Chapter 2
Ivan
“Close your eyes,” I say, my voice cold, my eyes fixed on the man as his life slowly slips away in front of my eyes. “It’s over now. No more suffering. No more pain. May you rest in peace.”
The man’s eyes do indeed fall shut.
Underneath his body, a pool of blood forms and spreads out either side. I don’t know who he was, not really. Mid-forties, maybe a couple of years older than me. A businessman who decided it would be a good idea to try and screw over a Pakhan. It was never, ever going to end well for this poor soul.
Still, you step into the fire of the Russian mob and you expect to get burned.
I check the man’s pulse to be sure. He’s dead. A precision knife to the kidney and then a careful slash across the neck will do it. I wipe my knife clean and drop it down a open drainpipe.
I’ve done this a hundred times before.
Many assassins like to keep their weapon on them, figuring that leaving in the vicinity of the crime scene represents more of a risk than carrying it around.
I’ve never seen it like that, and neither did my mentor.
The advice I was given—and it’s advice I’ve stuck to ever since—is that police don’t like to work in the sewers. They leave that kind of work to us.
Makes sense, doesn’t it?
Maybe if it’s a high profile kill you might want to think about a slightly different weapon disposal system.
Maybe. Or you might just want to do a better job of not being linked to the crime in the first place.
After all, if the cops want to pin something on you they’re going to find a way, weapon or not.
I take one last look at the deceased.
Maybe he had a family. Perhaps he was planning on heading home to them for dinner this evening.
That’s just none of my business. All I know was that he crossed the wrong kind of people—and if he’s even coming close to that kind of situation then the likelihood is that this motherfucker was far from an innocent caught in the crossfire.
“Goodbye,” I say, the wry note in my voice whispering on the cold breeze as I walk down the alley and back onto the city streets.
I keep my strides consistent. I hold my back straight. I don’t show any emotion, joy or disdain. I’m simply another man on the street, making my way to wherever the hell I’m going.
Whisky.
This block.
One. Maybe two…
I walk for a little longer and find myself taking a seat at a booth in a downtown whisky bar I’ve frequented over the years.
I’m not a huge drinker, not like some. But it’s something of a tradition that after I finish a job I find myself a little comfort in the warmth and spicy fire of a drop of whisky.
“With water, a little ice,” I say as I walk past the bartender and take a seat.
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replies, a look of respect in his eyes as he senses that I’m a man to be served without any bullshit. He knows I’m good for my tab. He can just tell.
I sit myself down on the cracked leather seating.
And, finally, I breathe.
I know the money will be in my account as soon as I message my boss to let him know that I’m done. Payment is never a problem. Problems only occur when the job isn’t done right, and that’s never been an issue for me.
I’m forty-one and nearly two decades into the game now.
For an assassin, that practically makes me a veteran.
Most of the young up and comers barely make it five years before they get sloppy and someone blows their head clean off their shoulders.
I’ve seen it happen a dozen times and more.
A young kid will come into the business, all guns blazing.
He’ll be wild, aggressive, totally fearless.
And he’ll make a big early impression too.
The jobs will come in, and he’ll take them all on, no matter the risk.
Then in his eagerness to impress he’ll start making moves a little outside the codes of conduct.
He’ll tread on a few toes. And when he treads on the wrong toes, that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Fuck. I’ve had to step in and take a couple of these assholes out myself.
I can’t say it’s my favorite part of the job, but unless I want to be like them, I have to follow orders and take them out of the game.
And speaking of orders, I need to message my pakhan to confirm that tonight’s business is well and truly settled.
Ivan: Done. Clean. No drama. Now a quiet drink to toast the night.
I hit send and before I know it, a reply comes back my way. Viktor Volkov is a man not to be messed around with. He’s known as the Downtown Devil and as you’d guess from that nickname, he’s almost as much an expert in this field as I am. Except, one big difference… he’s a pakhan and I’m a soldier.
VIKTOR: Good. I would join you but am a little occupied. Pleasure not business. But we will speak in the morning. In person. I’ll send details.
I scan my eyes over the message and put my phone back in my jacket pocket.
Despite the fact that Viktor and I are friendly, it would be a stretch to call us true friends.
That’s just the reality of the life we lead.
I know that if push came to shove, he would send the order to have me killed.
And if that happened, then I wouldn’t hesitate to return fire.
Neither Viktor nor I are fools.
But, that said, we do share a mutual respect and a love of whisky, coffee, and… boys. We’re both Daddies, and while Viktor may have found his Forever Little, I’m still single.
I don’t care.
If it happens, it happens.
If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.
Life is life. I’ve never understood the people who attempt to plan out every detail to create their perfect fantasy life.
Maybe it’s because of what I do day to day, but it just doesn’t seem possible.
Sure, I might meet someone I liked. But could they ever handle what I do?
