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Antonio drove, and Damien is in the passenger seat.

I snatch the duffel bag with my cash and hop out of the car. Damien and Antonio do the same. The warehouse door is unlocked, and we let ourselves in. Last time I was here with Yaroslav, he had a guard at the door.

Maybe he knows he can trust me now since we had no problem with payment before.

Or maybe something’s up, and this won’t go as easy as I hoped.

A man is in the corner, shirtless, punching a boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. The other is spread out in a chair, eating ramen noodles and screaming at the TV.

“All right, where the fuck is Yaroslav, you fucking imbeciles?” Antonio yells, snapping his fingers and motioning for them to come closer.

The man takes another slurp of his noodles before setting down the bowl. The other guy steadies the boxing bag before stalking toward us. I’ve never seen a motherfucker flex his muscles so much. He looks like a lame Popeye impersonator.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “And where the fuck is Yaroslav?”

Noodle Fuck rubs his hands together, a sly smirk on his face.

I’ve seen enoughyou’ve been ownedfacial expressions at the casino to know a shit show is about to ensue.

“We’re here to represent Dima,” Popeye asks replies, snorting a few times.

“Where’s Yaroslav?”

The two assholes share a look and snicker.

Yes, they fucking snicker, like Antonio’s six-year-old daughter does when she steals your last fucking Oreo.

“Yaroslav is no longer boss,” Noodles says. “Dima is in charge now.” He jerks his head toward the duffel bag. “You can leave the cash with us.”

“We’re not leaving shit with you,” Damien says, snarling his lip. “Call Yaroslav or Dima and tell them to get their asses herenow.”

“Or what?” Popeye mockingly shimmies his shoulders.

I don’t have time for this bullshit, so I do what every sane man does. I pull my Glock from my pants and point it at them.

Antonio and Damien do the same.

Noodles fumbles with his pants before pointing his pistol at us.

The other guy dashes over to the boxing bag, as if he left his gun there. For shit and giggles, I fire off in his direction a few times. Antonio laughs as the man hops around, dodging the bullets. I wait until my last fire before hitting him in the ankle.

“What the fuck?” he cries out, falling to the floor and cupping his ankle.

“Dima said to leave the cash,” Noodles grumbles, not even bothering to help the man now screaming in agony.

“It’s a fucking ankle wound. Relax,” Damien says in annoyance. “Dumb fucker is acting like he has an actual injury over there.”

Noodles stares at each of us as if we’re crazy and isn’t sure who to point his gun at. So, he makes a show of going one by one, over and over again. Any of the three of us could easily shoot him in a second.

“Call Dima, tell him I’m not leaving the cash and to get his ass here so we can sign this contract,” I demand, playing with my gun’s trigger and wondering how much bullshit I’d have to deal with if I just shot this fucker in the face.

Noodles scoffs, jerking his gun from Damien to me. “You think Dima cares about a contract his father arranged?” He throws his head back, laughing like a fucking hyena. “He’s killing all his father’s contracts. No longer will he play nice with any of you Italian motherfuckers who think you’re better than us.”He levels and hardens his stare on Antonio. “That changes now. We’ll show all youbosses.” He stops to spit at Antonio’s shoes before whipping his cold stare to me and curling his upper lip. “You stole something from Dima, and he wants it back.”

“Call Dima and tell him we can make an arrangement,” I say, lying.

Antonio lowers his gun to fish his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling Dima myself.”

“Good luck,” Noodles says. “He won’t answer. Let’s just say, he has a new wife who’ll be entertaining him.”