I let the images dissipate.They whisper away like the fog of my breath in the cold, autumn air.I step into the club, letting my eyes roam around the empty space.Like the outside of the building, the inside is equally unimpressive in the daytime.Daylight pours in from the open doorway.It falls over the black bar top, highlighting the scratches in its surface.It crawls over the red floors, revealing old stains that have seeped into the edges between the tiles.
I walk toward the back rooms, keeping my distance from the walls that seem unwilling to let go of the oily fingerprints of patrons past.I’m certain if I looked lower, I’d find smudges from sweaty asses embedded into the plaster.Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of yellow catches my attention from the end of a small hallway.Theemployee’s onlysign sits in the center of a metal door.It begs for my attention, leading me toward my target.The camera above it whirs, swiveling in my direction just before the door screeches open.
Two men scramble out, their chests puffed up and eyes sparkling with challenge.Their collective bulk fills the hallway, barring my entry.They widen their stances, challenging the strength of the seams of their jeans.As their arms flex under their shirts, the wordsecurityprinted on the front widens, as if the letters are trying to get away from each other.At the sight of their posturing, a chuckle erupts from my throat.
“Where's your boss?”I ask.
Unsurprisingly, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb don't tell me where their boss is.
“Ubey yego,” Dumb hisses.I don’t understand the word, but the way the letters smack against his tongue creates a sound that seems equally as harsh as what I assume it means.Dee jams a tattooed hand into his jeans, pulling out a Marakov pistol.He lunges with Dumb on his heels, until there's only inches between us.
His heavy breath puffs against my face.The smell of tobacco and peppermint is so strong that my eyes threaten to tear up.He shakes his head, dislodging a tendril of sandy-brown hair from his eye so that he can glare at me fully.His lips tip up into a satisfied smirk as the barrel of his gun presses into my forehead.
My toe drums against the floor with an audible tapping.“Are you sure this is how you want to play this?”
Dee increases the pressure on his gun, surely forcing a circular imprint into the skin between my eyes.Clearly, this is how he wants to play this.He wants to be the one who kills me and brings my head to his boss.Unfortunately for him, that’s not going to happen.My hand shoots up, snatching his wrist and wrenching the gun away from my head.I bend his hand back until his bone snaps and he howls in pain.
I throw my arm forward, yanking his along with it, and wrap my fingers around his.His buddy stands dumbfounded in front of me, eyes wide and mouth gaping.He reaches for his gun, but his twitchy fingers lose their grip, causing it to clatter to the floor.I raise Dee’s hand and squeeze the trigger with his finger.The shot penetrates Dumb’s skull.Bone fragments and chunks of scalp fly backward, splattering against the wall.
Dee lets out a pained wail as his knees crumple beneath him.He dangles awkwardly from the arm that’s still in my grasp, his face hovering over the floor.I jump back a step, narrowly avoiding the spray of vomit as he pukes his guts out onto the tile.After he heaves up his lunch, he turns his face toward me.My face splits into a grin as I look down at the cowering mess of a man.
“Brother….my brother,” he whispers.
“I did try to warn you.We could have avoided all of this if you had just shown me to Mikhail’s office.”His teary eyes widen as my words sink in.“Don’t worry.I’ll send you to your brother.”
I turn his wrist, feeling the damaged bones shift under his skin, and we squeeze the trigger one more time.I feel the warm wetness as his blood sprays my pant legs and boots.
“Fuck.”So much for keeping my shoes clean.
* * *
The door to Mikhail Volkov’s office pops open with a turn of the handle.The slightly misaligned hinges squeak, but offer no resistance.The man must feel confident in his safety to leave it unlocked.With it open fully, I can see why.
The head of the Volkov family sits behind a mahogany desk with his gun pointed square in the middle of my face.His aim doesn't waver as he rakes a hand though his silver hair.His eyes narrow, more wrinkles appearing at the edges.
I hold my palms up in front of me.“I'm just here to talk.”
He nods and places the gun down on his desk.He stands quietly, hiding the discomfort of his aging body.I still catch the slight twitch of his lip as he moves.He runs his palm down his navy blue, tailored suit, pressing out the creases.
He crosses the room to a small bar cart.With a wave of his hand and a quirk of his eyebrows, he offers me a drink.I shake my head, unwilling to chance this meeting coming to an end by poisoning.His hands are unhurried as he pours himself a glass of vodka.
“You killed someone very important to my organization, Mr.Alexander,” he says.
It's so rare that I hear my last name spoken that it feels foreign, like it doesn't belong to me.Ava Alexander, the name whispers through my mind.It's beautiful, perfect for my little bird.
Mikhail must notice the shock on my face because he grins.“I know the names of my enemies, son.”
“I'm not your enemy.”I look him straight in the eye, willing him to see the truth of my words.
His eyes flash with surprise for a second before they turn cold.He motions to a large television on the wall that displays the feeds from several security cameras around the club.In one of them, the bloodied corpses of his men lay sprawled over the dirty floor.
He chuckles in a way that conveys no humor.“Is that so?”
“I was given false information on a target,” I explain.“I didn't know he was one of yours.I was set up.”
He peers at me through narrowed eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line.“And who is it that gave you thisfalse information?”
“Bianca Rossi.”