Would they be able to live with not knowing where I was for days at a time?
And on the flipside of that, could I truly see myself with a boy working a nine to five job? I don’t know. Somehow, I doubt it.
“Thank you,” I say, broken out of my thoughts as the bartender carefully places down my drink. “I’ll have another one after this. And then one more. Then I’ll be done.”
“As you wish, sir,” the bartender says, his voice reverential as he walks away and takes his station back behind the bar.
He knows that he’ll need to watch me, be ready for when I require my next drink. He probably thinks I’m a good tipper too. And I am. I value precision, timing, and attention to detail. And when I get good service, I like to reward it—and reward it well.
Bad service though?
Sloppiness?
Sass?
Well these are things that don’t get rewarded.
These are things that get punished.
My apartment is large but sparsely furnished. I inherited it from my Great Aunt, a wonderful woman who died many a long year ago—and as much as I enjoyed her various baubles, toys, and decorations as a child, there really was no room for them when I moved in.
But that’s what storage rooms are for, right?
A place to keep all the old stuff from times gone by.
It was a different way of life back then.
As a child I had no comprehension of what I’d end up doing with my days.
There was even a moment where I felt like I might go to college and train to be a teacher.
But those dreams were swiftly put to an end by my father…
Son, you will learn the family trade.
You are a Zorin.
And we hunt our prey like no other man of Russian blood…
“Okay, time for a little nightcap,” I mutter to myself as I move from the entrance lobby into the kitchen, my eyes drawn toward the half-full vodka on the counter. “Whisky in the city, vodka in the home.”
I chuckle to myself as I recall the words of my Aunt. She knew how to enjoy herself when it came to booze, that was for damn sure. I’m more controlled in my drinking, but that’s not to say that it’s not a major part of my life.
“Here’s to another night,” I say as I raise my glass toward the small Polaroid photo of my Aunt, me, and my father up on the refrigerator door. “Same time tomorrow.”
I down the vodka and pour myself another before walking from the kitchen into the large living room that runs the width of the apartment.
Aside from a small television set and a couple of sofas there’s not much in here.
Sure, the Parque flooring looks great and the large, exposed brick walls look fine too.
But this is very much a minimalist space.
I guess the nature of my work—no, my life—is that I’m out on the streets most days and nights. I don’t like to spend too much time home alone. Call it instinct, or maybe it’s something else deeper inside me. I feel like a caged animal when I’m here for too long.
But as I stand before the window and stare out onto the city, I wonder for a moment what it would feel like to have someone here with me. Even for just a night or two.
After all, Viktor has made it work with his boy. But then again, Viktor is a pakhan. He makes his own rules, he sets his own timetable. Viktor has staff, security, a whole framework in place that allows him to handle family business while at the same time make a relationship work.
Still, there’s a nagging thought in my head that I’m missing out on something.
Or someone…
“It’d never work.” I mutter, finishing off my vodka and unbuttoning my shirt.
I turn and make my way toward the bathroom. I don’t need any more alcohol, that’s for sure. The last thing I want is to get overly emotional or all sad about my life of solitude. That’s weak sauce. And I’m not weak.
I strip out of my clothes and underwear and stand naked in the bathroom. A quick turn of the shower tap and the shower water is blasting down with a powerful jet of hot water.
Soon enough the bathroom will be full of steam, but I quickly check my phone and see that my payment for tonight’s work has indeed hit my account. Good old Viktor. He might be the Downtown Devil, but when it comes to the financial side of things he’s a gift from heaven.
Buoyed by the amount of zeros on my bank account app, I step into the shower with all thoughts of my lonely life banished for now at least.
However I still have boys on my mind.
And as the hot water blasts over my shoulders, my strong pecs, and my stomach, I feel my cock twitch with excitement.
I waste no time and grip it at the base and squeeze, pulsing it slowly but surely.
With my other hand, I take my balls and pull down firmly but slowly.
My cock hardens and I squirt a generous dollop of minty shower gel over my shaft for a little added lubrication. Before I know it, I’m working the full eight inches with a rhythmic grip as my thighs tighten and my ass cheeks clench.
With my eyes shut, all I can see are smartly dressed office boys with their briefs around their ankles, their asses begging to be spanked and their cocks all hard and standing to attention for me, their master. I grunt as I mentally pick out the boy for me.
I’m working my dick harder now, my mind racing into the fantasy of the sassy, back-talking boy who won’t do as his Daddy tells him. He’s over my lap now, his cock hard against my thighs as I bring my hand down hard on his perfectly round, pale cheeks.
“Fuccccck,” I grunt, thick ropes of my seed shooting up onto the shower’s glass wall.
My abs tense along with my upper thighs and ass as I drain my cock of every last drop. This naughty boy might have been a figment of my imagination, but in that moment he felt real.
Damn.
I guess that will just have to do…