Day 12Vasily
Day 12
Vasily
Artyom’s favorite place to broker deals is a private table at the local hibachi grill. He likes it to be public in the sense that the restaurant itself is public and there’s no way out without walking through the main dining area, so it’s hard to get away with literal murder. He also likes that the chef and a server are right there with us, and while yes, they are fully aware that they need to keep their mouths shut and are paid well for their silence, they’re still bearing witness.
Plus, it adds a dramatic flair. The chef loves his onion volcanos, and although Artyom has never admitted to it, I’m positive he’s got some signal he gives the chef when he wants oil tossed onto the grill to catch fire. Artyom was always the dramatic one.
Artyom allows me a morning off after the second video, which surprises me. Artyom isn’t one to hold back. When he’s angry, he doesn’t stew on it. He doesn’t let it build or form into some sort of cold revenge. He may wait to act if he thinks he needs to consider further, but that’s a good thing. The fact that I’m not called to his side until late in the day doesn’t have me worried he’s going to suddenly slam the side of my face into the grill or anything— I’ve seen that happen— although I am unsettled that he’s letting what Ana and I did last night slide.
I am the first to arrive. Kostya picked me up, and he’s a punctual person. If we’re ever late to the party, I’m to blame. So I don’t think too much of it until Artyom gestures for me to sit next to him. That’s strange. As we can speak both Russian and Finnish still from our mother, we can have secret conversations with each other from across the room. When we’re meeting with other families, Artyom generally has me sit opposite him for 360-degree coverage.
Despite the blasé look on his face, I’m tense as I take my seat, concerned that Artyom might be ready to attack.
Instead, he says, “I like Analiese.”
That’s it, that’s all he says before going quiet again.
I give him long enough to complete his thought before replying with a hesitant, “She’s a good girl. Woman.”
Artyom’s face breaks into a smile at that. “Yes. She’s young, but she’s clever. Mature. More reasonable than I expected when her brother threw her at me like garbage to take out. She’s good for you.”
I nod but hedge my words. “We get along.” I don’t like where this is going. I know we’re meeting with other families tonight, working out a negotiation to settle the recent skirmishes to prevent further bloodshed— well, unsanctioned bloodshed; we must still be compensated somehow for what happened to Alex— but I’m not sure which families.
Artyom sounds very much like Ana is going to end up being compensation in some way.
I’m still struggling about what the best option is for Ana, but the one thing I’m positive about is she is no man’s property. Yes, I said some things last night going against that, and yes, I meant them, but in the light of day?
The important thing is I made it clear no one else has the right to claim her. No one else has the right to bargain with her body.
He chuckles dryly. “Ohhh, calm yourself. I’m not plotting anything terrible. I just need to know what you’re thinking right now.”
“I’m thinking that you’re playing chess and Ana is your pawn.”
“She could be yours forever, you know. Tony might have weakened his family, but he has powerful allies. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for us to get in bed with the Italians. If nothing else, I’m sure they’re not the ones who have been shaking us—”
“Ana isn’t a pawn.”
“Would it really be so bad making her a permanent part of your life?”
“She doesn’t deserve this life. Chaining her to me would chain her to my own shackles,” I murmur as I take a sip of the sake that’s been poured for me. It’s sweeter, slightly fruity, not my preferred alcohol, but the conversation has me wondering if Ana would like it here. The one opportunity she got to choose a restaurant, she picked that fussy, kitschy tea house. I bet she’d enjoy the show the chefs put on.
I can already imagine her laughing as she attempts to catch the vegetables as they’re tossed to her. She’d probably love it.
And then she’d demand an electric skillet for the apartment and master hibachi cooking by the next day.
“You know I can tell when you’re thinking of her.”
I set my ceramic cup down and lean back in my seat. “It doesn’t matter. This is not the life for her.”
Artyom leans back to match me. His arm goes back across my chair, and I catch the flash of a new ring on his hand. His wedding band.
What a strange couple of weeks it’s been. Have I even congratulated him?
