Page 134 of Violent Possession

My bravado doesn’t impress anyone, much less Alexei, who looks at me from under his eyebrows with a mixture of disdain and clinical curiosity.

A ghost of a smile, a spasm, crosses his lips. “Your method was reckless.” He takes a step forward, and the space between us evaporates. The air around him has its own density; it absorbs sound, heat, logic. “You exposed yourself. You exposedme.”

“I solved your fucking problem,” I retort, my voice starting to really fail. “Don’t pretend you’re mad about the mess.”

“I’m not mad about the mess, Griffin. But silencing this will cause me a headache that could’ve been avoided,” he says, and now his voice is a whisper that gives me chills. He raises his hand, and for a moment, I think I’m going to get slapped. The touch, when it comes, is worse: his long, cold fingers touch my cheek, wipe away the dried blood. “And my property was damaged in the process.”

The weight of the gesture is so indecent that I’m left breathless.

Before I can process the declaration of ownership, he grabs my arm forcefully. “I’m taking you home. We have to talk.”

He drags me through the now-empty corridors, ignoring the trail of blood and dignity that I leave behind. The rest of the restaurant fades around us: customers, waiters, security guards, even the fucking maître, all pretending that nothing happened, that they had never heard the name Malakov in their lives.

Each step is an outrage to my joints and my ego, but the alternative would be to leave me there, waiting for the second shift of police and paramedics. The firmness of his grip is the only thing that keeps me on my feet.

His car is parked under a gnarled tree, isolated from the others. A black, expensive, and fateful sedan, with leather seats that swallow me as soon as he throws me into the passenger seat next to the driver’s seat. The door closes, sealing the entire universe in that hermetic cabin.

Alexei gets in on the driver’s side and, without looking at me, puts the car in motion. He drives in silence for several blocks. The city lights pass like colored blurs, but the darkness inside the car is a pressure bubble that won’t stop growing.

I keep my gaze fixed forward as I feel his presence radiating from the side and the throbbing of my ribs with every minimal jolt on the asphalt.

“Do you think this is fun?” he lets out, finally, without taking his eyes off the street.

I laugh, or try to. A muffled noise comes out, and I taste new blood in my mouth. “Funwasn’t the goal. But seeing the look on that cop’s face when his radio went off... that had its charm.”

“You could have died,” he says. “One wrong move. A stray bullet. A more desperate brother. Seraphim could have sold you a trap.”

“But hedidn’t,” I say, turning my head to face him. His profile is a silhouette against the streetlights. Perfect chin, deep-set eyes, neat hair. A monument to self-control. “And I didn’t die. Now you know that Vasily doesn’t have Seraphim on a leash. It seems the balance was positive for you.”

“The balance is only positive becauseIcontrolled the outcome,” he retorts, turning a corner with a fluidity that belies the tension in his shoulders. “You tossed a coin in the air andhoped it landed on the right side. And I don’t work with luck, Griffin. I work withcertainties.”

“So usemeas a certainty,” I provoke, ignoring the taste of defeat that lingers after I speak. “You pointed me in the direction of a problem, and I’m solving it. Not your way, but I am.”

He drives for a few more blocks. The city center is a chaos of lights, cars, and lost people. I try to find some distraction outside, but all I see are distorted reflections and rain accumulating on the edge of the glass. The bleeding from my shirt begins to coagulate. I wonder if Alexei planned to let me bleed to unconsciousness just to make the interrogation easier later.

He stops the car at a red light, and in absolute silence, he finally turns to me. The red light of the traffic light bathes his face, casting shadows in his eyes.

“What you did today,” he says, “was the equivalent of taking a stack of my money and setting it on fire in the middle of the street to get attention.

“I got the attention of the right person,” I retort without hesitation. “And gave you the advantage over your brother. You say you hate chaos, Alexei, but you sought me out in that arena. Youboughtme.” I feel the warmth of the blood running down my collar and wonder if any trace of it shows on the outside, if the stains have already become visible, a flag of defeat or defiance. “What did you expect? A little dog that sits and rolls over when you tell it to?”

I see a microscopic flaw in the mask. A muscle in his eyelid, an almost imperceptible movement of his lips. The light turns green, the car moves forward, and I believe it was all my imagination that Alexei is really made of stone.

“It’s not the first time I’ve said this,” he says. “You’re not a pet, and I certainly didn’t buy a dog. I bought a weapon. That shoots in the direction it’s pointed.” He turns the wheel, headingthe car down a side street whose entrance I would never have noticed if I weren’t sober.

The lampposts cast intermittent flashes on the windows, and every time a light passes over my face, I feel like I’m in a bad movie interrogation, waiting for the next torturous question. Alexei drives with a calmness that makes my stomach churn. The car goes down a narrow ramp, enters the underground garage of the place where I’ve slept for the last few days—his apartment.

He parks in a spot with no neighbors. He turns off the engine, but makes no move to get out immediately. He stays there, looking straight ahead, the steering wheel in his hands, his glass eyes reflecting the blue dashboard.

His face, normally carved in indifference, now shows a thin crack.

“You destroyed the balance of weeks of work in less than twenty minutes,” he says. “I made deals, forged alliances, kept every one of my family members in line so they wouldn’t explode before the right time. I still don’t know if you’re a bigger threat to me or to them.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt with a click and gets out of the car, the door closing slowly. I stay there, holding my breath, feeling the blood already starting to run down to my fingers.

When I finally get out, the cold wind of the garage makes me shiver, and I can barely stand.

He doesn’t help me, just watches me as I drag myself out.