CHAPTER 1 #3
"These were custom-made in Milan," I seethe, glaring at the dead man on the floor with ten times the hatred I possessed when he was breathing. "Even in death, you are a nuisance, Vasily. I should have killed you twice."
I grit my teeth, listening to the sound of my own heavy, furious breathing echoing in the cold air. I look up at Yuri, my eyes cold and accusing.
"Sloppy," I say in Russian, the word hitting him like a physical blow. "Sloppy, Yuri. Unforgivably sloppy."
Yuri stands a bit straighter, absorbing the verbal strike without flinching.
"I expected better from you," I snap, pointing at the droplet of blood on my shoe. "A clean kill means a clean floor. What the fuck is this?"
Yuri gives a short, dutiful nod. He doesn't offer a single excuse.
He doesn't apologize. He just accepts the absolute authority of my ridiculous standards.
He looks from my shoe to the corpse on the floor, his expression calculating, as if he is internally mapping out the physics of the blood splatter to ensure he never makes the same error again.
He reaches up and adjusts the lapel of his own dark coat, a subconscious mimicry of my own obsession with control.
"Understood, boss," Yuri says, his gravelly voice totally flat. "The angle was off. It won't happen again."
I stare at him for another second, letting the threat hang between us, before I look back down at my shoe.
I reach into the breast pocket of my suit jacket and slowly pull out a perfectly folded white silk pocket square.
I move with agonizing slowness, preserving the crease of my trousers as I lower myself down onto one knee.
I am incredibly careful to keep the fabric of my suit far away from the blood-slicked concrete spreading from the corpse.
"A man is defined by his attention to detail," I tell Yuri, leaning in close to my shoe. I wrap the white silk around my index finger and meticulously wipe the single droplet of blood off the polished leather with a surgeon’s exact precision.
I use the very tip of my fingernail through the silk to ensure the fabric reaches deep into the welted seam of the sole, digging out any microscopic trace of red.
"If you can't control the small things, you'll never control the large ones," I mutter, inspecting my work in the dim light. The leather gleams flawlessly once again. The breach has been contained. Order is restored.
I stand up slowly, unfolding the silk pocket square.
The bright white fabric is now marred by a smear of dark, wet blood.
I look at it with pure, visceral disgust. A fifty-dollar piece of handcrafted Italian silk, totally ruined because it did its job.
It’s garbage now. I hold it out over the body and simply let it drop from my fingers.
It flutters down through the freezing air, landing softly on Vasily’s ruined chest, covering a portion of his torn, bloody shirt. Trash discarded on top of trash.
I wipe my hands together, aggressively brushing off imaginary dust.
"Trash with trash," I say, looking down at the corpse one last time. "Let the rats have it."
I adjust my suit jacket, pulling the lapels down to ensure the side vents fall perfectly over my hips.
I turn my back completely on Vasily, on Yuri, and on the expanding pool of blood.
My mind is already miles away from this rotting building.
The business is concluded, the stain is gone, and the irritation is fading into the background of my thoughts.
I check my Patek Philippe one last time as I pivot toward the exit.
"Clean it up, Yuri," I call out over my shoulder, my footsteps already echoing in the massive space. "I want this floor completely empty by midnight."
"Yes, boss."
"And Yuri..." I pause mid-stride, glancing back over my shoulder into the gloom. "Don't use my pocket square to help."
I don't wait for his response. I turn forward and walk steadily toward the heavy steel industrial exit doors at the far end of the plant.
My leather soles hit the concrete in a rhythmic, confident cadence.
I don't look back. Behind me, the overhead bulb flickers violently and finally shorts out with a sharp pop, plunging Vasily’s body and Yuri into absolute darkness.
I push both hands against the heavy steel push-bar of the door, throwing my weight into it.
The door groans open, and a blast of freezing night wind hits me in the face.
I step out onto the snow-covered loading dock, immediately leaving the stench of iron and rot behind.
The winter air is sharp and clean. I pop the collar of my wool overcoat up against the wind, a sharp, elegant movement that shields my neck.
I look out over the sprawling, icy expanse of the industrial district, the distant lights of the skyline cutting through the blackness.
The city looks better in the dark. It hides the filth.
I walk down the concrete stairs toward the idling, armored black S-Class waiting for me in the alleyway. One more task done. One more piece of trash swept off the board. One more day turning the gears of the machine.
Onward.