Page 131 of Violent Possession
I step on the gas, leaving the East Pier and its ghosts behind.
I can’t seemuch of what’s on the road, because the glass shards still partially blind me; with every sway of the car, I feel the drop of blood running down my face and turning into a thick trail on my neck, but the pain is no longer the focus. My leg still protests. The adrenaline does more.
The man in the trunk won’t stop screaming.
“Please! I swear, I swear I won’t tell anyone! Let me out!”
The muffled sound makes me want to bang my head on the steering wheel. He’s kicking the trunk.
As I approach the restaurant’s street, the landscape lights up. The pier was a dark, smelly mass. The city is all light and perfume. The restaurant, called Krestoran, is a beacon among others. The facade is all glass, and the light inside is golden, inviting. I see discreet guards at each entrance, and the security is tight enough to know that Alexei is there.
He said that in public places ambushes are more difficult.
So I step on the accelerator. The engine roars louder. The car flies down the street without an alarm. The man screams, and this time I laugh. He’s not wrong. I would scream too.
I only see part of the tables through the glass facade. This should be safe enough...I think.
The crack of the glass shard on my forehead. The scream of the bastard in the trunk. The explosion of glass. The sound of the car’s bodywork scraping against the metal of the building’s structure.
I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, the scene unfolds in front of me: I’m inside a restaurant, with the car crashed through the side of the waiting counter. There’s glass everywhere, and some waiters are on the floor, terrified.
The security guards, all in expensive suits, draw their weapons, but hesitate. They don’t know what to do. They’re prepared for a shootout, not for an idiot who decided to use a car as a door.
Alexei. He stood up on impact, and yet his suit is impeccable. He didn’t move, except to protect himself from the flying glass. A thin, red cut runs down his cheek, a tiny trail of blood on a perfect face. He doesn’t care about the fucking blood.
He looks atme. His gaze is hard, but there’s no fear. There’s a question. He’s trying to understand.
His guards point their guns at me. I wait. They are terrified. Forhim.
Alexei raises his hand and says the only words I need to hear, “Don’t shoot.”
They obey him.
I get out of the car. The air is cold, the pain in my body is all back, my clothes are soaked, and the blood starts to feel sticky. I open the trunk and grab the man by the collar, dragging him out. He whimpers something, spitting blood.
I drag him across the white marble. In the center of the room, I throw him onto Alexei’s table.
“A little gift, boss,” I say, spitting blood on the carpet. “This one was selling your routes directly to your brother.”
I kick the burner phone that fell out of the man’s pocket.
For a second, no one moves. The guards still have their guns pointed at me, the waiters are huddled behind the bar, and the rich customers look like terrified wax statues. My ears are ringing. The whole world seems to be in slow motion.
My focus is fixed on Alexei. He doesn’t look at the traitor writhing in pain on top of his ruined table. He doesn’t look at the hole in the wall of the five-star restaurant. He looks atme. That thin cut on his cheek is the only thing out of place, an imperfect detail in a work of art.
He takes a step forward, circling the table. His calmness is the most terrifying thing in the room. He leans down and picks up the disposable phone from the floor, examining it with a casual interest.
Then, he turns to the Japanese investors, who are pale and surrounded by their own security guards. Alexei offers them a restrained smile, an apology, and says something in Japanese. His voice is soft, melodic. Surreal. One of the older men, the one who seemed to be the leader, hesitates and then nods his head, a short, stiff bow. Alexei gestures to one of his lieutenants, whoimmediately escorts the Japanese to a side exit, away from the mess. Away from me.
He didn’t even sweat.
As the Japanese are discreetly led away, the remaining silence in the room is heavy, dense, broken only by the groans of the bastard I threw on Alexei’s table. My ears still ring with the sound of shattering glass and twisting metal. I taste blood in my mouth and the adrenaline burning in my veins, a fire that keeps me on my feet.
Alexei’s gaze sweeps over the chaos I created. The car crashed through the facade, the mahogany table in pieces, the rich customers cowering like rats, and the employees paralyzed with fear behind the bar.
He adjusts his shirt cuff and addresses a short, sweaty man in a suit, probably some assistant manager of the restaurant, who looks like he’s about to faint. Alexei says something in a low voice, almost a whisper. I can’t hear it, but the man trembles and nods frantically. Another of Alexei’s lieutenants approaches, hands the manager a metal card, and guides him to a corner, the conversation continuing in murmurs. Money, I imagine. A sum that buys silence and pays for a new facade, no questions asked.
Then, he finally turns to the audience.
