GRIFFIN
If you asked me now, carving a sashimi knife into my jugular and demanding that I justify my existence with an answer, all I’d be able to say is “I don’t know”.
I have no fucking idea who this guy is.
Alexei is calm. Perfectly calm. He greeted him in a casual business style without a hint of surprise. He knew. He planned this.
I know when a man wants to kill you. Depending on the face, it’s not hard.
And Alexei’s colleague definitely does. Tear off my skin, my nails, my eyes.
It’s a feeling similar to being in the ring facing a maniac who would stick a knife in your chest for twenty dollars and a shot of cachaca. They don’t need much incentive.
My whole body tenses. Eight meters to the door, three to the kitchen, two to the emergency exit behind the bathroom, no viable route without passing through the line of fire of those eyes. The entire city could be exploding outside and I wouldn’t be able to escape this minefield.
Right. All right. I grew up in Bakersfield, where every corner only exists to remind you that one day it’ll be your last. I ignore the fear.
I try to understand: the newcomer is big, wearing an expensive suit, but it doesn’t give him dignity. He doesn’t have Alexei’s elegance, nor does he look like just any henchman. He must be someone important.
And he hates me. The question is: why?
My eyes dart to Alexei. He’s at ease, gesturing to the empty chair.
The stranger finally sits down. His weight makes the chair creak.
He looks at the five steak plates in front of us, digesting the excess with a silent arch of his brow—instant, not subtle judgment—and then fixes his eyes on me, waiting for some thoughtless movement.
I feel like coughing, just to see if he reacts, but I don’t want to lose the staring game.
“Vania,” Alexei says. “Griffin. I believe you haven’t been formally introduced.”
Vania. A woman’s name. At the very least, a Las Vegas stripper.
The big man, Vania, stares at me. His gaze is heavy, full of a hatred he makes no effort to hide.
“So this is the famous Iron Arm,” he says, speaking thickly.
He wants me to feel small, but what I feel is a slight tingling in my fingertips—it’s longing for a fight, for the adrenaline.
It’s been too long since I broke anyone.
Alexei gives a social smile, ignoring the hostility. “You’re early, Vania. That’s not like you.”
“I decided not to take risks. Not with... him,” Vania says, gesturing with his head in my direction. I’m a threat to him. “I can’t leave you alone with people like that, Lyosha.”
What the hell kind of name is that? Something flash in Alexei’s eyes. A quick, almost invisible irritation at being treated like someone who needs protection. The observation isn’t subtle.
I’m big. This Vania guy is a monster. Alexei, next to us, looks thin, fragile, though I know, from experience, that he’s probably the most dangerous person in this room.
“Don’t worry about me,” Alexei forces himself to say, and a waiter materializes beside us, visibly nervous about the new addition to the table, to discreetly refill Alexei’s wine glass—the one I took.
Vania doesn’t even look at the menu or the waiter, but says to him, “Vodka. Double.”
The accent is subtle in English, but when they said those strange names—Vania, Lyosha—it got thicker, more.
.. Russian. Are they family? They don’t look alike at all.
Vania is a muscular mountain. Alexei is made of straight lines and sharp angles.
But there’s something in the way they look at each other.
.. a fucked-up history, full of resentment.
I thought Alexei had family problems. So what the hell is this? A business meeting or a dysfunctional family reunion?
“How long have you been fighting?” Vania asks me immediately. There’s an accusatory tone.
I peek at Alexei. Is there something I should know? He gives me no sign other than a small smile, a veiled permission. Answer.
So I just answer.
“Always.”
Maybe Vania was just testing if I was capable of speaking.
Alexei relaxes. He was thinking I’d curse him like an animal, wasn’t he? The urge to throw the wine glass in his face is overwhelming.
Vania continues, “And the Volkovs? Did they treat you well? Was the pay good?”
Volkov?
I’ve heard that name. Stories from New York. A Russian family, I think, owners of the underworld on that side, but what the hell do they have to do with me?
Just to make Alexei tense again, I think about telling Vania to go fuck himself with these delusions, but Alexei’s calm voice interrupts me. He senses the shit I’m about to say.
“Let’s say Griffin’s loyalty wasn’t being properly rewarded,” Alexei says as a waiter leaves Vania’s drink on the table, leaving as quickly as possible. “We simply made a more convincing counter-offer.”
I take advantage of Vania’s thirst and grab Alexei’s glass. I drain it. The wine goes down all at once and, honestly, I need something stronger.
