Page 51 of Arranged Obsession
Ten minutes later, the newcomers leave the alley. There are three of them. All young, all likely Russian operatives. They pile back into an SUV and drive off, leaving Yuri behind.
Alone and still in that alleyway.
I sit and stare. My heartrate picks up. I check the time. It’s a little past midnight.
Under any other circumstances, I’d never, ever make a move this fast. Not on someone as important as Yuri Morozov. A man like him needs a delicate touch. No mess, no fuss. No lingering problems.
But Bianca’s waiting for me back home. I paused my surveillance only long enough to drive her to my house, and I’m already itching to get back to her.
It’s a good opportunity. Yuri’s alone in there. It’s dark and away from the street. There’s nobody else around. I don’t know what he’s up to, but it doesn’t matter. I can kill him and be done with this.
I can get home to my wife.
I shove my gun into my waistband and tug on my black gloves, silently cursing myself. This is averybad idea.
But I’m a weak man. I can’t stand the idea of staying out here night after night and leaving my wife home alone unattended. How am I supposed to protect her if I’m not by her side? Always watching?
I peer into Yuri’s car. There’s nothing interesting. A suit jacket’s hanging in the back. He’s got fast food wrappers on the floor. Disgusting fuck can’t even throw out his own trash. I turn to the alley, pausing for a moment.
There’s a dumpster against one wall and old wood pallets leaned up against the other. A shape’s crouched at the very end fiddling with something.
I approach slow. I’m big, but I’m good at moving silently. I creep down the alley, getting closer and closer.
That’s definitely Yuri. I recognize his right angles. He’s got a bag in front of him and he’s going through it, murmuring to himself in Russian as he does it, before finally taking out a plastic-wrapped brick.
It looks like heroin.
He cuts a slight opening and begins fixing himself a dose. I stare in amazement. Never in a million years would I have guessed the Russian boss in charge of their drug trade is a fucking junkie himself. That’s the first rule of dealing: you don’t get high on your own supply.
And yet here’s this dumb bastard, cooking away.
I stay behind the dumpster and observe. He knows what he’s doing. It takes him only a couple of minutes before he’s slumped back against the wall, the needle hanging loosely from his hand, his mouth open in bliss.
“Couldn’t wait until you got somewhere more comfortable, could you?” I sit back on my heels in front of him.
Yuri’s expression narrows. He squints at me. “Who are you? What’s this?” He’s slurring, deep in his high, but he’s still a gangster. Some part of his brain knows there’s danger.
“But you can’t go anywhere better, can you?” I tilt my head, considering. “If any of the other Morozovs knew you were shooting up, they’d kill you themselves. That’s why you’re stuck using in some dingy alley.”
“I don’t know you.” He sighs, eyelids fluttering.
I slap him lightly to keep him awake. “You made this too easy. But I have a wife back home now. I shouldn’t complain.”
He groans when I wrap my hands around his neck. There’s no fight in him as I squeeze, cutting off his air supply, putting all my weight onto the bastard. Under different circumstances, if he weren’t completely wasted, he might’ve made this difficult.
Instead, it’s like killing a fish. He flops weakly against me, sighing and grunting, spittle drooling from his lips. His faceturns red and purple. His eyes bulge. He’s smiling the whole time. Like he’s on the greatest trip of his life.
I watch him go still. I watch the light fade until Yuri’s gone.
And I feel nothing.
Which is fucking bizarre.
I wait, still holding his dead throat, until I finally pull back.
Still nothing.
Normally, I get a flood of bliss after a kill. Probably like the heroin in this dead Russian’s skull.
