Page 2 of Brutal Promise

“Nice car. They pay you too much. I can’t have this back home without having a bullseye on my back,” I say, half-joking.

“New York City has its rats and dons, too,” he replies with a smirk as he puts a cigarette in his mouth, puts the car in reverse, revs the engine, and heads down the exit ramp going way too fast.

The noise of the squealing tires echoes off the cement walls. I can tell he had the muffler modified, and from the sound of the engine, it’s also tricked out. It’s a beautiful car, but beauty can be a brutal downfall.

Kirill pays the parking fee, and we exit the airport.

Kirill’s past is complicated, as his parents were in an arranged marriage. His mother is the daughter of the Italian Don, Santino Moretti. He chose to work for the Russians because his dad is a brigadier in the bratva and serves as a liaison to the Italians in New York City. This created an alliance with the Italians over twenty years ago. Still, the relationship is strained by disagreements over who controls the ports and gets what percentage of the profits. Screw arranged marriages. The only way out of one is death.

I notice Kirill now has tattoo sleeves on both arms.

“Nice tats,” I say in English, ignoring the dirty looks from onlookers in traffic who are annoyed with the noise of the car and his crazy driving. If only they knew I’ve killed for similar looks.

“Thanks, I see you have more yourself. Was that for a lover or to commemorate a mission? Tell me the truth,” he cajoles me as he pushes the gas, and we lurch forward.

He laughs. I chuckle. He’s still an asshole.

“Something like that.”

I leave it open. I don’t like talking about myself. I can’t let anyone into my inner circle. I can be an asshole too, and it’s cost me a few relationships. My only girlfriend died because I got into a beef with an Italian, and all my money couldn’t save her. I blame myself for not protecting her. If I can’t commit to anyone, I can’t risk disappointing a lover again. I would rather continue this way than to live a repeat of the guilt I feel over the past. I wonder what it would be like to be married and live a life like my brother sometimes. Would I have committed to Lena had she lived?

I don’t know. I try not to think about it because things like that are unobtainable for men like me. It doesn’t exist in our world.Beauty is Brutalis inked under my collarbone in Cyrillic. I got the tattoo after Lena’s death.

I’m cursed to wander the world alone, and I shut out other possibilities. It’s better not to want what I can’t have. I’m not worthy of the love of a good woman. This I know. Everyone I touch dies—first, my only girlfriend and now, my dad.

Kirill lights his cigarette with the lighter in the dashboard and puffs out a circle as he merges into the dense traffic on the highway. I fill him in on Nikolay’s crazy drama in London. I mean, his fiancé is kidnapped before the wedding, for fuck’s sake. How could I not save the day for my brother?

“If I had been in charge of security, that wouldn’t have happened,” I declare.

“I know that you are a wickedly good techno-geek.” He puts the cigarette in his other hand, leans over, reaches in front of me, and pops open the glove compartment. “Open it,” he says with a grin.

I bet he’s had this car customized for his lifestyle. When I reach in, I touch cold metal and immediately know it’s a 9mm Glock.

“What the fuck, man? I assumed I was just here for some hacker shit and downtime, not involved in the action,” I complain as I cock it and check the chamber to make sure a bullet is in it. Satisfied, I reach back into the glove box, pull out the clip, attach it to my belt, and slide the gun into place. I conceal it with the tail of my dress shirt.

“You can’t be here with me and be empty-handed.”

Fuck.Like this never goes without an explanation.

“Is there a war I don’t know about?”

“Nah, just everyday life.” He looks in my direction and grins.

“What’s up?” I ask.

I’m getting older, and with my leg the way it is, I have no love of running into unnecessary shit. It’s the main reason I switched from enforcement and turned to overseeing security on our safe houses and handling our holdings. It all falls under security, and I head it.

“I’m just saying. It’s my playground now, but you never know who’s gonna join you in the sand pit.” He shrugs. “We have an hour to kill. Tell me about what you need for the job.”

I rattle off the computer I need, and he pulls a burner phone from his pocket, makes a call, rattles off in Russian, and tells me I’ll have it.

“So, any chance it will warm up while I’m here?” I ask. Hockey players love the frozen ponds in Russia. I want to try warmer weather for a change.

“It’s June. We might hit eighty a few times. Why? You working on a tan?”

“Mm, it would be nice to be on a beach.” I don’t mention Bali to him. If I ever have to disappear, it’s a place where no one knows to look for me. Most people who disappear themselves return to old patterns, and it’s only a matter of time before they show up at their favorite pizza place or with an old lover when the loneliness of being on the run gets to them.

We roll into Greenwich Village in the city. I haven’t been here in years. Ironically, as we became educated men, our parents wanted us back home with our Ivy League degrees to make our legitimate business ventures look credible. When we were moonlighted on the streets, we knew there were plenty of contractors we could hire to do the dirty jobs for us. I polished my English while living in New Jersey, and Kirill lived the party life and made contacts.

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