Page 177 of Violent Possession
He stops, and it seems like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. His face softens. He gives me a small, gentle smile and says, “Are you, really?”
“I am,” I confirm, and take a step closer, just to make sure he feels the gravitational field shifting between us. “So what’s on the map? West of Sacramento?” I try to lighten the mood, but the question is real; I want to know where ‘our’ territory begins, how far we can go without being hunted.
Alexei gestures with his hand, drawing an imaginary continent. “West ofMalakov activities.It’s vast. California, Vegas, Mexico, Vancouver. From Asia to Moscow.” He recites his list of infinite possibilities.
I let out a long, deliberately dramatic sigh. “Not Switzerland?” I tease, making the most disappointed face in the world. “What a shame… I was already planning everything.”
Alexei raises an eyebrow, giving me that look of someone a little tired, a little fascinated. He knows I’m teasing. He likes it when I tease.
“I swear,” I continue, invigorated. “I even had the design for our little cabin in the Alps, in the middle of nowhere, where no one knows us. A wooden cabin, a fireplace, a big, stupid, fluffy dog running through the snow. You, in an apron, learning to make sourdough bread. I was even going to teach you how to knit a scarf.”
The image is so absurd, so ridiculous, so outrageously domestic that it could only be possible in another universe. A universe where two guys like us could exist without the constant threat of death, without having to look over our shoulders, without the ghosts of our fathers or brothers or ourselves. Auniverse where the worst worry was the dog getting fleas or the bread not rising.
Alexei’s reaction is instantaneous, and I recognize the micro-movement of his lips, the lifting of the corners of his mouth, and then he laughs. A puff of incredulous air that soon turns into a real smile. He shakes his head, picks up his glass again, and takes a step in my direction.
“Youknow how to knit?” he asks, his voice low, intimate. The simple fact of imagining it is already an invitation to mockery—or, who knows, a plea for normality.
I laugh. “I only have one arm, Alex. Take a guess.” I lean close to him until I can smell his aftershave and the champagne. I say against his mouth, as if it counts as foreplay, “I bet we could raise goats, make cheese, and sell it all on the black market.”
He holds me by the waist with a gesture so automatic and sure that it’s easy to forget that, hours ago, it could have all ended with a gunshot or an order over the phone. I feel the heat of his hand through the fabric of my shirt, incinerating any doubt. His mouth finds mine in a short, electric collision. As if it were the first time.
I realize, as I kiss him, that the feeling is a certain kind of surrender. I feel permission to lower my guard, to laugh at a stupid fantasy, to dream of a tomorrow that doesn’t end in blood. It’s precarious, ephemeral, but it’s real. And, for some reason, it’s enough.
I bite his lip, lightly, and then pull back just enough to look into his eyes. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it, there’s something I’ve never seen on Alexei Malakov’s face before: peace.
“And now?” I whisper.
Alexei tilts his head and kisses me again. A slow, deep kiss that speaks of silent promises and an uncertain future that we are both willing to face.
He pulls away, and the smile on his lips is now just for me. “Now,” he says, in a low voice, “we have dinner.”
And as he turns, the smell of raw kibbeh and Thai food filling the multi-million dollar apartment, I realize that I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if we’ll have the cabin, the dog, or peace someday. But that uncertainty doesn’t scare me. Because the “we” he just said… is the only territory that matters to me.
And that is enough.
EPILOGUE
GRIFFIN
The sound of victory is different when it’s expensive.
It’s not the guttural roar of a hundred betting addicts huddled in a damp basement, nor the animal howl that echoes between cracked concrete walls. It’s a deafening thunder of thousands of lungs in perfect sync, applauding, screaming, roaring inside a hermetically sealed, technologically-packed arena. The texture of the sound and the very air are distilled into pure adrenaline, and every molecule vibrates with the expectation of carnage. The ceiling vibrates, the armchairs tremble. Even the floor, under my bare, blood-stained feet, pulses to the rhythm of the crowd.
The arena floor doesn’t give way, but the champion from Kyiv does. The giant they promised me as a challenge is now lying on his side, a trickle of blood running down his square chin, his chest heaving irregularly, his eyes rolling in their sockets, searching for an escape through his own eyelids. He’s twice my size, they say, but has half my malice. He was used to felling men with a look, with his résumé, with his fame. Hewasn’t prepared for someone who likes taking a punch more than giving one. He wasn’t prepared for me.
The referee, straight out of a funeral fashion catalog with his starched black shirt, grabs my wrist and raises it high. My arm makes a cracking sound; I don’t know if it’s my dislocated shoulder or the momentary silence that precedes the roar of the stands. One, two seconds of pause, then the arena melts into catharsis: screams, horns, the nervous laughter of the rich guys who bet against me. I can smell money burning in the air, that acidic aroma of dollar bills losing value in real time.
The cameras descend on me. There are at least twenty, some floating on robotic arms, others operated by men in tuxedos with sweat dripping down their foreheads. The lenses are dark, gleaming, hungry. They want every detail—every recent cut, every old bruise, every spatter of blood mixed with the saliva that drips from my chin. They want the monster, they want the spectacle, they want the fighting dog. And I give it to them, as always.
I look directly into the main camera, the one with a small red dot glowing on its side, indicating that I’m live to the entire world. I know that on the other side, there are millions of hungry eyes, waiting for my reaction. It’s no surprise, it never is: I give themthe smile.The slow, wide smile that can’t be mistaken for joy.
In the front row, a group of women in dresses worth more than my entire childhood screams my name. They have their phones held high, flashes popping even though there’s enough light to illuminate hell. One of them, a blonde, very thin, with red lipstick, makes a little heart with her hands. I laugh.
The fans… it’s still new, still strange. Before, it was the bettors, the creditors, the men who swore revenge who looked at me. Now, I’m desired like a circus animal, a freak dressed in human flesh and recycled bones. They want me. They want theviolence, they want the victory, they want the story of thecripple who became king.
The arena is a perfect circle, bordered by thick ropes, but the real boundary is imposed by the light. Around the ring, LED spotlights so intense they turn sweat into diamonds and blood into rubies. The smell is different here. It’s expensive perfume, high-end deodorant, the electricity of a live broadcast. The audience is a mix of oil magnates, oligarchs’ sons, internet celebrities, and the occasional very well-dressed lady who bets as if she were an Olympic athlete. They all cheer together, they are all part of the machine that brought me here.
I could lose myself at this moment. Ialmostlet myself be carried away by the illusion of triumph.