Even stranger, he grabs onto my shoulder and pulls me against him in a brusque but affectionate hug. “You worry me, brother. You know that? Every day, I worry about you. I was so worried you’d make a scene in Vegas that I didn’t bring you to my wedding, and then I still worried so much because of the shit timing with Tony and Analiese that I worried about you through the whole wedding, even before I got that video. And then I watched your whole goddamn porn because I wasn’t sure if it was going to end up a snuff film, and I didn’t know which one of you was gonna survive — if either of you did.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, feeling like an ass now. It’s shitty that he didn’t invite me to his wedding, but he shouldn’t have had to worry about me on his wedding night.
Artyom shakes his head and tightens that arm even more, forcing me to turn to him and look him in the eye. “I worry every time Kostya calls that he’s just found you dead on the floor in your apartment. When Dima calls, too. When Hector’s lady called to say you were there to buy junk, it was a relief. I knew then, you know? I thought we finally hit that point where I could force you back into rehab, and then you’d have to come home.”
“You’d make me a prisoner in your house?”
“I love you, brother. And ever since papa and Brooke died, it’s like that bomb took you out too. It’s just this agonizingly slow death. When you took Ana, it was a death rattle. I thought I couldn’t do this anymore. You either needed to be caged or put down.”
I lean back, nowhere to go except his arm as I scrub my face and groan a low, slow, “Fuuuuuuuck, Artyom. I’m not a fucking dog.”
That has him grabbing me by both shoulders. He leans close. So close that my eyes bounce between his, the clear mirrors of what I could have been if I’d been stronger, if I’d been able to keep my shit together when I lost everyone. “You think I don’t know that? You think I would have let you go for as long as I did? I have a fucking ulcer because of you. I just wanted you to find some happiness, brother. And yes, I was fucking scared of what Ana would do to you. What she did to you, whatever drove you to Hector’s. But then I saw you two together, first at the hospital and then at the church. Your little show last night. It will kill you to send her back to her brother.”
I force my eyes away from his. If I tell him I’ll be fine, he’ll know I’m lying. I can’t promise I’ll stay clean; I’ve lied on that account far too many times. If I tell him that he’s not the only who thinks I’ve been terminal for the last six years and just taking my sweet time throwing the other foot in the grave, he’ll be pissed and demand I move in with him.
If I tell him I’m the cancer and his house is the chemo that has no hope of saving me, only prolonging the inevitable and ruining what little good there is in those final years, he’ll accuse me of being maudlin and probably punch me for it. I’ll deserve it.
The only thing I can say is, “She’s not a tool. She does not exist at my whim. “
“She doesn’t exist at Tony’s whim either,” Artyom huffs as he backs off marginally to slug back his sake. “Looked to me last night that she’d rather be here.”
“Then she needs to decide that for herself. But she won’t be free to make that decision until Tony lets her go.”
Artyom shakes his head. “You are in this family for life. You know this, right?”
I frown, not sure what that has to do with anything. Of course I know that. Fuck, papa was so proud when I got my brand I thought he’d shit a kitten. Yeah, I planned to leave Flagstaff as soon as I could, but no matter where I lived or what I did, it was going to be in service of the Bratva. And as fucked as everything has gotten, I’ve never once said I was going to defect.
Not that anyone says that. That’s how you get your ass murdered by the men you’ve sworn your life to. But I’ve never considered it. This is my life.
“You made that pledge, and it is unbreakable.”
I nod in agreement, my eyes darting around the room to see who all is here. This feels weirdly performative. It’s just us and the restaurant staff, not even Kostya.
But there are cameras.
But that still doesn’t explain the speech.
“If you run, I will hunt you down and make a lesson of you for the other men,” Artyom says coldly. “It doesn’t matter that you’re my brother. I am your avtorivet first.”
“Yup.” Did Dima say something to him? Or did something in last night’s stream come off as something I didn’t intend it to be? “Not running, brother.”
Once again, Artyom embraces me, this time pulling us chest to chest. He kisses my cheek obnoxiously and then whispers, so quietly not even the chef preparing our food could hear him, “If you run, I will look to the south. I know how you hate the cold.”
