Chapter 9
Anton
Not too old to draw attention. Not too new to raise eyebrows. Just another forgettable ghost in a dying parking lot.
Fucking perfect.
The space next to mine is empty except for a splintered crib leaning against the wall. No security cameras. No patrols. No HOA. Just the wind and a couple of wind-chimes somewhere above, clinking like loose teeth.
I kill the engine. Let my hand rest on the gearshift. The A/C cuts off, and the heat leaks in fast.
I pull my sunglasses down and do what I always do—scan. First sweep: exits, cover points, blind spots. Second sweep: people, patterns, problems. Third sweep: anything that doesn’t belong.
It’s muscle memory now. Nineteen years of staying alive in a world where paranoia isn’t a disorder; it’s job security.
Blyat.
The rearview catches movement: two men walking past behind the car.
Neon vests, sun-worn skin, callused hands.
The kind of quiet you get from people who’ve been up since four and still have twelve hours ahead.
One’s pulling a dented red cooler. The other lights a cigarette with fingers stained from grease or factory dye.
They don’t look into the car. Just walk. Purpose in their step. No hesitation, no curiosity.
Good.
But the habit gnaws at me anyway. Twenty years ago, I was watching corners because the streets would eat you alive if you didn’t. Ten years ago, I was watching because rival families had prices on heads. Now? I’m watching because my own Pakhan has trust issues.
Igor’s paranoia is bleeding into mine. The old bastard sees traitors in his breakfast cereal and enemies in his shadow.
But here’s the thing: when you’ve spent two decades cleaning up his messes, making his problems disappear, earning every ounce of respect through blood and precision, you start to wonder why you’re still the one being watched.
I earned my place. Carved it out of flesh and fear. I’m not his fucking nephew who inherited a chair. I’m not some boyhood friend who got lucky. I clawed my way up from a Brighton Beach gutter to second-in-command through nineteen years of saying “yes” to jobs that would break most men.
And still, he doesn’t trust me.
Still, I get white Nissans tailing me to diners.
The Desert Palms complex looks like it’s been baking in rot since the Reagan era. Stucco flaking like sunburn. Paint long surrendered to the Vegas sun. One of the railings on the second floor is held together with what looks like a bungee cord.
Perfect.
A skinny mutt tugs its leash toward the Charger, sniffs once, then lets out a sharp bark. The owner—a guy in basketball shorts and a backward hat—jerks the leash and mutters something. The dog stops barking, but it keeps staring.
I stare back through the dark lenses.
A moment passes. The guy notices. Palms go up in a little “no trouble” gesture. Then he pulls the mutt along and disappears behind a dumpster.
The rearview mirror stays empty after that. No sign of the white Nissan. Not yet.
I exhale through my nose, slow. Pull off the sunglasses and tuck them into my jacket.
I grab my duffel from the passenger seat and head toward the stairwell. No elevator until I’ve swept the building myself. The stairwell smells of piss and fresh bleach. Someone tried to clean, failed halfway. There’s a boot print in the grime on the second step. Small. Lighter than mine.
“Hey.”
I stop short at the turn.
A guy leans against the wall just past the second landing. Ball cap pulled low, grocery bag dangling from one hand. Something inside clinks—cans. His other hand scratches at the patchy stubble along his jaw.
“You movin’ in?”
He’s watching me. Not friendly. Just curious. Maybe a little too curious.
I don’t answer.
He stares a second longer. Smirks like he’s trying to place me. Or provoke me. Then shrugs and turns toward his door.
“Cool,” he mutters, disappearing inside without closing it all the way.
I keep climbing. Third floor hallway stretches like a morgue corridor; peeling numbers on doors, faded runner that reeks of industrial carpet cleaner and failed dreams. Someone’s left a mountain of yellowed phone books outside their door.
Another unit sports a “Bless This Mess” sign hanging crooked above the peephole.
Halfway down, I spot a drift of mail scattered on the floor outside 3B. Bills mostly. Collection notices. A few pieces still sealed, but most have been torn open and discarded. The dates span three months. No forwarding address sticker on the door.
Whoever lived here bailed fast.
Perfect neighbor. The dead don’t ask questions.
My unit’s at the far end. 3C. The numbers have peeled off the door, leaving just ghost marks in faded adhesive and primer. Someone scraped them off in a hurry. Or they fell off from neglect.
I unlock it fast, step inside, and shut the door with a quiet click.
