GRIFFIN #2
“I once solved a problem with a gang in West Sacramento that had been at his table for months. He toasted me with the family, toasted my father. ‘To the brains of our operation.’ The next morning, my best data analyst involved ended up in the ICU.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Do you think I’m a voyeur for having cameras everywhere?” he asks, rhetorically. “His trusted man at my door, fifteen minutes before the attack; he, right after, appearing in my office with a box of Cuban cigars. That’s what he does. It’s an apology for putting you in line. Do you understand?”
Alexei has clear eyes. With Vania, they are darker, more restrained.
He doesn’t seem to be lying.
“...Are you fucking with me?” I ask, because the story is too absurd to be true, and too real to be a lie.
He isn’t offended.
“I’m a liar, Griffin. But with you, it would be a waste of time.”
I look at Vania again, now with different eyes. His hatred for me is personal, but Alexei’s anger is of another nature. It’s civil war, fratricide.
I rest my hands on the edge of the table, trying to decide whether to get up and leave or punch Alexei in the face for putting me through this.
I think long enough to realize it doesn’t matter.
He’s three moves ahead of me. Always has been.
I don’t even see the movement, but suddenly there’s a drink in front of me.
The waiter brought it—vodka, double, no lemon, no ice.
Is it my imagination or did Alexei order it with a look without anyone noticing?
I pick up the glass. The vodka is strong, burns my throat, and the shock is exactly what I need to clear my head.
I still have many questions.
“And why the hell does he call you Lyosha?”
“It’s a Russian diminutive,” he says with a gentle tone, if that even exists coming from him. “For Alexei.”
“What the hell does Lyosha have to do with Alexei?”
“Sha is an affectionate suffix. The ‘yo’ comes from the softening of ‘ks’, it’s a phonetic phenomenon.”
“What does Griffin become then? ...Just out of curiosity.”
“Grishka,” he says, instantly, his mouth pulling into a half-smile.
The way he says it makes something warm inside me twist. Not in a bad way.
His eyes dart beyond my shoulder, towards the glass balcony. The amusement vanishes from his face instantly.
“He’s coming,” he says, his voice low and final.
I glance back and see the Russian closet—Vania, the cousin—throwing his cigarette on the floor and crushing the filter with the toe of his shoe. He looks at the table, at me.
“Wait,” I whisper, “who does he think I am? I didn’t understand anything, you didn’t explain who I am in this fucking plan.”
Alexei doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look. A warning. Be quiet. Follow my lead.
Vania walks directly to the table, and he sits down so that the chair creaks again, but this time no one dares to look askance.
Alexei is the first to speak.
“We were talking about the Volkovs,” he begins, handing the conversation to his cousin on a silver platter. I should have asked about that first when I had the chance.
“Do you know how many men I lost because of those rats?” Vania says directly to me.
I think about answering, but I don’t know what kind of narrative Alexei invented for me.
I shake my head no.
“Thirty-four.”
I remain silent. What else does Vania want, a sorry?
“Thirty-four good men,” he continues. “And now you’re here, in our city, eating our steak, drinking our wine, as if you were a guest of honor.”
“That’s exactly why he’s here, Vania,” Alexei says. “No one has forgotten what we lost. But Griffin is no longer the enemy.”
I look at him, trying to decipher the game. What is he doing?
Vania snorts, skeptical. “Good that you’ve come to the right side. But we operate differently from them, you stump. It’s good to learn the rules around here.”
“Well,” Alexei begins, with an irritating calm, “we certainly wouldn’t leave room for you to turn against us—not even you would want to. We value our men.”
Surely no one could betray the Malakovs, with Alexei’s cameras in everyone’s bathroom. He has reasons to be paranoid.
He continues, now addressing Vania in a casual tone. “Karpov told me you didn’t get a chance to see him fight for real in Sacramento. Mentioned it was... quick. A shame. You would have enjoyed the show.”
The mention of the fight changes something in Vania’s expression. He looks me up and down. A piece of meat to be evaluated.
“He doesn’t look like much,” he insults. “Only one arm.”
Alexei lets out a low laugh. “The missing arm doesn’t matter, Vania. His brutality is efficient. Almost artistic.”
It reminds me of another voice, in another life, talking about violence as a prayer.
“We’ll see,” Vania grumbles, picking up his vodka glass. He takes a generous sip. “Karpov is organizing the next event. I want to see your ‘art’ up close.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Alexei says. “After all, everything Griffin bleeds, from now on, belongs to this table.”
