Page 4 of Vitaly

There’s no name attached, but I know who it is. It’s a freelancer who does work with several organizations, including the Armenians. He and I bullshitted last week after a poker game, talking trash mostly, but this isn’t about trash talk. This is about a conversation I had while intoxicated and not thinking clearly. One I shouldn’t have been having at all.

Everyone in Vegas knows the Armenians and Polish are tight, or at least their business goes back long enough they have trust between each other. Their drops involve no contact exchanges, the safest way to do things in terms of law enforcement.

The Armenians put product at a certain location. The Polish go pick it up, leave the cash, then the Armenians go pick it up shortly after. There’s a short window in between. Clean. Simple. Effective.

And if an outsider happened to know about the locations and times of these exchanges… It would besogoddamn simple to scoop the profits and ruin their trust for good.

But this was just talk. Stupid talk. It would be too dangerous.

Another text comes through.

3 mill.

Three million dollars. Three million dollars of easy money.

They would never suspect the Bratva. This isn’t our style. They would go around tearing apart our competition while we sat back and watched.

But it’s dangerous.

And stupid.

I shake my head and put my phone down. When it buzzes again, I drum my fingers on my thigh.

It isn’t a good idea. We would have to get the timeexact, otherwise, we’d what? Run into a couple of Armenians?

How hard could they be to take out?

I wouldn’t do this alone. I could get Alik. Gavriil. Maybe even Stone. That would be plenty of guys to take care of a couple of Armenians.

My father is never going to give me opportunities to prove myself worthy. How am I supposed to prove to him that I am if I don’tcreatethe opportunities?

It’s easy money.

It stirs up our competition.

And if we get caught… Call it a message. No one is to be trusted in Las Vegas. You're welcome for teaching that lesson.

I rub the back of my neck while picking up my phone to read the text.

Want to meet?

My tongue slides over my lower lip as I consider it. If anything, this is just a meet. It’s just bullshit. Just consideration.

What’s the worst that could happen?

1

MILA

Present day…

The blade feels smooth as I grasp it in my palm, my eyes closing, my lungs inhaling a deep breath.

Sweat drips from the tip of my nose onto the floor of the Petrov home gym, adding to the puddle at my feet. But the target across the room is what’s on my mind.

I picture it. Feel its location instead of see it, as if I can hear the rubber’s heartbeat.

When I feel the target’s location in my bones, I suck in one last breath and flip the blade so the handle is in my hand while planting my foot back. I hurl the blade toward the target as my eyes open and a roar barrels from my lungs. I nearly topple over, catching myself with one hand on the hard floor while staring at my blade, stuck a few inches to the right of the bullseye.

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