The smell hits first. Stale air laced with lemon cleaner and something underneath; old cigarettes, maybe. But it’s clean.
Small fucking miracles.
I stand still for a second, letting my eyes sweep the space.
It’s exactly what Ray promised: anonymous, mismatched, and ugly. Couch too wide for the room. A crooked bookshelf with a missing shelf. A mattress in the bedroom that takes up most of the floor. Everything looks like it came from a Craigslist divorce sale.
I like it.
First thing I do is sweep the place. Hall closet. Bathroom cabinet. Inside the duct above the microwave. Under the sink. Nothing.
Still, I move slow. One room at a time. Not because I expect a trap—if there was one, I’d already be bleeding—but because moving fast in a new space is how people get shot.
Once I’m satisfied, I slide open the glass balcony door. It screeches halfway, then sticks. I shove it hard with my shoulder and step out.
The view hits like a punch of heat. Direct line of sight to the building across the lot. Crumbling stucco. A row of balconies. Most are dead; closed curtains, no signs of life. But that one—
Top floor, second from the left. Door slightly open. Mismatched pots lining the rail. Something green growing wild against all odds in this concrete wasteland.
I stare for a second. Then back inside.
The place needs a setup. I uncap the vent behind the fridge and slide a weapon case inside. Knife goes under the sink on the magnetic mount. Phone charger by the bed. Burner goes into the cereal box.
I take inventory while heating water in a rusted kettle I found on top of the fridge. No tea. No sugar. One stained mug with a tourist print—What Happens in Vegas… already scratched halfway off.
Fitting.
I stand at the counter, watching the water boil. My mind won’t shut up about that night. The apartment. The couch. Her drunk fingers wrapped around my cock like she owned it.
Wine and desperation on her tongue. Sweet and bitter and completely fucking reckless.
I grip the counter edge. Hard enough to hurt.
Focus.
Movement catches my peripheral vision.
I step to the balcony, expecting nothing but empty balconies and dead air.
Instead—
Blyat.
And there she is.
A woman on a balcony.
Across the lot.
Barefoot, wearing a T-shirt that doesn’t even try to cover the tops of her thighs. Her shoulder-length chestnut brown hair falls loose around her face, catching the breeze. Air moves through it like fingers.
She leans forward.
Those curves. Full hips. Soft stomach pressing against the thin fabric. The same body I remember from that night; real curves, not the sharp angles I usually see in this business. My feet won’t move. Like they’re bolted to the concrete.
Fuck.
A larger ginger cat appears from nowhere, weaving between her legs like it owns the place. She crouches down, scratches behind its ears, says something I can’t hear. The cat responds with what looks like a purr.
And I see her face.
She’s smiling. Actually smiling. At a fucking cat.
Who the hell smiles these days? Real smiles, not the razorblade grins I see in boardrooms and back alleys. Not the painted-on bullshit that comes before someone asks for money or mercy. Just… soft. Genuine.
When was the last time I saw that? A face that wasn’t calculating an angle or hiding a knife?
Suka.
I go still.
It’s her. Mary.
The girl from the apartment. The wine-soaked accident. The kiss I haven’t been able to forget.
The one I imagined fucking until she was screaming, her pussy clenching around me as she came, over and over, her full tits bouncing with every thrust, her pink nipples pinched between my fingers until she gasped for air.
I’d pictured her shattering under me, that sweet, honest moan breaking free as I licked her clit, made her come on my tongue, my fingers, my cock; each time harder, wetter, until she was a trembling mess, begging for more.
She rises, brushing dirt from her palms, and for a split second, her eyes drift across the complex. They don’t stop on my balcony—I’m too far back in the shadows—but something about the way she moves tells me she’s looking for something. Or someone.
Her balcony is the only one with life. Green spilling over the rails, herbs reaching toward sunlight, flowers fighting against the desert heat. In a building full of dead windows and closed doors, she’s created something that breathes.
She waters a small tomato plant with the kind of attention most people reserve for newborns. Gentle. Patient. Like she’s coaxing life out of nothing.
Jesus.
Of all the apartments in Vegas. Of all the buildings. Of all the fucking coincidences in the universe.
She’s right there.
The woman I can’t stop thinking about. The woman whose taste is still burned into my memory. The woman who grabbed me like she had every right to touch what she wanted.
Living directly across from me.
And she has no idea.