Page 206 of Bitter Poetry
That’s what two years of loyalty get you…
He really is a shitty boss.
Wait. Was I loyal?
Nope, I don’t think I was.
Not to you, motherfucker.
A ripple passes through the occupants of the room. Jero and Roman drop me. Unprepared, my knees hit the unyielding concrete. The pain is sharp as the crumbling floor stabs up into my kneecaps. My chest is caught in a vise. I can’t breathe for the longest time, and when I do the pain shoots echo spasms of agony down the length of my spine.
Goddamn…
Motherfucker…
With bells on…
When I can blink my one good eye open, I find Roman and Jero have drawn their weapons… So has the Pakhan.
Wait? When did he get here?
He’s pointing his gun at Ettore’s head… and when I say pointing, I mean the muzzle is touching Ettore’s temple so, yeah, pretty fucking close.
I sway on my knees. The idea of lying down for a bit is really enticing. The getting down part might be problematic… but I’m also trying to work out what the fuck is going on and I can’t do that if I’m face down in the dirt.
Roman and Jero are not pointing their guns at the Pakhan. He seems like the biggest threat, so this is fucking confusing. Nor are they pointing them at me, which my scattered thought pattern decides also might be useful in this scenario. I carefully twist, trying to see who they’re pointing at behind us, but the movement makes my head spin and sets off a fresh wave of spasms.
Idiot, Christian!
When I can get the spinning motion under control, I find only Ettore’s men—the ones I was just dragged past, and who likewise have drawn their weapons and look as confused as I feel.
Why are Jero and Roman pointing their weapons at their own people?
I don’t fucking breathe and the only movement I make is slowly turning my head back to face the front. No, I wasn’t hallucinating. Grigory Koslov, the Russian Pakhan, really does have his gun pressed to Ettore’s head.
“What is this?” Ettore demands. His hands are held up and out, as if he knows the Pakhan means business.
“I could ask you the same question,” the Pakhan replies smoothly.
“Me?” Ettore demands, incredulous. “Your soldiers moved first! You have a gun at my temple. We have an agreement. None of my men moved.” He laughs, short, sharp, and a little nervous.
I’m really enjoying that laugh.
“You asked me here to ensure we had a seamless handover,” the Pakhan says coolly. “Did your men not get the memo?”
“Lower your weapon, Grigory.” Ettore snarls. “I asked you here, remember, not the other way around. To back me up. To do whatever I say.”
Grigory jabs the muzzle of the gun against Ettore’s skull with a dull clank.
Ettore freezes.
Please, blow the motherfucker’s brains out.I’m close enough that I might feel the splatter hit me.
“It seems I made a mistake,” Grigory continues. “I thought we were associates. The kind that kept each other informed of our plans.”
“Lower your goddamned gun, Grigory, or my men will kill you!”
“You disappoint me, Ettore.”
