Page 25 of The Way You Hurt Me

I’m thoroughly ignoring the report in front of me and pondering my options Saturday morning when my phone vibrates. Not many people can get through, least of all on ring.

I glance at the screen, finding a text from one of my old…friends?

Mikhail Artyomov—Mishka for short—trained with me from age seven to seventeen. He stayed in the life and is a captain, now. We’re still in touch, though rarely in person, and never about anything business related. Although I suppose he works for me—aka, for my wife.

Mishka: Hey, so, I have a bit of a baffling situation here. Not an emergency, so if you’re busy, tell me to fuck off.

It’s highly unusual for Mishka to get in touch with me about what he’d consider “a situation.” I got hitched to a mafia princess to avoid dealing withsituations. But I can’t deny the distraction is welcome right now.

Me: Shoot.

I wait as my old friend types a message that will be the length of a three-tome fantasy series going by how long it takes, likely because he writes properly, rather than summarizing, shortening, and using abbreviations like most people do through text—something we have in common.

I don’t doubt he’ll give me a full report; it’s impossible for anyone to go through my phone, or his. I own the server, and it’s better protected than most federal institutions.

Mishka: Well, we cleared up a rival’s turf, at your missus’s order. She got the details; I won’t bore you with them. But turned out, those assholes weren’t just trading flesh, guns, and drugs like we assumed. They organized dog fights. For some reasons they have crate full of tiny dogs, too. You know, the lap kind? I think they used them as bait for training or somewhat. The little things are terrified. There are even puppies. Not sure what to do.

Puppies? I reread the message, baffled. No wonder he contacted me. This is so far from his list of competencies.

I mentally run through my list of contacts. If it had been a West Coast thing I’d know who to call—one of my cousins shacked up with a Goody Two-shoes into rescues, but here?

Me: How many dogs are we talking?

Mishka: A dozen big ones. They’re aggressive toward each other, but not really towards us. I can bring them to the compound temporarily, I guess, so long as we keep them separate. We’ll manage. But the tiny ones, not sure what to do. I don’t want them around the big ones. Ivan said to drown them. I told him I’d drown him if he doesn’t fuck off.

I grimace in distaste.

Me: Feel free to shoot him at your convenience.

Mishka: I would, but your missus is fond of him. So what do I do with the lap dogs? They can’t be around the big ones, and I think they might need some care.

My mind’s stopped racing, as one specific image takes form.

The same girl I always imagine on my sofa, now surrounded by tiny dogs.

It’s bold. She’s pissed at me, and can barely stand to be in my presence right now, if the party’s any indication. But there’s no way the Willow I know can resist puppies.

Me: Bring them here. I have a temporary solution.

Mishka: Yeah?

He seems surprised, and no wonder. I might be the brains, weaving plans, fixing problems, using various contacts to get my way, but I rarely get personally involved in anything.

Mishka: I figured you’d tell me to call the missus.

Yeah, right.

Me: I’m not certain she wouldn’t order you to drown them too.

Mishka: Too true. All right. A bunch of baby Chihuahuas coming your way, I guess. They’ll be at yours in an hour.

It might be the weekend, but when I text my assistant to find me a vet who can be at mine in an hour, I expect him to be on it within minutes. With what I pay him, he’d get back to me in the middle of his wedding if I asked. And indeed, he replies within seconds to let me know he’s on it.

I keep the messaging app open, scrolling to find the open thread, still on that damn enticing invitation from two years ago. There’s a fair chance Willow’s blocked me by now, but just in case she didn’t, I text her.

Me: I have a job for you.

She takes almost as long as Mishka to type a reply. Staring at the screen, I tense, expecting an essay on all the reasons why she wouldn’t do anything for me, as well as an invitation to do something anatomically impossible.

---