Page 150 of Violent Possession
Vania waits until I’m busy with the second man before landing a punch that feels like a cannonball in my ribs. The air escapes my lungs.
I fall to my knees, trying to pull the world back in. Vania kicks me in the stomach, with the contempt of someone stepping on a dead animal in the street.
And that’s when—the universe has its cruelties—my phone starts to ring. It’s the burner phone I brought, and the only person who would call me on it is Alexei.
Vania stops for a couple of seconds, smiles crookedly, and says, “Is Daddy calling to put you to bed?”
Then he aims for my pocket and smashes the phone with a precise kick, as if he wants to pin me to the floor. I feel the device turn to dust, the screen piercing my jeans and maybe even my skin. The ringing dies with a pathetic crackle. Alexei indeed knows the right time to call.
The goon with the broken nose groans in the corner, the other drags his leg, but Vania doesn’t need an audience. He lifts me by the collar, his hand like a bear’s claw, his breath of expensive whiskey and old hatred almost blinding me.
“I know your type,” he spits, and the hatred in his voice is personal. “A snitch. A rat who sold out his own brothers. You were one of the Volkovs’ dogs, and now you’re my cousin’s dog. You have no honor.”
I want to spit in his face. My jaw is locked.
“The guy…” I gasp, trying to catch my breath, “he was selling data… to Vasily.”
Vania laughs, a loud, incredulous laugh that echoes through the bar. Then he hits me with a punch that almost separates my head from the rest of my body. The taste of blood fills my mouth.
I grab his arm, but even as I squeeze it, he doesn’t flinch.
“You think I’m stupid? You think you can throw my cousin’s dirt on me, you worm? You attack one of my best men in public and think a cheap lie will save you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He throws me to the floor, and my back hits the corner of a table. My spine makes a complaint that will last a week. The bar seems even more crowded somehow, and no one moves. They are all accomplices.
Vania pulls me up again, this time by my metal arm. He examines the prosthesis, as if trying to find out if it feels pain. “You’re not even real,” he mutters with repulsion. “Alexei’s little fucking robot.”
He twists the joint, looking for a weak spot, but I turn with him. I wrench his forearm from its position and drive my flesh-and-blood fist into the exposed bone above his wrist. I feel the pressure, the bone wanting to give. He screams, a sharp note of surprise and anger. The scream is short-lived: the goons recover, and one of them hits me with a punch to the ear, throwing me back into limbo.
The bar spins, the sound of glasses growing more distant. I almost pass out. There’s something in me that refuses to die without taking someone with me.
Vania lifts me again, now with both hands. “I warned you: here, rats die.” And he hurls me against the nearest wall.
I feel my head crack, the lights flicker. The audience recoils, but not too much: no one wants to miss the finale. The bartender tries to pretend he’s cleaning glasses, shaking so much he almost becomes his own customer.
Vania pins me against the wall. “I’m going to teach you to never look the wrong way again.”
I want to answer. My throat closes up. Instead, I raise my knee and hit him in the groin. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective: he falters, grinds his teeth, and I get enough space to break free.
I push Vania back and use my own pain as momentum. With my metal arm, I aim a cross at his jaw. He stumbles back two steps but keeps his balance.
The next round begins. Vania advances, foaming with rage, and punches me in the pit of my stomach. Again. I double over, but I don’t fall. He grabs me by the neck, pulls me onto the pool table. The billiard balls roll across the felt, some falling to the floor. The audience leans in, wanting to bet on who bleeds more.
“Why don’t you just give up?” he asks, pissed, and I don’t know if I’m hallucinating to think there’s something genuinely curious in the question.
I stop to breathe. Blood runs down my chin.
“You’ll never be better than Alexei,” I whisper.
That pisses him off more than anything else that has happened today.
He punches me hard in the face.
“Snitch,” he grunts with each punch. “Trash.” Punch. “Mutt.” Punch.
Each blow becomes a blur. I refuse to black out. I feel my scalp split open, my eyelids swell, my lips burst. The third punch makes my teeth grind against each other, creaking like old gears. My bionic arm locks up, but I use it as a shield, protecting what’s left of my head.
I find a little room to maneuver and, in a fit of pure rage, I break Vania’s nose with my own forehead. The sound is so delicious I laugh through the blood.
