Page 65 of Unspoken

"Everyone says so," Sasha spits.

"Enough!" Vlad roars. "You will not disrespect me in my own house ever again while I am trying to keep you alive."

I stand there, caught in the crossfire, my body tensed, ready to leap forward, to shield Sasha from what may come next. But I'm trapped in this role, forced to watch, my loyalty to Vlad warring with the instinct to protect what's mine.

"Get out," Vlad hisses, pointing toward the door. "Both of you."

And that’s the end of this conversation. The conversation I want to forget, to erase this knowledge I’ve obtained from my mind. But I can't. Because Sasha's right.

Everyone says so.

Even the cops.

CHAPTER 22

SASHA

The muted lighting and the low hum of conversation accompanied by some old tune envelop me immediately as I step into Downers, an off-the-Strip bar that–according the bouncer named Seven at Vlad’s club–is a regular hang-out spot of a person I’m looking for. It’s a perfect night for this sort of thing, considering it's Logan's day off. I need to do this on my own. Need to get to the bottom of my father’s murder. Even if I hate him—both in life and in death equally.

My chat with Seven from the other day when I pretended to stop by Purgatory flashes through my mind as I push my way to the bar.

"Golden tooth," Seven said in a hushed tone, leaning in close while we stood in the back corridor with the loud music pounding against the floors and walls. "Shtyk is the guy you're lookin' for. A nasty piece of shit. Last I heard, you can find him to be hangin' out at this place called Downers."

"Thanks, mate." I clapped him on the shoulder, my bravado slipping further into my feet.

"What you need to talk to him for, dude?"

"Just Russian business," I lied through my teeth and then quickly made my retreat.

But now that I’m here, I’m not so sure I’m cut out to be doing this, to be dancing on the fringes of danger the same way Logan or even my older brother do. Every face in the room feels like the face of an enemy.

Taking a deep breath, I approach the bartender. I don’t feel like drinking tonight but I order a drink anyway to blend in with the crowd. If blending in with this crowd is even possible.

When the bloke slams the glass in front of me, I hand him a twenty and ask in a casual tone, "Any chance Shtyk's around tonight?"

The bartender regards me suspiciously, his eyes narrow. "He might show up later. Or he might not," he replies, noncommittal. "What’s it to you, young blood?"

As we exchange the words, I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. There’s a group of men—older—who've been eyeing me since I walked in. My danger senses spike up, and I know I better leave. I’ve seen guys like these back in Russia in my school, seen men with that same disgusted expression. "Can you pass a message along to Shtyk?" I ask the bartender. "Tell him Alexander Solovey wants to see him."

"Sure." He nods, clearly not buying my tough act.

"Cheers." Leaving my drink untouched on the counter, I turn away. My job here is done and I plan on heading toward the exit. I can feel their eyes on me as I weave around the rowdy clusters of people, my focus on the door. I think I manage ten steps before one of the men calls out, "Hey, pretty boy, where you headed off to?"

"Come join us!" another one snickers.

"Right. Come sit on my lap, baby."

My stomach twists. I catch the hints of Russian accent. I hate this shit. People trying to hide their own insecurities at the expense of others’ suffering. There’s something wrong with this world. But I’m alone and I can’t change someone else’s mind.I simply move one foot in front of the other, trying to avoid a collision with a group of some other drunk blokes suddenly appearing in my way. The unexpected interruption has me swerving left and right into the gathering of men taunting me.

To make matters worse, I accidentally elbow one of them.

Immediately, the bigger bloke from the table bellows loudly, "Hey, you! Bitches ain't allowed in here!" His cronies snicker as I give them a one-fingered salute, not breaking stride.

"Wait a second, pretty boy," the first one calls out, his voice now filled with disdain instead of mean amusement.

My heart races. I know how these things usually go. You’re dragged outside and beaten senseless and you’re lucky your face isn’t one purple bruise and you can still shit like a normal person. I saw it once in my school. Saw what human hate does to people like me, people who don’t fit into the societal norms.

"Come here,mal’chik," a third man says.

---