Page 70 of Vasily the Nail

“If you run, I will hunt you down and make a lesson of you for the other men,” Artyom says coldly. “It doesn’t matter that you’re my brother. I am youravtorivetfirst.”

“Yup.” Did Dima say something to him? Or did something in last night’s stream come off as something I didn’t intend it to be? “Not running, brother.”

Once again, Artyom embraces me, this time pulling us chest to chest. He kisses my cheek obnoxiously and then whispers, so quietly not even the chef preparing our food could hear him, “If you run, I will look to the south. I know how you hate the cold.”

But I love the cold. If I did run, I would never go south. What I fucking hate is Mexico. I’ve told Artyom probably dozens of times that if I could live whatever life I wanted, it’d be some homestead off the grid in Montana or some shit.

He knows this.

I’m still mulling over Artyom’s words when I step out for a smoke around the side of the building while the reps from the other organizations filter in.

It’s truly nothing I’ve ever considered before, not for real. Everyone has those fantasy ideas of where they’d be if they could be anywhere in the world. Artyom would go back to Russia. Kseniya would live in Australia and have a pet kangaroo. Dima visited New York City in high school and now dreams of a condo overlooking Central Park.

I don’t know what Ana’s fantasy is. I consider pulling out my phone and asking her, but I’m worried it’ll give her big ideas I can’t follow through on.

Can I?

When I return to the table, my usual spot opposite Artyom has been left open. My sake cup is there and refilled. Miso soup and a selection of sashimi is laid out, but I probably won’t eat any of it unless I stay after everyone else leaves. I usually take a bunch of Xanax to get through these meetings, and it fucks up my stomach.

I’m not the only one shying away from the raw fish. Hector’s hitting his plate hard; that’s normal. Artyom snacks casually, both as a display of ease and power in a room of murders and also as an excuse to hold the chopsticks he uses to point around the room. Bernie, the leader of the Blazing Hell MC, looks like he’d rather eat literal shit than sushi. O’Connor isn’t here, probably a smart move since his goons did nothing to hide their affiliation while giving Alex a beat-down, but a surprising addition to the table is Tony the Bitch.

He’s greener than the wasabi.

He’s trying to hide it, pretending to be the big man instead of the pussy-ass bitch he truly is, but there’s only so much you can do to hide biological responses. Even with the anxiety meds, I’ve got heartburn over the amount of guns in the room. He’s swallowing bile. It is what it is.

He keeps looking at me, assessing me, even though Artyom’s the one talking, and I’m not sure why. The bastard that I am, I blow a kiss to him. I remember the chub he was sporting when Iraped his sister. Maybe it wasn’t his sister he was sporting wood for. Maybe he’s hot for my dick.

Either way, the message gets across and he turns his attention back to Artyom. I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, though, and he caves and dabs a napkin on his sweaty brow.

Bitch.

“I thought we were good,” Artyom says as he dances his chopsticks across his plate. “I thought everybody was happy in their lane. I thought we were being adults about this. We worked together to draw our lines, and we fucking agreed to those lines, yeah?”

The men all agree, some more enthusiastically than others. Bernie’s had a grudge about a bar that ended up on our side. The Mafia doesn’t have any turf to speak of in Flagstaff, just some shipping routes, so Tony doesn’t respond at all.

“So why the fuck are the Irish throwing dead Mexican whores on my fucking land?” Artyom seethes, poking his chopsticks right at Bernie’s face.

Bernie flinches. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to lose any upper-hand he may have had. He shoves the chopsticks away with a gruff sound from his throat, but we all saw it. “I don’t fucking answer for the micks, man.”

“That’s my job,” a voice says from behind me. O’Connor.

I don’t spin around. I don’t jump. My hand shakes, but it’s been doing that since my buzz from the joint I smoked a few hours ago wore off. I was coming down from not just that but also a long, lazy fuck, and I was too dozy to think to get highagain. So no, I don’t even bother to spin to look at O’Connor. Two of my boys, Kostya and Vlad, were standing at the door a moment ago, so I’m assuming they’re flanking O’Connor.

Did I just murder one of O’Connor’s men a couple days ago? Yes. Is O’Connor the type to shoot a man in the back of the head while he’s having a dinner with his comrades, associates, and enemies? Yeah, I’m thinking so. But I’ve trusted Kostya with my life for a long time. Vlad’s fairly reliable, too.

There’s a shake-up at the table as the host rushes to bring in an extra seat next to Artyom, where he’s indicated with that damn chopstick. Bernie and Janson, who’s been running a local gang of skinheads but I’ve known to be an undercover FBI agent for ages now, scoot over. Janson bumps into me, but I refuse to move. With a scowl, he allows himself to get pinned between me and Bernie, and I don’t even bother to pull my leg back into my own space. Instead, our legs rub against each other, and I wink at him.

The look he gives me tells me he regrets putting his trust in the Bratva instead of any of the other criminals here, but he needed someone to give him a decent cover, and we’re the only ones not involved in human trafficking.

“You like my movies?” I whisper to him, and he shudders. Yeah, I’m sure he’s had to watch shit way more fucked up than what I’ve been putting out there, but it’s different when it’s the guy right next to you.

Probably confusing when the first one looked like trafficking but the second turned it into fucked-up fetish play.

I click the side of my cheek. “You like.” I wiggle my finger at Tony. “His sister. But he like, too. He watch all. Jerk to it.”

I glance over to Tony to blow a kiss to that dickhead as well, only then catching that the entire table is glaring at me.

“What? Not my fault I clean your messes. Am not janitor.” I snort and settle more deeply in the chair to show everyone I’m relaxed and not giving a shit about what’s happening here, definitely not worried that O’Connor is thinking about exacting some revenge tonight.

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