Page 102 of Violent Pawn

“Last night, but not a lot since I returned from Moscow late. Elio dragged me out of the house this morning before I had a sip of anything.”

“Prior to your trip?”

“Dunno. Hours before leaving for Moscow. Withdrawal is a bitch, by the way. The flight sucked.” Maybe I should have flown with Zeno because we’d be on the private jet, where no one cares if I’m passed out intoxicated.

Though, besides the symptoms, it’s been pleasant having a clearer mind.

“So, what you’re saying is you’ve only had a few drinks over the past few days, but have been clean otherwise?”

“Where are you going with this, Z?” My tone sharpens, telling him to back down.

“Nowhere. Making conversation, that’s all.”

“Do it with your fiancée.” I end the call before he finds more reason to dissect the life I’d prefer to burn within.

51

ANASTASIA

April

Lost in a few files at work, I miss Sasha entering my office and dropping a shoebox in front of me. “Delivery.” She leaves as quickly and silently as she entered.

I glance up from my paperwork at the popular-brand shoebox with a single strip of tape sealing it shut. There definitely aren’t shoes inside, that I feel with absolute certainty.

When I drag the box closer, a foul odor hits my nostrils, sending a hand straight over my mouth and nose to prevent my gagging from resulting in something. Whatever’s inside is probably about to ruin my day, and with a bated breath filled with dread, I rip the tape off.

Red.

A lot of it.

A bag filled with red—the source of the smell. While a part of me wants to bolt, I lift it to inspect.

An organ.

Blyat.

It falls back into the box, and I slam the lid over the stench to start killing it off. I rush to the other side of the room, near the door, sucking in deep inhales until the scent of death fades. Whoever sent it is getting a bill for the professional cleaning this place needs.

The mystery of the box eventually draws me back to the desk. It’s an organ, but which one—do I really want to know, though?

“Why me?” I grumble aloud as I reopen the box. Distracted the first time by the very prominent item in it, I miss the black notebook beneath the container. I yank it out, shut the offending box for the final time, and return to the door, this time parting it a couple inches to let in fresher air.

A folded-up piece of paper is jammed into the middle of the book. When I tug it out, the notebook fall opens naturally, revealing the pages that have been opened and shut many times with years of writing.

Familiar writing.

Papa’s writing.

“What the fuck?”

I flip through the notebook, bypassing notes and ledgers about money coming in and out of his accounts—none of it overly interesting. Nothing to explain why this was delivered, who sent it, and why a body part was included.

I keep flipping, stopping on a page marked L with a list of dates and numbers jotted beside them. Dates I recognize as being when Papa threw Lev into prison and the length of each stay.

My finger scans them, counting the days until landing on a total. At the bottom, I return to the top to reread it as I envision the asshole sitting at a desk, gleefully recording all his hatred for his son. Did he even wait to get home after dropping Lev off before recording his treachery?

“Papa, you fucking psycho.”