Page 24 of Reclaimed Crown

I peel out of Vadim’s garage with the morning sunlight blazing through my windshield. It’s one of those cloudless winter days that could look like summer for a person standing indoors as long as they didn’t look at the blanket of snow on the ground. My eyes narrow to crescents, looking for the turn that’ll link to the road where the cafe is located. I remember it from when I was a boy, but I’m sure it’s changed over the years.

Fifteen minutes into my drive, I find the turn I need to make and tilt the steering wheel.

Maybe I gave this place a little too much credit in assuming it would have grown over the years I’ve been gone. It looks almost the same as the last time I saw it. There’s a desolate expanse of fields on one side of the road, and mostly the same across the street, apart from the occasional grouping of storefronts. It almost looks worse than the last time I saw it as a child. Most of the stores are abandoned.

I pull my car up to the group of buildings where the cafe is located. The entire strip of shops looks like they were abandoned long ago, and yet somehow a cafe out in the middle of nowhere can manage to stay open, an all too familiar sign of a mafia front business.

Pyotr Ivanov secured his protection from the mafia by selling out the identity of my father.

I cut the engine of my car and take a moment to examine the front of the building. There’s a row of apartments on top of the stores, likely the living quarters of the former shop owners. A wooden sign hangs from the front of one store, swinging back and forth with the wind. The words that used to be painted on it have worn away long ago.

A man appears from the front door of the cafe, hauling empty boxes outside. He’s wearing a hat, but I make out the thick mustache Pyotr Ivanov sported when I was a kid. The mustache has gone gray, but he otherwise looks the same.

I wrap my hand around my gun and open the car door. Pyotr Ivanov may think he’s safe for what he did, but everyone in this game is in danger. Even him.

I walk along the cracked sidewalk in front of the shops, watching him carry leaning stacks of empty boxes, returning inside and coming out with more boxes. When he hears my footsteps, he stops and turns to me with a guarded look.

“What do you want?” he asks. The tips of his grayed mustache curl into his upper lip, blunting the sounds that come out of his mouth.

“I have business with you,” I say as I pull off my gloves so he can see the tattoos on my hands.

Pyotr looks up at me. He’s not much taller than Tatyana’s height. He furrows his thick brow. “Did Arkady send you?” he asks with a confidence in his voice he has no right to bear.

I shake my head slowly and watch the color drain from his face when I pull my gun out and point it at him. “Inside,” I order. When he complies, I follow him and lock the door behind us.

It’s funny how time changes your perception of people. He used to appear so large to me. As a child, I remember needing to look up at him. Eventually, I grew taller and didn’t need to strain my neck so much, and one day we were of equal height.

He was furious when he’d discovered Tatyana was hanging around me to keep herself safe from the other children in the village. He told me to stay away from his daughter, as if I was the threat. At that point, I’d grown used to Tatyana always being with me and cared for her safety more than her own father did. I would not turn her away, so I told Pyotr to go fuck himself. Tatyana was welcome to hang around me if it she chose to. He answered with a threatening gaze and words to match it.

You’ll regret this, boy.

Now I stand a full head taller, with a gun pointed at him, making sure he regretshisdecision to betray my father.

I sit on top of a round table, laying one arm across my thigh while keeping my gun trained on him.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.

He jerks his head back in surprise. “Should I?”

“Yes,” I answer immediately. I look around the cafe, noting the faded wood panel walls. A few of the planks have lifted away from the wall, likely bowed from water damage. A cash register sits at the front of the store, covered with a plastic key guard. It probably hasn’t been used in ages. The plastic over the buttons is so yellowed it obscures the markings on the keys. The booths in the back have large cracks in the upholstery, exposing the yellow sponge cushioning inside.

“It’s been fifteen years since I was last here,” I say as I lift myself off the table and walk towards the back of the cafe. There’s a prep counter in front of the kitchen with various cutting tools. Looking over what’s available, I decide I want to kill Pyotr Ivanov slowly. A gun is too quick a death for what he’s done.

“Are you looking for money?” Pyotr asks. I can hear the strain in his voice from wondering who I could be.

My hand hovers over the largest knife I can find before picking it up. I turn and walk in long strides, powered by a fury that’s been buried inside me for all these years.

“My name is Viktor Mikhailov,” I declare as I walk to him. He startles when he hears my name and I see the flash of recognition as if confirming it from his own memory.

“I don’t want money,” I growl at him when I’m standing in front of him again. “I want payback,” I say as I wrap my hand around his throat. He tries to fight it, but my grip around him is too strong. Watching him struggle just makes me want to see more. I stab his leg just above the kneecap, squeezing his neck even harder so he can’t scream as I watch his face contort in agony. Strings of spit hang out of his mouth as he struggles to breathe. His leg buckles under him as he loses consciousness and his body collapses to the floor.

As he bleeds on the crimson rug below I decide I’m not through with him yet. I wrap his leg in a towel and sling him over my shoulder. His arms dangle with each step as I head back to my car.

“We’re not done yet,” I laugh to myself as I throw his body into the trunk of my car.

* * *

I pullup to the front of Vadim’s garage, stopping the car in front of Sergey, who’s on patrol duty. He leans into my window, laying his rifle on the hood and using his arms to prop himself up against the car.

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