GRIFFIN
Malakov. Mala-fucking-kov. The name echoes behind the scenes of every important piece of shit in this city.
When I started in this business, I already knew: everything real comes with its own legend.
Boogeyman stories for cowards, horror tales for those who’ve never looked the beast in the eye.
The Malakovs are the monster you run into in the alley when there are no cops left on the map.
Some say one of them tore out a man’s windpipe in broad daylight, pulling out bronchi, blood, and life in a ritualistic spectacle, just because the poor bastard dared to answer his phone during a business lunch.
Another story: they encased a traitor in reinforced concrete, then doused him completely in diesel oil, just to watch the son of a bitch catch fire under the noon sun, since suffocating to death wasn’t enough.
Everyone who tells these stories makes a point to twist their face, like they’re talking about an urban legend.
But every legend is born from a few real teeth.
And in the end, the city revolves around this: horror sold with a premium ticket. I grew up in this shit and was never that impressed. The difference with the Malakovs is that, for them, Tuesday is just Tuesday. There is no “special moment”—any time is the right time to feed the monster.
The truth is, I was expecting the animal. I expected to meet the Malakovs like everyone else: sweating like pigs, spitting bones, drooling blood from their teeth. I didn’t expect Alexei.
The first time I heard about the investor, I imagined an old gangster, saturated with money and boredom, looking for fun in other people’s violence.
The kind of scumbag who tries to extract sexual adrenaline from the smell of iron and fear, eating caviar while watching a couple of morons tear each other apart.
Those guys are everywhere—all you need is cash and a poorly healed childhood disappointment.
Alexei seemed to be just another one of them.
Maybe with a better haircut, an extra dose of refined arrogance, but still part of that zoo of rich guys who treat an underground fighting circuit like a toy.
I should have realized it sooner. A man who smells of cedar, wears Italian shoes, and has a perfectly measured Russian accent doesn’t just wander through the world by accident. Most importantly: there are no fucking idiots in the Malakov bloodline. They don’t replicate mediocre DNA.
The story goes that the Malakovs control most of the decks, judges, port inspectors, and politicians from San Francisco to Sacramento.
Everyone in the circuit knows this fact better than they know their own mother.
There are organizers who panic just from hearing the name Malakov whispered, even three rounds into a bender.
The rule is: don’t mess with what doesn’t belong to you.
Or you end up becoming part of the legend, and not as the hero.
Honestly, I’m not one to be impressed or lose sleep over a veiled threat. But now, after running into Alexei Malakov in the flesh, I know there’s no “staying out of it.”
I think about Alexei’s office. The way he looked at me while the doctor stitched me up, as if he already owned everything he was seeing. There was a hunger in that gaze, a predatory curiosity about what my body was capable of. He was reading me, sizing me up.
It’s a fucked-up way for someone to look at you, but it’s honest. I prefer a sincere predator to a pig faking kindness.
My phone, a burner one of Alexei’s men handed me, vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and read the message on the screen. No sender, of course.
Arden Oaks Condominiums. Building C, Apt 307.
The balcony light will be on.
Work your magic, and remember: no mess.
Work your magic. He used the same phrase on purpose. He sent this himself, not some third party or a suit on an errand.
I get up from the bed in the cheap hotel I holed up in after leaving the office of a Malakov himself. No cameras here. A vote of confidence, maybe.
I check the blade of the knife strapped to my ankle.
It’s not a thin blade, but it’s a combat knife, well-balanced, with the grip already molded to my hand.
I spent the night sharpening it in a ritual of anxiety.
Partly because I knew shit was coming, partly because it’s impossible to sleep knowing Alexei Malakov is waiting for you to trip up.
Arden Oaks. Building C is tucked into the most forgotten core of the neighborhood.
It’s not the kind of building that appears in real estate ads; you only find it because Alexei Malakov exposed it in a text message.
Sweaty concrete, hallways that must reek of mold and old cooking oil, and windows that no one opens.
The police drive right by. No neighbor gets involved.
They could hide a body for weeks and would only find it by the smell.
I’ve never set foot inside, but I don’t need to. I already know enough just from the point on the map.
