Page 98 of Toxic Salvation
“I’m not mad.”
“You say that, but then your nostrils go all big and your eyes go all small and it reminds me of Dad when?—”
He shuts up the moment I turn my stare on him. “I am nothing like our father,” I rumble.
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying—” I shoot him another glare and he stops. “Okay, okay, I’m done talking.”
“It’s about fucking time.”
“I just told the guards to give us some breathing room!” he launches into another defense that I don’t want to hear. “I was going to be with them the whole time. I didn’t think?—”
“That’s right,” I interrupt. “Youdidn’tthink. I don’t care how unhappy she is or how many promises she makes you; you never, ever should’ve let her convince you not to follow the orders I handed down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, brother.”
“No. I’m not talking to you as your brother. Right now, I’m talking to you as yourpakhan.”
“Yes,pakhan,” Pavel says glumly. “Do I at least get to ask where we’re going at this godforsaken hour?”
“We’re going to Simone’s.”
“Simone’s?!” Pavel yelps. “That’s Ihor’s stomping ground!”
I nod. “He arrived there ten minutes ago. He should be holed up in one of his private rooms getting a lap dance. Hopefully, we’ll be there before Glory or Roxy or Stardust or whoever the fuck takes her tassels off.”
“What’s the point of cornering him in his own strip club?”
“He needs to know that I’m not scared of him,” I explain. “And he especially needs to know that I can retaliate a lot faster and a lot harder than he can.”
Pavel balks. “He hasn’t done anything yet! Even if he cops to giving you that onesie, he can still claim it’s a gift.”
“I’m aware. That’s how he’s managed to skate by for so long. Even with Vitalii. He doesn’t do anything that’s openly aggressive. He doesn’t blatantly disobey. He undermines anddeceives and lies. He toes the line so he can’t be held accountable for anything.”
“So, what are you gonna do about it?”
“You’re about to find out.”
The drive to Simone’s takes us through the shittiest part of the city. Neon signs flash advertisements for liquor stores and pawn shops. Homeless camps sprawl under overpasses.
This is where Ihor feels most comfortable: in the gutter.
I park directly in front of the club, not bothering with discretion. Let him know I’m coming.
As Pavel and I walk through the seedy, red-washed walls of the club, I can’t help thinking that the club reflects its namesake perfectly: flashy, trashy, and cheap as hell.
The bass from the main stage thumps through the walls. Girls in various states of undress lounge at tables with middle-aged men who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in months. The air smells absolutely vile, thick with beer and pot and perfume and God knows what else.
Perfect for Ihor. The stench of desperation.
There’s a bouncer in front of a room marked with a plaque that readsDon’s Suite. I should have made him remove the stupid sign on the day of the opening three years ago.
At the time, I’d laughed it off as insignificant. I was thepakhan. There was no dispute about that. If Ihor wanted to think ofhimself as one, he could and should do it here, among his sleaziest peers.
Now, I realize how tiny, insignificant acts left unanswered can lead to one big fucking problem.
“You guys can’t be back here.” The bouncer moves to block our path, but I step into the light and give him an unadulterated view of my face.
“Semyon.”
