I never corrected them, never told them that what I’d done, I'd done for myself and Sasha, that girl who’d been nothing but a child and had only been given hell on earth. Let the Bratva think I did what I did for them. It made no difference to the end result.
“I heard all the poor fucker did was look at the Pakhan’s daughter, and it earned him that shit.”
Just hearing about the Pakhan—Leonid Petrov, leader of the East Coast Bratva—had my skin tightening. I didn’t respond or acknowledge what Maksim said. I glanced at him and watched as he pointed at the SOB who was about to be dismembered and dissolved. Maksim cursed in Russian, but I ignored him and focused on the job.
There was the sound of a lighter flaring, followed by the sweet, smoky scent of the cigarillos Maksim got from a connection he had with the Cartel. I’d learned that all in the span of the first five minutes of being in his presence tonight.
I was called, and I came. I did my job, got rid of the bodies, and went about my miserable fucking life.
“A damn look, Arlo,” Maksim muttered under his breath, and I heard him take another drag. “Can you imagine—”
“No, because I don’t fucking care about the circumstances.” I cut him a glare. “A job is a job when the Ruin calls me.” I tipped my chin toward the black barrel off to the side. “They let you come and learn something, so shut the fuck up and listen. Stop talking.” I held his gaze with mine. “My job is to be effective and fast. Stop gossiping and get the fucking barrel.”
Normally I did my job alone. It was easier. Quiet. I didn’t want to fucking talk about the weather, let alone how one of these assholes kicked the bucket. I did what I was tasked to do, then put it behind me.
Because that’s what you had to do when you were a fixer for the Ruin.
But Maksim was still young and dumb, without much experience, and certainly not where the Ruin or the Bratva were concerned. But because he was a blood relation to one of the higher-ups with the Russian mafia, they allowed him to worm his way into situations that should have been reserved for more controlled, skilled men.
And this was one of those situations. But pissing off someone higher up in the Bratva or Ruin food chain wasn’t my style, or smart for that matter, so I kept my mouth shut and let the little shit learn a thing or two.
Because being a free agent for the syndicate known as the Ruin, one that dealt in everything illegal and underground, meant if you wanted to keep your balls, you didn’t question shit.
When the Ruin called, I took the job and did it fucking well. I didn’t care if it was for the Cosa Nostra, the Bratva, or the fucking Cartel. I didn’t give a shit who the job was for, as long as I got paid.
So as I looked at the bashed-in face of the body I was about to dispose of, all I saw was a means to an end.
“I heard they took a melon baller to his fucking eyes.”
I exhaled and felt my muscles tighten in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, Maksim,” I said with unrestrained anger and cut a withering glare his way. He held up his hands and placed the thin brown cigarillo between his lips.
“I’m shutting up now,” he murmured swiftly and walked over to the corner of the warehouse where the fifty-five-gallon barrel drum was stashed. I crouched and opened the large duffel bag, rifling through the supplies I’d need for this particular job.
Maksim brought over the two most important implements I’d need and set them beside me.
Butcher saw.
Lye.
The latter I’d brought over in abundance earlier.
Maksim dragged the barrel over to the body currently laid out on the plastic tarp. “They really did his face dirty—”
“Maksim,” I growled and cut a glance his way. I didn’t need to say anything else for him to shut his trap and give a sharp nod. “Put that out.”
He took the cigarillo from between his lips and snubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe before tucking the butt in the back pocket of his black jeans.
For long minutes there was silence. I did the job quickly and efficiently, and I had to give Maksim credit—for this being his first time watching a cleanup, he didn’t lose his shit. Maybe he had balls after all.
“You want to hit up Yama? We could check out the fights down below at the Pit? I heard there are a couple of brutal ones booked tonight. Or I heard they got some new girls at Nino’s.”
I finished cleaning up and glanced at Maksim. “No,” was all I said. I had nothing against either place and had in fact fought plenty of times over the years at Yama—the Bratva underground fight ring. And Nino’s, one of the many strip clubs owned by the Ruin, wasn’t my style.