Across the table, Vania growls like an animal. He looks from the empty glass that was Alexei’s to me as if I had just spit in someone’s face.
“You insolent bastard,” he says, starting to get up from the chair, with a clenched fist.
Only then do I understand. This guy is territorial. He’s really pissed because I touched Alexei’s wine glass.
Before he can do anything, it’s the man himself who calls him.
“Vania.”
Just his name. Said without raising his voice, casual. But it’s enough.
“Sit down.”
Vania stares at him. He looks like he’s going to explode. But then, slowly, he sits down, still burning in my direction trying to set me on fire. Alexei’s voice in that tone makes anyone obey him, really.
I can’t help a tug at my lips, something that must look like a smile. Alexei isn’t angry with me. He doesn’t even seem irritated. He’s enjoying himself. It’s obvious beneath that strange social mask he’s wearing. He’s a son of a bitch.
He’d love it, wouldn’t he? To have a real leash around my neck. One he could pull hard every time I did something stupid like this, forcing me to my knees beside his chair.
I’m going to ignore the unnecessary warmth that gives me.
I really need another drink.
Alexei adjusts the napkin on his lap; this son of a bitch folds the white linen into a Japanese origami shape and smiles condescendingly at me.
“You have to forgive him, cousin. Griffin doesn’t bother with formalities. He’s an eccentric man.”
This Vania guy is the cousin.
Cousin.
Cousin?
The man who sent the assassin to my hotel.
I look at Alexei and back at Vania, waiting for some sign that this is a trick. I only see raw hatred. The cousin. It’s this guy.
I almost choke on my own saliva, covering my mouth. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t hold it back.
Then, pats. Light, rhythmic. It’s Alexei, with a fucking carefree smile for his fucking cousin. It’s okay, the little animal just got scared, I have everything under control.
Vania looks at the whole scene with pure disgust. “I need some air,” he growls. “I can’t be in the same room as these people.”
He shoves the chair back with such force that it scrapes the marble floor.
Before leaving, Vania leans in my direction, saying, “If you breathe near him the wrong way, I’ll rip your lungs out through your throat.”
Then he straightens up and leaves.
I turn to Alexei instantly.
“What the fuck, Alexei? This is your cousin?”
His silence is a better answer than any monologue: this is the job, Griffin. Do you understand now?
I hold the steak knife on the table, lifting it under the tablecloth. This thing has the weight of a death sentence. Mine, his, or both. “Do you want me to take him out now? In the middle of all these people?”
Finally a human sign; a flash of genuine panic crosses Alexei’s eyes. His hand jumps and covers mine, forcing the knife back under the tablecloth. The touch is strong, cold, almost paternal. Almost.
He glances around to see if anyone noticed—the waiter, the hostess, two elderly people debating the price of salmon—but no one saw anything.
“Put that down,” he hisses, low and furious, leaning in close. “Do you really think the plan would be public carnage?”
“Then why the fuck is he here?” I demand, pulling my hand from under his.
Alexei recoils and, in a blink of an eye, regains his composure. He nods his chin towards the glass behind me, the large window overlooking a balcony.
“Take a good look at that idiot,” he begins, and I can feel the genuine contempt in his tone.
Only, in the middle of the sentence, he cuts himself off and the hatred disappears, replaced by a social smile, a friendly wave, in the direction of the window.
“...do you really think he would be a target?”
It takes me a while to get it. My brain is so saturated with adrenaline and paranoia that I only realize after slowly turning my body and looking out the window behind me.
Vania is outside, on the smoking terrace. He’s standing, motionless, with a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t smoke—he just lets it burn to ash. His eyes are fixed on me.
No, not on me. On us.
When he realizes I’m looking back, he gives a half-smile, but it’s a shark’s smile: all teeth, zero joy.
The table. We’re not in some random corner by chance.
From this point, I can see the front door, the entrance to the kitchen, the emergency exit near the bathrooms, and the door to the smoking area.
All escape routes. All entrances. Alexei chose the table with total control.
Wherever Vania went, he would see. Wherever I went too.
“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. “He got mad because I took your drink. Why would you do all this to someone who’s on your side?”
Alexei laughs. It’s a short, dry sound, completely devoid of humor, the sound of someone who heard the most ridiculous and improbable joke in the world.
“He’s loyal to the concept of family, Griffin, not to the people in it.”
“What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t make sense.”