Page 53 of Violent Possession
He continues, now addressing Vania in a casual tone. “Karpov told me you didn’t get a chance to see him fight for real in Sacramento. Mentioned it was... quick. A shame. You would have enjoyed the show.”
The mention of the fight changes something in Vania’s expression. He looks me up and down. A piece of meat to be evaluated.
“He doesn’t look like much,” he insults. “Only one arm.”
Alexei lets out a low laugh. “The missing arm doesn’t matter, Vania. His brutality is efficient. Almost artistic.”
It reminds me of another voice, in another life, talking about violence as a prayer.
“We’ll see,” Vania grumbles, picking up his vodka glass. He takes a generous sip. “Karpov is organizing the next event. I want to see your ‘art’ up close.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Alexei says. “After all, everything Griffin bleeds, from now on, belongs to this table.”
He raises his own wine glass. He gives a strange smile—I see, now, the dark eyes and the underlying disdain—and then Vania grabs his vodka. Raises it to Alexei’s glass.
A toast to this farce. And Alexei knows. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. And there’s a silent challenge in his gaze.Do it. Show him you’re mine.
With a clenched jaw, I raise my glass.
“Didn’t knowa mafia boss drove his own car.”
Alexei gives me a ride to “my” apartment—which he also gave me—as if I were his fucking girlfriend after a romantic dinner, and yet he doesn’t even turn to me. His eyes stay on the road.
“There’s a discreet escort two cars behind,” he says. “This car is armored, the windows are bulletproof, the internal cameras are recording, and the GPS tracker is blocked by three layers of encryption. Driving is a preference, not a vulnerability.”
He pauses.
“And I’m not the boss.”
“Oh, no?” I retort. I ignore the paranoid part. “From your performance at dinner, you could’ve fooled me.”
“My father is the boss.”
“Of course. Criminal world nepotism,” I say, turning my head to the window. “And what’s he doing while the rest of the family is killing each other?”
Alexei stops the car at a red light. The light illuminates his face.
“Wasting away in a hospital bed.”
Oh, fuck. I put my foot in my mouth. I can’t keep up the sarcastic facade.
I fall silent. I don’t know what to say to that except nothing, except, “What the fuck.” I say that.
The light turns green, and the car starts moving again. The question escapes out of genuine and perhaps stupid curiosity about this man who is an enigma.
“Are you close?”
I’m prepared for him to tell me to fuck off. But he takes a long time to answer, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, thinking.
“Wewere,” he finally says. “Just not enough for him to trust me with the family name.”
Well, he handed me a weapon I didn’t expect. A piece of his soul, raw and bleeding. I should say “I’m sorry”, but I’m not. What I feel is just nauseating recognition.
The silence stretches. I look at his face, intermittently lit by the streetlights, and then at the road ahead. The pieces that fit are ugly. There’s no greater reason for a family to fight and stab each other in the back than the glimpse of power. Everyone wants the biggest piece of the fucking cake.
“So that’s it,” I say.
He frowns. “What?”
