Page 71 of Vasily the Nail

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 thetrash, 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.”

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