Page 36 of Violent Possession
I look around. It’s not hidden: there’s adifferentburner phone from the last one on the dresser, next to the bed.
Ofcoursethey found out where I am. Of course they came in here while I was sleeping and left the phone there, casually, without even trying to hide it. They’ve probably already put cameras in here.
I pick up the phone. There’s a single message from a protected number.
Are you hurt?
I stare at the screen. What a joke. I feel a twitch—a half-smile that appears against my will. There’s no red sniper light on my chest. Score one for me. I’ll test the waters.
can’t you see on your cameras?
His reply flashes on the screen almost instantly, ignoring my provocation.
Don’t test my patience.
A crooked smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. He’s playing back.
sore ribs and a few scratches. nothing painkillers and hate can’t fix.
btw, the mess was on the house.
I send it. The message is seen in the same breath. The reply takes longer. Ten seconds that drag out, longer than the hours I spent rotting in the hotel.
Blackwood Building. Penthouse. 30 minutes. A car is waiting in front of the hotel.
My heart jolts. Go to the building for what? To get punished? Another job? To get erased, maybe for good.
I can’t help myself. Last drop of insubordination.
and here i thought you’d ask me out first
Seen. No reply.
I get up, ignoring the way my body screams. Kirill was a bastard, but he punched like a child. Every ache is from before—the fights, the awkward angles, the way I finished off Kirill. That’s the mess he’ll want to see for himself.
I don’t bother to clean up. He won’t care. He’ll care that, even broken, I’m still standing.
On the thirtieth floor, the door slides open directly into a sanctuary dedicated to the worship of money. The floor is black marble, the walls are glass, the furniture too minimalist to be comfortable. Inside, everything is so quiet I can hear the motors of delivery drones crossing the city, and in the middle of this altar, with his back to me, looking at the skyscrapers as if calculating his next acquisition, stands Alexei Malakov.
Last time, he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t explicitly threaten, but made it clear that my existence was, from then on, mortgaged in the name of interests greater than anything I could possibly desire.
And, also, today he is alone again.
He turns slowly.
“You’re fascinating, Griffin,” he says. It’s a strange compliment. His voice is clean, but his accent is stronger when he says my name.
“Is it the metal arm? Girls usually like it.”
One corner of his mouth curls. “I gave you a simple order. No mess. And you delivered a crime scene. There was blood on the ceiling, Griffin.” He pauses briefly, long enough for me to imagine how much that truly bothered him. “I’m not complaining.” He takes a step towards me. “Your…exuberance…was instructive.”
His gaze scans my face, drops to my chest, makes a slow curve towards the mechanical arm. With Malakov, you never know if he’s about to promote you or bury you.
“I thought you’d shoot me for that,” I say.
Alexei lets out a laugh that makes the entire room seem less lethal. It’s a clean, unexpected laugh. His smile is too white, too perfect, and he smiles with his eyes too. I’m not used to it. People who smile too much usually want to sell you something or steal your soul. In his case, probably both.
“No,” he says, turning his entire body to face me. “You, acting as you did, was to be expected.” He moves to the marble table that divides the room and opens a drawer with the care of someone who doesn’t want to get their hands dirty. “I am considering your transgressions.”
