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Belov spits blood onto the bumper. “Fuck you.”
I take hold of the little finger on his broken hand.
“The Maximov docks are closed to him.” I bend it backward until it snaps. He screams. “Every cent he paid Volkov, he can consider a donation to the family in their time of grief.” The next finger. “And if he sends another man onto Maximov property, or near a Maximova, or anywhere I can smell him...” The third. “I'll come and deliver my answer to him personally.”
Belov is sobbing now. Gasping. His gloved hand hangs at a wrong angle.
“Do you understand?”
He nods frantically against the grille.
I let him go. He slides down the front of the truck and lands in a puddle.
“Take the trucks,” I tell his men, without looking at them. “And take him. Leave Volkov.”
They scramble. It takes them less than a minute to haul Belov into the cab of the nearest truck and start the engines. The trucks pull away one after another, headlights sweeping across the yard, until there's nothing left on the north dock but rain and exhaust and Volkov whimpering on the concrete.
I look at Timur.
He nods once, and he and Kolya lift Volkov by his arms and carry him toward the car.
“Where are they taking him?”
Arina's voice. Quiet, close behind me.
I turn around.
She's standing in the floodlights exactly where I left her, rain soaking into her hair, her coat open over the black dress she wore to dinner. Her face is very pale.
She saw all of it. Every second.
I wait for her to step back. To look at me the way people look at me when they've just seen what I do. That flicker of calculation. The way they start measuring the distance to the door.
“Do you want me to answer that?” I ask.
She looks at the car. At Volkov's legs disappearing into the back seat.
“No,” she says. “He’s mine to deal with.”
Timur and Kolya stop and turn Volkov to face Arina.
I look down at my hands. There's blood on my knuckles. Belov's, mostly. Some of mine, where I caught them on the broken headlight.
I take a handkerchief out of my pocket and wipe them clean before I walk back to her.
Then I stop in front of her. Close enough to touch, but I don't. Not yet.
“Are you sure?”
She nods her head.
“Look at me, Arina.”
She looks up. Her pupils are huge. A raindrop runs down her cheek and catches at the corner of her mouth.
Slowly, giving her every chance to move away, I lift my hand and cup the side of her face. My thumb brushes the rain off her cheekbone.
She doesn't move away.
