Chapter Two - Emil
The stink of gasoline hangs low in the air. Sweat, metal, cheap cologne. I step through the rows of stacked crates, boots echoing against concrete, and the men part without a word. They always do.
I don’t have to look to know they’re watching. Every last one careful to avoid my eyes, as if a single wrong glance could ruin them. Maybe it could.
A van backs up to the loading bay, taillights flickering red across the wall. I signal with a flick of my fingers, and four men heave the crate inside. Black market Kalashnikovs. Enough rounds to start a war if someone was stupid enough to try. Everything in its place. Everything accounted for.
I pause beside the manifest, thumb the corner of the clipboard. The numbers are right, but I spot the nervous twitch in Kirill’s jaw. The man tries to hide it, but the sweat on his brow gives him away.
He must think I didn’t notice him skimming last week. He’s wrong.
I keep my voice low, each word clipped and final. “Open your jacket, Kirill.”
He fumbles, eyes darting between me and the open van. I don’t repeat myself. By the time he pulls the folded bills from his inner pocket, his hands are shaking.
I hold his gaze. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” I ask, calm. I don’t have to raise my voice; the men closest go still, the younger ones paling. Even the foreman straightens, spine rigid.
Kirill mumbles an apology, but it’s wasted breath. I nod to Viktor. The punishment is quick: a gloved fist, the thud of bone on bone, Kirill folded over with blood spilling from his nose.
I watch, expression unchanged. Discipline. It’s not cruelty, not anymore. It’s order.
I take the money. “Next time, I don’t use Viktor,” I say, voice even. Kirill understands. Viktor wipes his knuckles on a rag and the men keep loading. I glance over the manifest one last time, then toss the clipboard back onto the stack. Everything is routine.
By midnight the warehouse is mostly empty, the vans rumbling out one after another, red taillights vanishing into the dark.
My office sits above the loading floor, windows smeared with grime. I climb the stairs, push the door open. The walls reek of old smoke and spilled vodka. Lukyan’s left me three missed calls, but I don’t bother with the phone.
A battered bottle sits on the desk—Beluga, expensive, untouched for weeks. I stare at it, the clear liquid shining under the cheap lamp. I should drink. Most nights I would. Instead, I sit in the battered chair, elbows braced on my knees, and study the shape of my hands.
Blood stains the creases around my knuckles. It doesn’t bother me. I wipe it away with a cloth, slow, careful, as if it’s something sacred.
Violence stopped feeling like anything years ago.
It’s not anger, not even satisfaction. Just a task, like taking out the trash.
The first time I broke a man’s fingers, I thought I’d never stop shaking.
Now it’s only muscle memory. The weight doesn’t go away, though.
If anything, it digs deeper. A hollow place, carved out and left empty.
I glance at the cracked mirror over the sink. My own reflection looks back: hard lines, scar bisecting my jaw, the flat gray of my eyes. There’s no softness left. People call me cruel, and maybe they’re right.
Or maybe they’re cowards who’d rather blame a man than face what they’ve built. Either way, I wear it like a badge.
A knock rattles the door. I grunt, and the foreman pokes his head in, eyes darting. “All done, Boss. Trucks are out.”
“Good.” I don’t bother looking up.
He hesitates. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. He leaves, shutting the door a little too quietly.
I listen to the echo, then lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
The warehouse below is still now, nothing left but the drip of oil and the hum of the generator.
My shoulders ache from an old injury, never healed right.
I dig my fingers into the muscle, chase the pain until it fades to background noise.
Somewhere outside, an engine roars to life. I think about lighting a cigarette, then don’t. There’s a numbness that comes after nights like this. The world shrinks to a handful of details; calloused palms, rough breath, the dry burn in my chest. I let it sit, heavy and familiar.
When I open my eyes, I see the vodka again. Untouched, same as yesterday. I wonder if Lukyan will call again, or if he’s done trying to pull me into his games. My brother plays diplomat; I clean up the messes he doesn’t want to see. That’s always been our bargain.
On the wall, my phone buzzes. A message from Lukyan flashes: Gallery event tomorrow. Need you there. Brunos might show. Don’t be late.
I snort. He knows I hate these events. There’s too many eyes, too many people pretending not to see the blood on my hands.
I answer anyway, three words: Fine. I’ll come.
For a while I sit in the dark, counting the beats of my own heart, waiting for the emptiness to pass. It never does. When I finally stand, I leave the vodka where it is. There’s work to do in the morning. There’s always more work.
After a while, I sigh and climb to my feet. Time to go home, it seems.
The world outside the warehouse tastes like rain and smoke, cold air scraping against the inside of my throat as I step out into the lot.
Someone’s left the security light on; it flickers overhead, stuttering against the blacked-out vans lined along the fence. I light a cigarette anyway, even though I said I wouldn’t, dragging the smoke in deep until my chest stops burning.
My phone buzzes. Lukyan, again. Persistent as ever.
