Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Story returns fifteen minutes later and tosses her bag and coat on the rack by the door. “Done. You want something to eat?”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t had anything but a little juice in twenty-four hours. I think you need to try to eat.”
I don’t answer. At home I rarely communicate with my cell brothers. They’re used to my blank expressions, and they don’t try to talk to me unless it’s important. Sasha, our fixer Maxim’s new bride, tries sometimes. But this thing with Story is fucking painful. She keeps asking questions, watching me for answers. Trying to connect.
It triggers the rage and frustration I thought I buried long ago, back in prison. After I woke up without a tongue, framed for a crime I didn’t commit.
Story goes to the kitchen—which is really just one wall of the living area with a two-person breakfast bar to separate the space. She opens the refrigerator and rummages through, eventually returning with a container of lemon yogurt that she opened and sprinkled granola on top.
“Do you like yogurt? Russians are supposed to like yogurt, right?” she cringes like she just said something stupid, so I take it from her, even though I have no interest in eating.
I force a few bites down before I set it on her 1970’s coffee table.
“I teach lessons all afternoon,” Story says. She looks apologetic, so I struggle to figure out what she’s telling me. “Like, here, in the living room.”
I grunt and throw myself off the couch and onto my feet. My head aches so badly I can’t see straight, but I stumble for the bedroom and miraculously land in the center of her bed.
I can’t put my thoughts together well enough to decide if I should use Story’s phone to text Ravil. I’m almost positive my pakhan and cell brothers have nothing to do with this shit. They wouldn’t sell me out. They have no reason to.
But they don’t know I worked for Skal’pel’. That I’ve seen the faces of people he operated on—before and after. And if they found out, they might not forgive me for the omission. My work fell on the other side of the Moscow bratva, where most of my bratva brothers originated. Some of Skal’pel’s clients were hiding from Igor Antonov, the now deceased pakhan. Sasha’s father. I helped them change their identities and disappear. I may recognize their new faces. People would either pay a lot of money for that information or kill me to keep it quiet.
I have often wondered why I’m still alive. Why Skal’pel’ dumped me in a prison instead of a cedar box.
It’s a mystery that haunts me. All these years, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to show up and finish the job.
Looks like it’s finally happening.
So even if my cell doesn’t forsake me for what I’ve done, I can’t bring this shit down on them. It’s not their problem. I need to handle it on my own.
That’s what I decide, anyway, before the pounding in my head makes me pass out again.
Story
Oleg sleeps in my bedroom all morning and into the afternoon. I change the dressing on his wound, pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. Thankfully, it really doesn’t look that bad, not that I have any experience with bullet wounds. But it’s not deep and appears more like a friction burn than anything.
I’m more worried about the presumed concussion.
And about whatever shit Oleg’s in. He’s badly injured, and I have no idea who did it or what happened. I have people showing up for music lessons here all afternoon and a wounded guy who may have men looking for him in my bedroom.
What if someone shows up here for him? He’s pretty incapacitated. I would have to protect him, and I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. Violence isn’t really in my wheelhouse.
And a much smaller but still realistic concern—what if he needs my help while I’m trying to give lessons? It would be unprofessional and hard to explain why there’s a giant, bleeding and dizzy man in my bedroom.
Fortunately, he sleeps through the guitar lessons I give all afternoon. I’ve already seen five regular students when a new student, Jeff Barnes, shows up. I got a bit of a creeper vibe from him on the phone. My mom’s told me a hundred times that she doesn’t like me teaching lessons out of my own apartment, but I don't really have another choice. Leasing a music studio would eat up every cent I make with the lessons, which are how I pay the rent and eat.
When he called for lessons he played cool, doing that thing where he acted like we’re friends. He dropped a few names of people I know and said he likes to watch the Storytellers play. Sounded enthusiastic. I figured he either wants in the band or he wants in my pants. Still, fifty bucks is fifty bucks, and lessons are how I pay the rent, so I scheduled him. I didn’t get a dangerous vibe from him, and now that I’ve met him in person, I still don’t.