Page 44 of Vitaly

This is my father’s territory, so I know these people. It isn’t a coincidence Nikita sent us here after he just raised rent for these people. We’re bound to run into problems. I’d rather be the one to handle them, not the man who’s come to Vegas for the sole purpose of creating chaos.

The bell chimes above the door as I open it and step inside, letting it shut partway on Vitaly with a satisfying slap of his hand on the wood. The place isn’t busy—just two patrons in chairs, each with a barber tending to them—and another man, probably another barber, off to the side.

“What can I help you with?” the idle man with moles all along his neck and a receding hairline asks. He has a nice smile with surprisingly white teeth for his age, mid-sixties or so.

I can tell by his friendly tone that he isn’t the one I’m here to see. The owner wouldn’t know me, but my bruised face and Vitaly’s bulky form don’t say patrons. We’re trouble.

The resentful eyes of a barber with gray curls tight against his scalp find me, and he gives a bitter grunt before putting down his clippers.

“We’re here on behalf of Nikita Petrov,” I say before Vitaly can open his mouth. I don’t think it was necessary to say anything, but I like the idea of setting the tone that I’m the one in charge.

“Be right back,” the old man mutters, shuffling behind a curtain and disappearing from view. He returns with an envelope he thrusts toward me so forcefully, it makes me think he wants to slap me with it. “Here.”

I take the envelope and pull out the bills, ignoring the people watching. Normally, we’d count it in the car, but with the price increase…

Yup, it’s short.

I slide the cash back in and give the man a firm look. “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all of it.” He waves angrily to the envelope. “That’s every dime you leeches are getting from me this month. You’ll get the same next and the month after.”

I take a long inhale through my nose, though I was prepared for this. I’d hoped we’d make it through a few stops before getting violent, but it’s just as well.

“Everyone out,” I say, my raised voice holding an authority that doesn’t give the surge of power I thought it would. I like power. I don’t particularly like this kind of violence. Killing stubborn, old men isn’t what I set my sights on.

The patrons are quick to leave, but the two other barbers need the gray-haired man’s nod before they reluctantly trudge through the front door, the chime announcing their exit.

“You know rent has increased.”

“I don’t give a goddamn,” he spews, showing teeth that aren’t so impressive like his friend’s. “That’s the third time this year you’ve demanded more. It’s destroying our livelihoods. Most of us can’t pay our bills, so why don’t you and your friend run along and tell your boss there ain’t nothing left in the pond for you to fish. It dried up. Find another fishing hole.”

“Mr. Petrov doesn’t care about your fishing hole. What you give us is pennies; it’smeaningless. What he cares about is obedience, and those who choose not to meet his demands suffer the consequences. Taking a stand isn’t worth your life. Go get the rest of the money.”

The old man’s head falls backward with a cackle, his hand planting on his flat belly. When he faces me, he shakes his head. “Little girl, I’ve lived a good,longlife. You can’t scare me with your threats.”

His eyes move to his right and narrow as he stabs a finger at something. “Hey, you keep your hands off that.” I turn to follow his finger and find Vitaly gingerly sliding a photo frame off its hook on the wall. He holds it up in his hands and studies it. It’s of the three barbers, quite a while back. Probably when the place first opened. How touching.

“Are you brothers?” he asks, turning his head to face the old man.

The old man just glares, hunching his already hunched back Vitaly’s way.

Vitaly looks at the photo once more and hangs it back on the wall. I roll my eyes.

“Look,” I say, trying to get back to the point.

“I don’t think I’d pay it either.”

My eyes widen, and my head slowly swivels toward Vitaly. I hope my face conveys the depth to which I want him to shut hisstupidmouth, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me.

What the hell is he doing?

He shrugs, his eyes pinned to the old man. “It’s noble, really, that you’re taking a stand. Three times in a year?” he tsks. “That’s unacceptable. You people have families, lives, employees.” Vitaly looks around the room as he shakes his head.

Is he trying to make them revolt? Is that what he’s doing?

Why is he the one who gets to carry the gun? I feel my pocket for my knife and consider pulling it, giving the man one last chance before ending this and moving on. Maybe even moving on to Vitaly. If this isn’t a crime worthy of execution, I don’t know what is.

“It’s horseshit,” the man spits. “And you’re the one doing it, you crook. Don’t talk like you’re on my side of things.”

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