Page 65 of Violent Possession
“I’m not a fucking narrative.”
I pull the bottle from the shelf. I open it to kill the ridiculous knot that insists on appearing in my throat—I know how I’m seen, because it’s been like that from the beginning.I complain about my life, but look at this armless guy. We should be more grateful... look at that armless guy. You think you have problems? Then look at that guy who doesn’t even have an arm.
I don’t want to be inspiring. I don’t want to be anyone’s fucking moral trophy.
“I know,” he says. His voice is soft.
He approaches me. Takes a thin silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opens it. Inside, a row of dark tobacco cigarettes. He takes one and extends the open box towards me.
It’s an offer of peace. Or, at least, a truce.
I take one.
He lights mine first, then his, with a metal lighter.
“I never saw you as a narrative,” he says, blowing smoke.
We stay like that for a while. Quiet. I have no answer for that. I can’t judge honesty with the vodka still burning my tongue.
“Your performance clause was creative.”
His tone is lighter now. I turn my face and he stares at me with an intensity that makes that idiotic warmth appear again—just now. To break the tension, to get out of a conversation that is becoming too vulnerable.I appreciate the change, boss.
“I’ll have to instruct my legal team to, in fact, create a contract with a manufacturer,” he says with a half-smile.
I smile too. Just a little.
“Can’t you manipulate them into thinking you have a contract, Machiavelli?”
“I could,” he says, arrogant as always. “But I prefer to start legitimately.”
“You’re talking about an illegal business.”
“What matters is it doesn’tlookillegal.”
His eyes drop to the prosthesis. I have the urge to pull away and I fight against it.
“But you’re right,” he continues. “I should have provided you with a better prosthesis.” He looks me in the eyes again.Fuck.“I’ll arrange that—better haptic feedback and more precise joints. Consider it an equipment upgrade.”
A better prosthesis is something that would help me. Truly. The offer is so unexpected, so...practical. No one has ever worried about my “equipment” before. A “thank you” feels wrong in my mouth, an insult feels stupid.
I just nod, once. A short, rigid gesture that, I hope, communicates everything.
Alexei seems to understand.
The elevator, on the penthouse, beeps. Alexei gives me one last look before walking away, and the elevator doors open.
There’s his cousin and two security guards to escort us to the car.
The walk to the parking lot is silent. I walk between the two security guards, Vania in front, Alexei behind. I feel his gaze on my back. A prisoner being escorted.
Three black sedans wait. Vania gets into one. Alexei stops in front of the other and turns to me.
“My men will take you back,” he says. That voice is all business. “Rest. I’ll contact you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just gets into his car and leaves, probably with some invisible escort outside, leaving me with his guard dogs.
Things, before, were more discreet—I didn’t see many of Alexei’s guys. But, apparently, now I’m theposter child.
