Page 181 of Violent Possession
Aunt Mary is an entity. A force of nature with more burn scars than skin, hair dyed swimming-pool-floor blue, and the eyes of someone who has lived through three apocalypses andsurvived them all. She appears out of nowhere, twirling between the crooked tables, and pulls me into a clumsy, sideways hug that almost makes me fall out of my chair. She smells of cigarettes, vanilla, and kitchen sweat. “Griffin!” she yells, half-longing, half-scolding for not having come sooner.
Without waiting for an answer, Mary squeezes me, slaps my back hard, and lets me go only to look me up and down. My black eye is a veteran—she doesn’t even bat an eye. What catches her attention, of course, is Alexei: one of those Renaissance paintings of a royal family, lost among plastic forks and beer in a jelly jar.
“Who’s your rich friend?” she says loudly, without malice, just genuine curiosity. No one here has a filter. No one ever needed one.
I don’t hesitate for a second. “He’s my driver,” I shoot back, with the straightest face in the world. The look Alexei gives me is priceless.
I just stretch my little smile, provocative. Mary laughs and gives a sly old lady wink.
“He’s handsome,” she comments, her audacity on full display. “I like his hair. And that chin looks like a soap opera hero.”
Alexei tries to maintain an imperial dignity, but there is no dignity possible when you’re in a wobbly plastic chair and a blue-haired old lady is comparing you to a soap opera hero. He makes one of those micro-movements of raising an eyebrow, very discreet. I know his every tic as if they were my own.
“The usual, Mary. For two. Make it extra spicy,” I say, and she disappears into the kitchen, shouting instructions to her invisible granddaughters.
“Driver?” Alexei says. The ‘R’ comes with an almost growl, the kind of thing that would normally make a subordinate tremble.
“Technically,” I say, “you drove me here. It’s not a lie.” I shrug, lean back in my chair, and let the provocation settle.
He looks around, his eyes darting from one corner of the room to the other, processing every detail. The faded wallpaper. The broken fan. The ceramic rooster on top of the refrigerator.
“What’s the problem?” I ask. “Afraid of catching a disease? Think of it as… field training. You say you want to understand the common folk. Consider this a practical internship.”
Alexei has already lost the argument before it even began. I can see he’s trying to find the humor in the situation, but he’s out of practice. “I know how the ‘common folk’ live, Griffin. I rule over them. I just don’t usuallydinewith them.”
I laugh, loudly. “You fucking snob. You need to learn to let your guard down, boss. These places are less deadly than they look.” Then, quietly, just for him, “But if you want, check if there’s an emergency exit. You never know.”
The food arrives quickly, on matte metal trays, the edges already a bit bent from use. It’s cheap beer and beef stew, cassava boiled until it dissolves, a thick, red sauce, and rice. The smell hits hard. It erases everything else—sweat, fried food, misery. Only food remains.
I dive into the food without ceremony, using my hands, tearing off pieces of meat, and smearing my fingers with sauce. The taste is violent: spiciness and fat and salt, all mixed together, without the slightest ceremony. It’s one slap in the face after another. I love it.
Alexei watches, his eyes narrowed, wrinkled with disgust.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask, my mouth full. “It’s rude, you know? Aunt Mary might get her feelings hurt.”
He hesitates a little longer, then makes that methodical gesture: he takes off his jacket, folds it carefully, hangs it on the back of the chair. He loosens his tie, unbuttons the cuffs of his white shirt, rolls up the sleeves to his forearms. I watch,mesmerized. Because the more time I spend with him, the more I notice how hot he is.
Finally, he picks up a piece of meat with his left hand. He brings it to his mouth. He chews slowly, chews again, testing every enzyme. When he swallows, he pauses. His expression is impossible to read. It’s not pleasure, but it’s not contempt either.
He’s probably thinking about how he could improve the dish, industrialize the seasoning. Turn it into a luxury product.
“So?” I provoke, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “Did you survive?”
He picks up a paper napkin and wipes his fingers with a dignity that does not belong in this place. “It’s… edible,” he says, after a second. His voice is completely neutral, with no emotion.
I start to laugh. Alexei looks at me, and at the corners of his lips, I see it. A micro-movement, almost imperceptible. A real smile.
Alexei’s phone, that ridiculously expensive model with security armor and biometrics, vibrates on the table. The screen lights up with an encrypted message. It’s just a number, no name.
I watch Alexei read the message, and even after the screen goes dark, the words seem to float on his face, a glazed sheen that has nothing to do with stock charts or blood.
When he finally puts the phone away, I feel like the news is still burning in his jacket pocket—and even an emotionally illiterate idiot like me can tell that this is more than just a gang logistics problem.
“Trouble in paradise?” I tease, already chewing on half a kilo of sticky rice.
“No. Just the angel reporting that one of his lost sheep has crossed the border safely.”
Angel. Lost sheep. He doesn’t need to say who it is: Seraphim, the shepherd of lost boys, the old rival of mutualrespect, the almost-master, and the people who follow him. Free. Free, perhaps, even from my guilt. Thanks to him. Thanks to the man who gave me a golden collar and then taught me it could be an anchor.
