exactly what you mean.”
His brows lifted. “You’re telling me no?”
“No, I’m not going anywhere private with you. No, I’m not working off Petya’s debt on my back. No, I’m not pretending I don’t understand what you’re asking because you dressed it up as a favor.”
For a second, his face went still.
Then he laughed softly.
“So much pride in a waitress uniform.”
I stepped sideways, putting the mop sink behind me instead of the wall. “Move.”
“You should be sweeter to the man who can save your brother.”
“You’re the man threatening him.”
“Threatening?” He spread his hands. The rings shone under the corridor light. “I’m offering terms.”
“I don’t accept them.”
His eyes hardened. “You will.”
The rear door opened behind his man, and cold air swept into the corridor. Two kitchen staff came in carrying a crate between them, shoulders wet from the rain. Gennady didn’t move right away. He made me stand there and wait for the space to become public enough to breathe.
Then he stepped aside.
“Three days,” he said. “Tell Petya I’m done being patient.”
I walked past him without running.
Outside, the rain had turned thin and needling. It hit my face, slid under my collar, and cooled the sweat at my neck. The alley smelled like wet cardboard and old grease. I didn’t stop until I reached the corner, under a broken awning where the streetlight flickered over puddles.
My wrist still carried the shape of his fingers.
I took my phone out with wet fingers and called Petya.
He didn’t answer.
I called again.
He still didn’t answer.
By the third call, my breath had gone shallow. I shoved the phone into my coat pocket and headed for the train.
Our building sat on a block where the wind came mean off the water and every gate sagged on tired hinges. The front lock stuck unless you lifted the door as you turned the key. The hall smelled like old paint, damp wool, and someone’s boiledcabbage from two floors up. A television shouted through one wall. A baby cried below us. The radiator clanked like it resented being asked for heat.
I climbed the stairs because the elevator had been broken since October.
By the time I reached our door, my thighs shook. I unlocked the first deadbolt, then the second, then the cheap chain Petya had installed crooked after a man waited outside last month asking for him by name.
The apartment was dark except for the blue flicker of the television with the sound off.
