“Are you gonna give her back to Hasanov?”
“No. She’s gonna be used to get me some favors. She has to be of use after all the trouble I’ve gone through for her. She’s being sent to the Italians. What they do to her isn’t my concern.”
My blood runs cold. I know the Italians are into some atrocious shit with women. Buying and selling them into sexual slavery. They want to send my Samira into hell.
“Collect the whore and take her to the drop! She’s got no more use here.”
“No,” I shout. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you for this.”
“You must learn your place.” Sergei smirks as he takes his gun out of his holster. He walks toward me and pistol whips me, knocking me out cold.
I’m in my bed. My head throbs. It’s like The Hulk has hit me on the head with a two-by-four. Never thought being pistol-whipped would be this bad. I stare up at the stucco on the high ceiling in my room and groan. The entire place is a fuckin’ museum, ordained with Russian art and antique wooden furniture. It fuckin’ looks like Vlad the Impaler lives here.
Samira. Her beautiful face flashes in the recesses of my mind, and I try desperately to shake the fog that seems to have taken over me.
I wrestle to get out of bed, but as soon as my feet hit the ground, I think I’m going to pass the fuck out.
It doesn’t matter. You need to get to Samira. The only thing that matters is Samira.
God knows what the fuck my father has done to her. I grab onto the edge of my nightstand and pull the drawer back. There sits my semi-automatic, nestled on black velvet. I keep the drawer clear for a reason. Don’t want to be looking for a gun when you need it most and have it buried under socks or papers or some shit like that. Yes, I know it’s better to have it locked up, but you see what kind of shit I live with. Murders and psychopaths are everywhere in my life, and the boss's son is usually a target for those who dream about being the next top gun.
I toss on the jeans discarded on the floor, not caring if they’re clean or not. It doesn’t matter how I look because soon, blood will cover me, head to toe.
I turn the knob and face Mikhail, my father’s enforcer. He’s leaning against the wall across from my room, arms crossed. The only thing I notice is his piercing blue eyes. I’ve never seen his face. A white mask always covers it. He’s a modern folktale, a walking monster. Just hearing his name causes fear in the most dangerous of men.
Mikhail is a man of few words, completely in control of his emotions. He was ten years old when my father took him in, a street kid who could take down boys twice his size without breaking a sweat. My father saw the potential of having a hurt, angry kid that he could turn into a psychotic killing machine. Guess the fact that no one other than my father has seen his face for the last twenty years doesn’t hurt when creating his larger-than-life monster image.
“You goin’ somewhere, Max?”
“I don’t want to kill you, Mikhail, but I will if I have to.”
Mikhail smirks, his eyes moving to the gun in my hand. He opens the collar of his shirt to display the five bullet wounds along his chest. “I’ve got a feeling I’d survive.”
“You can kill me or let me go. What’s it gonna be?”
“I’m gonna join you.”
I stare at his blank face, stunned. He’s been my father’s right-hand man for over a decade, someone who has jumped in front of bullets for the old man, and here he is nonchalantly talking about letting me take him out. “Why? What the fuck do you want?”
“My freedom.”
I nod my head and follow Mikhail to my father’s office. The door is open as if the fucker is expecting someone. The room is painted white with his fake diplomas hanging on the wall. My father didn’t earn a single one of them. They’re a front to make himself seem legitimate.
He’s sitting there behind his oak desk, leaning back in his chair, his feet up like he’s the fuckin’ king of the world. There’s no one else in the room. I guess he’s assuming he’s safe in his castle, especially since he sent his guard dog to babysit me. Mikhail wouldn’t have been able to do shit cos I would risk death to get to Samira. My life means nothing without her.
I raise the gun, pointing it at his head. “Where is she?”
Sergei turns. His eyes lock with mine as the corners of his lips lift into a sinister smile. “The whore? I sold her. She’s someone else’s problem.”