But I love the cold. If I did run, I would never go south. What I fucking hate is Mexico. I’ve told Artyom probably dozens of times that if I could live whatever life I wanted, it’d be some homestead off the grid in Montana or some shit.
He knows this.
I’m still mulling over Artyom’s words when I step out for a smoke around the side of the building while the reps from the other organizations filter in.
It’s truly nothing I’ve ever considered before, not for real. Everyone has those fantasy ideas of where they’d be if they could be anywhere in the world. Artyom would go back to Russia. Kseniya would live in Australia and have a pet kangaroo. Dima visited New York City in high school and now dreams of a condo overlooking Central Park.
I don’t know what Ana’s fantasy is. I consider pulling out my phone and asking her, but I’m worried it’ll give her big ideas I can’t follow through on.
Can I?
When I return to the table, my usual spot opposite Artyom has been left open. My sake cup is there and refilled. Miso soup and a selection of sashimi is laid out, but I probably won’t eat any of it unless I stay after everyone else leaves. I usually take a bunch of Xanax to get through these meetings, and it fucks up my stomach.
I’m not the only one shying away from the raw fish. Hector’s hitting his plate hard; that’s normal. Artyom snacks casually, both as a display of ease and power in a room of murders and also as an excuse to hold the chopsticks he uses to point around the room. Bernie, the leader of the Blazing Hell MC, looks like he’d rather eat literal shit than sushi. O’Connor isn’t here, probably a smart move since his goons did nothing to hide their affiliation while giving Alex a beat-down, but a surprising addition to the table is Tony the Bitch.
He’s greener than the wasabi.
He’s trying to hide it, pretending to be the big man instead of the pussy-ass bitch he truly is, but there’s only so much you can do to hide biological responses. Even with the anxiety meds, I’ve got heartburn over the amount of guns in the room. He’s swallowing bile. It is what it is.
He keeps looking at me, assessing me, even though Artyom’s the one talking, and I’m not sure why. The bastard that I am, I blow a kiss to him. I remember the chub he was sporting when I raped his sister. Maybe it wasn’t his sister he was sporting wood for. Maybe he’s hot for my dick.
Either way, the message gets across and he turns his attention back to Artyom. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, though, and he caves and dabs a napkin on his sweaty brow.
Bitch.
“I thought we were good,” Artyom says as he dances his chopsticks across his plate. “I thought everybody was happy in their lane. I thought we were being adults about this. We worked together to draw our lines, and we fucking agreed to those lines, yeah?”
The men all agree, some more enthusiastically than others. Bernie’s had a grudge about a bar that ended up on our side. The Mafia doesn’t have any turf to speak of in Flagstaff, just some shipping routes, so Tony doesn’t respond at all.
“So why the fuck are the Irish throwing dead Mexican whores on my fucking land?” Artyom seethes, poking his chopsticks right at Bernie’s face.
Bernie flinches. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to lose any upper-hand he may have had. He shoves the chopsticks away with a gruff sound from his throat, but we all saw it. “I don’t fucking answer for the micks, man.”
“That’s my job,” a voice says from behind me. O’Connor.
I don’t spin around. I don’t jump. My hand shakes, but it’s been doing that since my buzz from the joint I smoked a few hours ago wore off. I was coming down from not just that but also a long, lazy fuck, and I was too dozy to think to get high again. So no, I don’t even bother to spin to look at O’Connor. Two of my boys, Kostya and Vlad, were standing at the door a moment ago, so I’m assuming they’re flanking O’Connor.
Did I just murder one of O’Connor’s men a couple days ago? Yes. Is O’Connor the type to shoot a man in the back of the head while he’s having a dinner with his comrades, associates, and enemies? Yeah, I’m thinking so. But I’ve trusted Kostya with my life for a long time. Vlad’s fairly reliable, too.
There’s a shake-up at the table as the host rushes to bring in an extra seat next to Artyom, where he’s indicated with that damn chopstick. Bernie and Janson, who’s been running a local gang of skinheads but I’ve known to be an undercover FBI agent for ages now, scoot over. Janson bumps into me, but I refuse to move. With a scowl, he allows himself to get pinned between me and Bernie, and I don’t even bother to pull my leg back into my own space. Instead, our legs rub against each other, and I wink at him.