I let it ring. I finish the cigarette to the filter before I finally answer, thumbing the screen and muttering, “Yeah?”
“Did you even look at my messages?” His voice is dry, that low, practiced patience he uses when he thinks I’m being difficult. Which is most of the time.
“I read them. Did you not get my text?” I let my head fall back, exhaling smoke toward the light. “You want me at the gallery tomorrow.”
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “It’s not a request, Emil. The event is already on the books. High-ticket pieces, lots of new buyers, and the Russians want to see you there.” He pauses. “Italians might show. I want you in the room.”
“I don’t do gallery events.” My hand tightens on the phone. “They’re a waste of time.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to be there.
” A rustle of paper in the background. Lukyan is always working, always planning.
“The Brunos sent word through one of the Pedros. Vittorio’s people are making a point of showing up for this.
I want you to make a point of not letting them forget who owns the city now. ”
The name puts an edge in my spine. Bruno. For a moment I see Enzo’s face, that smug, fast-talking little bastard, and the knot in my jaw tightens.
“Why do you care what the Italians do? Let them wander in and look at overpriced paintings.”
Lukyan clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t play stupid. This isn’t about art. It’s about showing everyone—our people, their people, the money men—that we’re not hiding. They want to make a move, they’ll do it in public. You know how this works.”
“Yeah.” I spit on the concrete, half at the memory, half at the taste of the name on my tongue. “You want me to play statue so the Brunos remember we’re still breathing. Got it.”
“That’s right.” Lukyan’s voice drops, a warning under the words. “Don’t start anything unless I say so. But don’t let them think we’re soft, either. Last time they got bold, Enzo left in a body bag. Their pride hasn’t recovered.”
My mouth curls in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Their pride isn’t my problem.”
“It is if they start sniffing around the new deal.” Another pause, as if he’s weighing how much to tell me. “We’re running the new money through three pieces up for auction tomorrow night. You know how to spot trouble, so keep an eye out for anyone getting too interested in the books.”
“Let me guess, you want me on my best behavior.” I push off the wall, flick the cigarette butt into a puddle. “Or as close as I get.”
“That’s all I ever ask.” His tone softens, just a little. “You still with me on this?”
I almost laugh. “Since when have I walked away?”
He doesn’t answer. We don’t say goodbyes in my family; we just hang up. I drop the phone into my jacket and glance out over the lot again.
The last of the men are pulling out in a battered old BMW, headlights sliding past the chain-link fence.
For a minute, I stand there, watching the city beyond the warehouse, lights crawling over the skyline.
The club districts, the old riverfront, the sprawl of brick tenements my father once called home.
The Brunos always liked to pretend they owned this town. Old money, old blood. But they’re cowards, every last one.
I know the stories: Enzo, slippery and loud, always running his mouth until he ran out of time. Vittorio, all polished manners and threats whispered behind silk curtains. I don’t trust a man who smiles too much.
I head back inside, boots echoing on the wet concrete. In my office, I wash the rest of the blood from my hands, letting cold water run over my wrists until they’re numb. I don’t let myself think about the gallery.
Crowds make my skin itch; I hate the smell of perfume, the way every conversation sounds like a negotiation.
I pull out the battered suit I keep for events like this—black, no tie, the kind that lets me blend in without looking like I’m trying too hard. The jacket still smells faintly of gun oil and old cigarettes. I toss it over the chair and sit again, fingers drumming on the desk.
There’s work to do. Always is. I scan through the night’s receipts, double-checking the totals, making sure nobody else tried to skim while I wasn’t looking. My men know better, but trust is a fragile thing in this world. I’ve learned to count the money myself.
A little after two in the morning, I step outside one last time. The rain’s picked up, drumming against the corrugated roof. I light another cigarette, let the smoke curl between my fingers. Somewhere in the city, the Brunos are planning something.
Maybe they think they can slip in under our noses, move a few paintings, shift a few bills, pretend it’s all business. Maybe they think the Russians are growing soft.
They’ll find out soon enough.
My phone buzzes again. It’s probably one of the lieutenants reporting in.
Everything’s quiet, at least for now. I grunt a reply and head back in, shutting the warehouse door behind me.
Upstairs, I leave the suit on the chair and lie down on the old leather couch in the back room.
My eyes fall closed, but sleep never comes easy.
I run through the plan in my head, every angle, every risk. I think about the Brunos, about Enzo’s broken smile, about the way Vittorio’s voice curdled when he tried to sound polite. I think about Lukyan’s warnings. About what happens when old debts come due.
When the sky starts to pale, I finally get up. I shower, shave, dress for war in the skin of a respectable businessman. I pocket my phone, my wallet, my gun. Last thing I do is glance at the bottle of vodka on the shelf. I leave it where it is.
Tomorrow night, the gallery will be a battlefield dressed in silk and gold. I’ll be there, same as always. Watching. Waiting.