Outside, after taking a cab to a street corner, I see it: there’s only one balcony with a light on, and it’s apartment 307. Exactly as Alexei instructed. In control of the whole fucking thing.
Everything is too easy. The cameras have no angle on the hallways, the receptionist doesn’t even look at me, and no one else sees me. Even the door to 307 is unlocked—of course it is. Malakov isn’t the type to leave loose ends like a stuck lock.
The air inside the apartment smells like nothing: a place where no one lives, only hides.
Kirill—the alleged target—is sitting in a faux-leather armchair that has seen better days, a nearly untouched glass of whiskey in his hand. I don’t disguise my entrance.
But when he sees me, he stands up, and the relief on his face is so explicit it startles me.
“Thank God,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I thought he had forgotten about me. You took your time.”
He. He who, Alexei? And who am I to you, you piece of shit?
I say nothing. I just close the door behind me, and he doesn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.
What the hell is this, Alexei? Did you send me to deal with an enthusiast of suicide by proxy?
“So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?” he asks, already moving toward a two-seater sofa. There’s a suitcase on it.
So… he thinks I’m what, a driver?
I ignore the question. I need a drink.
I walk to the kitchenette, a Formica counter and two cabinets. I open the fridge. Empty, except for a bottle of water and a six-pack of cheap beer. I grab one.
I open the bottle on the corner of the counter. Kirill flinches at the sound.
“Hey, be careful,” he says, as if the counter were a family heirloom. “This is a rental.”
I ignore him. I take a long, bitter swallow. The beer is bad.
I lean against the counter, cross my arms, and finally look at him. The target. The loose end. He looks like the biggest battle of his life was against the IRS.
“So,” I begin. “You’re the loose end.”
Kirill forces a laugh, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “That’s a rather crude way to refer to a logistics expert who had a... business disagreement.” He looks at the suitcase, then at me. “Your boss assured me everything would be handled. He’s a man of his word, isn’t he?”
Your boss. Malakov. The guy who used me as bait and then stitched me back together. A man of his word. Funny. Does this guy really believe Alexei saves the skins of the weak?
“I don’t know. You tell me,” I retort, not moving a muscle, just letting my eyes wander to the corners of the apartment.
The floor has stains that don’t match a recent renovation.
No visible cameras in the outlets, but I know Alexei is more sophisticated than that; if he were watching and didn’t want to be discovered (unlike in my hotel room), it would be through devices that not even the building owner could find.
But, well, he didn’t forbid me from asking anything.
“You’ve been working for these people long?”
“Not for them, with them,” he corrects me, with a hint of arrogance. “It was a partnership. Things just... got out of control.”
Of course they did. Every partnership with a Malakov is a rope around your neck waiting for a tug.
“Uh-huh… and what else did he tell you? Malakov.”
“He told me I needed to disappear,” Kirill says. “That I shouldn’t have to pay for the stupidity of others.”
Malakov said the guy was a loose end. He didn’t say he was an imbecile.
Disappear. If someone told me I needed to disappear, I’d see the threat.
“He seems like a man of his word,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Kirill laughs, short and breathless. “He saved my life. Alexei Malakov is the only reason I’m still breathing. Of course he’s a man of his word.”
He speaks of Alexei as if he were describing a saint. A saint who hired me to come here and, probably, slit his throat from ear to ear.
Maybe it’s a test. Alexei wants to know if I follow orders without thinking or if I have a will of my own.
Or maybe he just likes to watch the circus burn, and he picked me just to watch from the sidelines, while paranoia does everything violence can’t do alone.
I don’t like being manipulated. Even less by someone like Alexei, who has a gift for always seeming two steps ahead.
Still, I’m thinking. I want to know if it’s really worth killing this idiot.
“So, shall we?” Kirill points to the suitcase again. “The sooner we leave, the better.”
I shrug. I don’t move. I haven’t made my decision yet. “We have time.”
The discomfort lasts for three seconds. Four. Kirill starts to sweat, first on his upper lip, then on his forehead. He’s not used to not being in control, and even less to being ignored.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of henchman you are, but your boss gave me assurances,” he says. “I have a deal. And you are here to uphold it.”
What a pain in the ass. I’m no one’s henchman.