The look he gives me tells me he regrets putting his trust in the Bratva instead of any of the other criminals here, but he needed someone to give him a decent cover, and we’re the only ones not involved in human trafficking.
“You like my movies?” I whisper to him, and he shudders. Yeah, I’m sure he’s had to watch shit way more fucked up than what I’ve been putting out there, but it’s different when it’s the guy right next to you.
Probably confusing when the first one looked like trafficking but the second turned it into fucked-up fetish play.
I click the side of my cheek. “You like.” I wiggle my finger at Tony. “His sister. But he like, too. He watch all. Jerk to it.”
I glance over to Tony to blow a kiss to that dickhead as well, only then catching that the entire table is glaring at me.
“What? Not my fault I clean your messes. Am not janitor.” I snort and settle more deeply in the chair to show everyone I’m relaxed and not giving a shit about what’s happening here, definitely not worried that O’Connor is thinking about exacting some revenge tonight.
My damn hand’s twitching, though.
And yeah, Artyom is looking just as irritated as everyone else, but this is for him. O’Connor attempted some showboating shit with his dramatic entrance, and I’m not about to allow that.
I reach across Hector to grab his untouched bottle of Kirin. I hate the shit— beer in general, nothing against Japan’s version of it— but I drain the bottle and point it at O’Connor. “You answer for micks? Answer my brother. You tell your man dump bodies Russian land?”
“Of course not,” O’Connor sputters, flustered.
“Do I look like janitor?”
“No, I didn’t—”
“Everyone think janitor this week. You think janitor?”
O’Connor slams his hand down on the table. “I just said I didn’t—”
I slam my hand too, but it has a bottle in it that shatters, leaving me just a bottle neck. Glass scatters across the grill, and the chef gracefully swipes his spatula across the surface, gathering hundreds of dollars of steak and seafood into the trash, calm as anything about this. He’s been through this before.
Everyone goes still as O’Connor’s hand inches back. We didn’t collect guns for this meeting. We’d never get them all off anyone except poor Janson, and then whoever does the best with concealing will have the advantage. Better to know everyone has guns than pretend no one does.
From the way O’Connor glances between Artyom and me, I know he’s expecting one of us to attack. He doesn’t expect Vlad to lean over his shoulder and nail his hands to the counter.
With chopsticks.
“Fuck, dude,” I mutter as guns pop up all around us and the chef drops behind his station while the host slides out.
Artyom rises from his seat. The others start to stand as well, but he’s got guns on both Tony and Bernie, I’ve got mine on Hector and Jansen. Vlad’s already got guns in his hands. Kostya appears unarmed, but that does nothing except make him more intimidating.
Again, the room freezes, the various bosses stuck in crouched positions because they’ve already half risen and don’t want to look like they’re backing down but also definitely don’t want a bullet to the brain.
“We were friends,” Artyom says as he gestures with his guns that it would be smarter if everyone did, in face, sit their asses back down. “I consider some of you still friends.” He looks to Hector and Jansen, making it clear who his friends still are.
Tony is overlooked, but Tony’s a fucking pussy bitch freak. He’s a dog. If he does have any feelings about being skipped here, he knows better.
It’s Bernie who looks the most pissed right now. I mean, O’Connor is seething, but I’m guessing it’s mostly to do with the crucifixion lite he’s dealing with right now. But Bernie’s eyes go beady as they shift between Artyom and O’Connor. Mad at Artyom for disrespecting him, mad at O’Connor for pissing Artyom off.
He looks to me, too. We’re buddies, sometimes. I would rather extract my teeth one by one with a string and a doorknob than step foot in his little club house, but I’ll have a drink with him occasionally. His daughter was Brooke’s friend in high school, so he was around a lot then, too. We’ve had moments.
I give him a helpless shrug. We were all getting along, and then the Irish had to pull this shit. Everyone had to pick a team, and he picked the wrong team. Jansen did too, in his own way — the Arian boys commingle with the bikers and have always been cool with the Irish — but he was smart not to send anyone that night.
