Page 115
Story: Sinful Ruin
A sour taste fills my mouth, and I cover my mouth, forcing bile back down. “What about making sureIwas okay?” I hold in a breath, fighting back a sob so she doesn’t hear it leave me.
Fuck that.
“Oh shoot, what’s that?” She starts to talk to someone in the background. “Oh, honey, my massage therapist is here. I’ll need to call you back.” She hangs up.
What a joke.
32
“Yaroslav, answer your fucking phone,”I say to his voicemail. “I have your fucking money.”
What man doesn’t answer his phone for half a million dollars?
Yaroslav is usually known for easy contact and taking calls. If he doesn’t have his phone, one of his men does, and they immediately hand it over to him.
The fucker doesn’t like missing deals.
Fire burns through my veins as I slide my phone into my pocket and stare through the Escalade windshield at the Moro Bowling Alley.
I’m not a man who takes kindly to being ignored.
If he doesn’t want to answer my calls, then I’ll go to his place of business and shove my fucking phone down his throat.
His bowling alley sits on a desolate road, surrounded by failing businesses with similar Russian names. I’d bet my Escalade they don’t make a dime, and the businesses are simply there to launder dirty money through.
I crack the tension in my neck, grab my Glock from the glove compartment, and stroll through the nearly empty parking lot and into the building.
It reeks of cigarettes and stale pizza. A group of senior citizen bowlers are in one of the eight lanes.
A young guy is slouched forward on the front counter, focused on his phone, not even noticing my presence.
He doesn’t look up from his phone until I’m directly in front of him and fisting his shirt. He grunts, dropping his phone.
With my free hand, I press my Glock against his forehead. “Get me Yaroslav.”
He attempts to pull away, but I apply more pressure with the Glock.
“He’s not …” The guy holds up his arms, stumbling back, and trips against the stool, all while still in my hold. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” I ask, spitting in his face.
“I don’t know, man,” he squeaks out. “I only work here part-time.”
He’s a fucking liar.
Yaroslav wouldn’t have any run-of-the-mill part-timer working here.
I release the guy, pushing him backward, noticing a camera in the corner. With my Glock still pointed at the guy’s forehead, I raise my middle finger to the camera.
“Yaroslav never comes here,” the guy goes on. “His wife runs this place.”
I jerk back, lowering my Glock, and he bends at the waist, catching his breath.
“Tell whoever the fuck will get the message to Yaroslav that he needs to call Julian before I set this fucking place on fire.”
I hoped for a better ending for this trip.
I need to get Yaroslav his fucking money, so I don’t have to worry about him or his fucking son again. Unfortunately, I don’thave enough time to tear the entire bowling alley to shreds. I have to get back to Genesis for her father’s service.
Fuck that.
“Oh shoot, what’s that?” She starts to talk to someone in the background. “Oh, honey, my massage therapist is here. I’ll need to call you back.” She hangs up.
What a joke.
32
“Yaroslav, answer your fucking phone,”I say to his voicemail. “I have your fucking money.”
What man doesn’t answer his phone for half a million dollars?
Yaroslav is usually known for easy contact and taking calls. If he doesn’t have his phone, one of his men does, and they immediately hand it over to him.
The fucker doesn’t like missing deals.
Fire burns through my veins as I slide my phone into my pocket and stare through the Escalade windshield at the Moro Bowling Alley.
I’m not a man who takes kindly to being ignored.
If he doesn’t want to answer my calls, then I’ll go to his place of business and shove my fucking phone down his throat.
His bowling alley sits on a desolate road, surrounded by failing businesses with similar Russian names. I’d bet my Escalade they don’t make a dime, and the businesses are simply there to launder dirty money through.
I crack the tension in my neck, grab my Glock from the glove compartment, and stroll through the nearly empty parking lot and into the building.
It reeks of cigarettes and stale pizza. A group of senior citizen bowlers are in one of the eight lanes.
A young guy is slouched forward on the front counter, focused on his phone, not even noticing my presence.
He doesn’t look up from his phone until I’m directly in front of him and fisting his shirt. He grunts, dropping his phone.
With my free hand, I press my Glock against his forehead. “Get me Yaroslav.”
He attempts to pull away, but I apply more pressure with the Glock.
“He’s not …” The guy holds up his arms, stumbling back, and trips against the stool, all while still in my hold. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” I ask, spitting in his face.
“I don’t know, man,” he squeaks out. “I only work here part-time.”
He’s a fucking liar.
Yaroslav wouldn’t have any run-of-the-mill part-timer working here.
I release the guy, pushing him backward, noticing a camera in the corner. With my Glock still pointed at the guy’s forehead, I raise my middle finger to the camera.
“Yaroslav never comes here,” the guy goes on. “His wife runs this place.”
I jerk back, lowering my Glock, and he bends at the waist, catching his breath.
“Tell whoever the fuck will get the message to Yaroslav that he needs to call Julian before I set this fucking place on fire.”
I hoped for a better ending for this trip.
I need to get Yaroslav his fucking money, so I don’t have to worry about him or his fucking son again. Unfortunately, I don’thave enough time to tear the entire bowling alley to shreds. I have to get back to Genesis for her father’s service.
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