He raises his own wine glass. He gives a strange smile—I see, now, the dark eyes and the underlying disdain—and then Vania grabs his vodka. Raises it to Alexei’s glass.
A toast to this farce. And Alexei knows. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. And there’s a silent challenge in his gaze. Do it. Show him you’re mine.
With a clenched jaw, I raise my glass.
“Didn’t know a mafia boss drove his own car.”
Alexei gives me a ride to “my” apartment—which he also gave me—as if I were his fucking girlfriend after a romantic dinner, and yet he doesn’t even turn to me. His eyes stay on the road.
“There’s a discreet escort two cars behind,” he says. “This car is armored, the windows are bulletproof, the internal cameras are recording, and the GPS tracker is blocked by three layers of encryption. Driving is a preference, not a vulnerability.”
He pauses.
“And I’m not the boss.”
“Oh, no?” I retort. I ignore the paranoid part. “From your performance at dinner, you could’ve fooled me.”
“My father is the boss.”
“Of course. Criminal world nepotism,” I say, turning my head to the window. “And what’s he doing while the rest of the family is killing each other?”
Alexei stops the car at a red light. The light illuminates his face.
“Wasting away in a hospital bed.”
Oh, fuck. I put my foot in my mouth. I can’t keep up the sarcastic facade.
I fall silent. I don’t know what to say to that except nothing, except, “What the fuck.” I say that.
The light turns green, and the car starts moving again. The question escapes out of genuine and perhaps stupid curiosity about this man who is an enigma.
“Are you close?”
I’m prepared for him to tell me to fuck off. But he takes a long time to answer, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, thinking.
“We were,” he finally says. “Just not enough for him to trust me with the family name.”
Well, he handed me a weapon I didn’t expect. A piece of his soul, raw and bleeding. I should say “I’m sorry”, but I’m not. What I feel is just nauseating recognition.
The silence stretches. I look at his face, intermittently lit by the streetlights, and then at the road ahead.
The pieces that fit are ugly. There’s no greater reason for a family to fight and stab each other in the back than the glimpse of power.
Everyone wants the biggest piece of the fucking cake.
“So that’s it,” I say.
He frowns. “What?”
“In the end, it’s all about a fucking daddy issue.”
He lets out a laugh.
“You’re unbelievably insolent,” he says, but there’s no threat in his voice.
This man lies to his entire family like it’s child’s play, but with me.
.. I swear it sounds honest. He’s not tense like he was in front of Vania; in fact, there’s a strange lightness.
I understand, at some point, all the paranoia about the cameras, but this—this honesty—is hard to connect with the man who priced me and put me in a monitored cage.
Which version is real? The manipulator or the resentful son?
Maybe both. Maybe they’re the same person.
“You should use the name Alex more,” I say.
He glances at me. “No one calls me that.”
“Alexei is the name of the perfect and brilliant son. Alex suits this rotten side of yours better.”
I see the slow, minimal, almost invisible smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth.
I watch him drive as we enter the underground parking lot. The emergency lights flash across his face, creating shadows and revealing angles I hadn’t noticed before.
His honesty. That’s what screws me up.
At dinner. In this car. An ugly, bitter honesty about the wound at the center of his life.
It screws me up because it humanizes him for me. It makes him real.
He’s handsome. I had never allowed myself to think that before.
Not really. But now, without the mask of absolute control.
.. fuck, he’s handsome. It’s a cold, sharp, dangerous beauty.
The kind of beauty that cuts you if you get too close.
And yet, I want to see it. Knowing exactly what will happen, I want to see what happens when I get too close.
The car stops in an isolated spot at the back of the parking lot.
“Good night, Griffin,” he says.
He looks at me. I’m supposed to get out of the car now. But I don’t move.
“Do you think your escort would mind if you came up with me, boss?” I say. I remember what he said at dinner. He watched me fuck the prostitute. And he’s been looking at me like that from the beginning. I give him a smile. “I promise the lighting is better today.”
He turns off the car. The hum of the engine dies.
Alexei stares at me, and some kind of dangerous amusement appears in his eyes. A condescending smile touches his lips.
“I thought I’d have to wait for another pathetic show for the cameras.”
“Pathetic?” I laugh. “I thought you liked the show, boss. Didn’t you watch it all the way through?”
“The method was pathetic,” Alexei corrects. “Using a stranger as an intermediary is inefficient. If you want my attention, Griffin, there are more direct ways to get it.”