He lives at our grace. He thrives in it.
Bernie doesn’t know his secret, but he knows there weren’t any skinheads in that parking lot that night, so he should get why Artyom still considers Jansen a friend.
I’m not sure if Bernie’s contemplating starting his own shit now. Would be a shame if he did instead of taking his licks and moving on. Either way, Vlad cocks a gun by his ear to keep him from getting any bright ideas.
Everyone settles back into their seats. O’Connor continues to fixate on his hand, which Artyom rests his own hand over. No pressure there for now, but it’s every bit as clear a threat as a cocked gun. “You’re lucky, O’Connor. Can I tell you why you’re lucky?”
O’Connor’s jaw ticks. His lips stiffen into a tight scowl. He doesn’t speak.
Artyom leans in a little. “You’re lucky because I need a gift for my new wife, and now I know what to give her. See, what I want to do is kick the whole lot of you out of Flagstaff. I want to do it as nicely as possible, with eviction notices and a few weeks to comply and an opportunity to sell your homes and your businesses, but also, I know you won’t comply. I know I’ll have to burn down every one of your houses, bomb every one of your cars, tank every one of your businesses, run a bulldozer over that piece of shit excuse for an Irish pub you’ve got.”
Artyom pauses then, just to make sure he has everyone’s attention on the right spot when he curls his fingers down into the back of O’Connor’s hand. With the chopstick still embedded, little blood has escaped, only a thin well gathering around the bamboo. Artyom’s fingers cause the flesh to peel away from its plug, and blood drains out, sliding between their hands and gathering on the counter.
“I would, O’Connor. I would destroy everything you own. Happily. And not just me, not just the Bratva. You have more enemies here than friends.”
Sweat trickles down O’Connor’s temple as he clenches his jaw to keep from whimpering. Instead, once the initial wave of pain — and nausea I’m guessing from his color — passes, he spits out, “That stupid fucking Ian.”
Artyom tightens his hand into a fist and slams it right back down. The chopstick would have gone between the bones instead of through them, that’s just how that works, but now I hear a distinctive crunch despite Artyom’s rising voice. “Not stupid fucking Ian! Stupid fucking Ian is dead, problem solved, event over! It would have ended at Ian, you stupid fucking shit. But then you had to send goons after my boy. My boy .”
O’Connor’s eyes go wide at that. “What? No! I was fucking pissed, yeah, okay? I was planning on duking it out with you. But I didn’t send a goon squad. Whatever happened, it wasn’t me!”
Artyom rips the chopstick out, and that has O’Connor yowling and tucking his hand into his stomach since the other one is still impaled.
Artyom uses that bloody chopstick as a pointer at every other boss at the table. “Was it you? Did you attack my Alex? Or you? You? Did any of you send a squad out to beat up a kid just walking down the street minding his own fucking business? No?” That chopstick goes right back to O’Connor, digging into his cheek, too dull to puncture with the way Artyom wields it but rubbing a bloody streak. “You’re the only one this dumb, O’Connor, but it is your lucky fucking day because my wife loves that piece of shit Irish pub, and I need a wedding gift for her. So you get to stay. What you do not get is road. You do not get trucks. You do not get to move merchandise through this fucking city, you got me?”
He wants to argue. I can see that. They run a fuck ton of guns through here. Those guys are obsessed with guns.
“You keep your land, but I am not fucking playing when I say if I see a single fucking badged IRA goon on my land for any reason at all? They will be executed on sight. You got business here, you send your women. You send one of Bernie’s men. You send a fucking pigeon with a note tied to its foot. I don’t care. But I will put a bullet right in your fucking brain if I see you again. And if any of your people give my wife grief because she loves your stupid ass scotch egg rolls, I will raze your land. Now get the fuck out of here.”
He rips the second chopstick out of O’Connor’s hand. Vlad gets him on his feet and leads him out, walking side-by-side with an arm across his shoulder, old pals heading out of the popular restaurant after having too much sake in the private room.
The chef stands back up and throws a fresh plate of raw vegetables onto the grill.