Page 158 of Violent Possession
“Uncle, uncle, wait!” she shouts in Russian.
In less than a second, the bodyguards react: one blocks my path, another turns his body to protect my flank, the thirdalready has his hand on his holster, ready to neutralize a threat that is one meter tall and weighs less than thirty kilos. To them, every approach is an assassination attempt, even if the enemy comes in worn-out sneakers and rosy cheeks.
“Stay back,” orders the oldest of the three.
I watch, curious, and perhaps—just perhaps—too tired to feign indifference.
And the accordion music, the song about angels, is there, in the background.
I raise my hand with a brief gesture. “It’s all right,” I say, without changing my tone. The men exchange surprised glances and retreat just enough not to scare the girl.
She approaches, holding up a red carnation, whole and freshly bought.
“This is for you,” she says, in perfect Russian. “For the man who rules the city.”
The flower’s scent mixes with the smell of the street, unexpectedly strong, aggressive. I look at the girl, at her clear, fearless eyes.
I take it.
“Thank you,” I reply, and she smiles back, as if she knows she has completed an important mission.
She runs back to her mother, and both disappear around a corner.
I turn to the car. My bodyguards are disconcerted, looking for a threat where there is none.
One of them asks quietly, “Everything all right, sir?”
Everything all right, nothing all right. That’s what they will never understand.
The accordion music continues, now slower, dragging each note to the limit of unbearability.
I open the car door. My bodyguards await my command. I get into the back seat, and they spread out around, searching for the next threat.
As the car speeds through the city streets, the accordion music fades. And I examine, for real this time, the carnation.
I touch the stem. I turn the flower between my fingers, feeling the strange weight in its center.
Between the inner petals, something is stuck; a subtle anomaly, so delicate it almost escapes me. A nylon thread, semi-transparent, holds a small card, folded like origami, perfectly aligned with the center of the flower.
I pull the card from its floral casing with a light tug and recognize the type: thick, high-grammage paper, dyed the same brutal red as the flower. No printed address, no name.
I open it with my thumb. It has a silver border and a symbol engraved in low relief: a white feather piercing a crown.
Inside, perfect cursive handwriting.
Midnight, Birds’ Nest. Come alone.
— S
Seraphim.
The Birds’ Nest. It’s the nickname for an abandoned bar on the rooftop of the old Hotel Metropol, a decaying skyscraper on the edge of the financial district. A place with a single entrance and a 360-degree view of the city. Perfect for a conversation where no one can hide.
I smile, unintentionally. A meeting, without protection, in a place that can only be a trap or an invitation to something worse.
His audacity is admirable.
I watch Griffin sleep.
