Page 157 of Violent Possession

Griffin, chaos incarnate, the most unpredictable variable in my plan, not only survived but completed the mission. And so quickly.

“What did he ask for in return?”

Griffin shrugs, or tries to. “I’ll leave that part to you guys. It’s not like there’s anything you can’t do.”

I don’t answer immediately. I run through scenarios, possibilities, dangers.

“Do you trust him?”

“I trust his fear,” Griffin replies. “It’s genuine. And his hatred too.”

I look at his face, at the still-throbbing cut, at the almost-closed eye and the other, glazed but lucid.

“He’ll make contact,” he continues. “Give him a chance.”

I run a hand through my hair, tired. The feeling of control returns amidst the chaos.

“You did well,” I admit.

“I’m good at surviving,” he says, and there’s something sad there, an acceptance that perhaps he’ll never be good for anything else.

We stand in silence.

“Want a drink?” I say.

“I want you here.”

His request is not something logic can process. It comes from a place of vulnerability so raw that I feel exposed just witnessing it.

I stop. I watch. The broken and bloodied man who has just turned my world upside down twice in one night.

He doesn’t look away. In his waiting, there is a trust I have done nothing to deserve.

Slowly, I abandon the idea of the drink. I walk to the sofa nearest to him.

I sit. And I stay.

He says nothing more and doesn’t try to touch me. He knows he no longer has to fight for my attention.

He already has it. Completely.

The cycleof hours ends with the promise that order will be restored. It always does. Chaos never lasts more than a few moments: a fight, a shootout, a scream, then come the calls and threats, the cleanup crews, the payments made in silence. My men have already scrubbed the bar until the bloodstains have become a memory of bleach. Ivan, they say, is icing his jaw, chewing on his own humiliation. Griffin is recovering in my bed, his pain softened by pills and alcohol. The world remains, invariably, on its march.

I spend the next few hours in insipid meetings, numbers and contracts, pretending the previous night didn’t happen. No one dares to mention the turmoil; the official version of events has already spread—a trivial disagreement, resolved the old-fashioned way, with no major consequences. The lie sticks better when you don’t force it too much.

At the end of the workday, I put on my overcoat over my suit, straighten my tie, and signal for the car to be brought around.

My bodyguards are waiting for me in the lobby. They wear dark suits and have the look of men who have seen hell so many times that they only fear ridicule. We go down to the ground floor together, where the air is filled with that cold smell of waxed granite and artificial flowers. The building’s mirrored facade returns my distorted image: an impeccable man, but with the clear shadow of exhaustion—and a previous fight—under his eyes. A black car is already waiting across the street.

I walk to the car, aware of the script: two men in front, one by my side, another behind, each attentive to the variations in the scenery.

Today, there is a new detail.

Half a block away, an old man is leaning against a lamppost, squeezing a time-worn accordion. He plays an old Russian song, and his hoarse voice sings of an angel who fell from the sky and was lost among men. It’s a sober commercial street, where every square meter was designed to be safe and predictable. There are no street musicians here, much less people with a folk repertoire and no hat out front to collect coins.

My bodyguards quicken their pace, uncomfortable with any anomaly. I feel their tension escalating.

It is in this mismatch that a little girl, with blonde hair tied in a messy ponytail and a shockingly red coat, appears out of nowhere. She is walking hand-in-hand with a tired-looking woman, probably her mother, and she breaks the bond in a moment of disobedience and dashes toward me.