Page 51 of Violent Possession

Before leaving, Vania leans in my direction, saying, “If you breathe near him the wrong way, I’ll rip your lungs out through your throat.”

Then he straightens up and leaves.

I turn to Alexei instantly.

“What the fuck, Alexei? This is your cousin?”

His silence is a better answer than any monologue:this is the job, Griffin. Do you understand now?

I hold the steak knife on the table, lifting it under the tablecloth. This thing has the weight of a death sentence. Mine, his, or both. “Do you want me to take him out now? In the middle of all these people?”

Finally a human sign; a flash of genuine panic crosses Alexei’s eyes. His hand jumps and covers mine, forcing the knife back under the tablecloth. The touch is strong, cold, almost paternal. Almost.

He glances around to see if anyone noticed—the waiter, the hostess, two elderly people debating the price of salmon—but no one saw anything.

“Put that down,” he hisses, low and furious, leaning in close. “Do you really think the plan would bepublic carnage?”

“Then why the fuck is he here?” I demand, pulling my hand from under his.

Alexei recoils and, in a blink of an eye, regains his composure. He nods his chin towards the glass behind me, the large window overlooking a balcony.

“Take a good look at that idiot,” he begins, and I can feel the genuine contempt in his tone. Only, in the middle of the sentence, he cuts himself off and the hatred disappears, replaced by a social smile, a friendly wave, in the direction of the window. “...do you really think he would be a target?”

It takes me a while to get it. My brain is so saturated with adrenaline and paranoia that I only realize after slowly turning my body and looking out the window behind me.

Vania is outside, on the smoking terrace. He’s standing, motionless, with a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t smoke—he just lets it burn to ash. His eyes are fixed on me.

No, not on me. Onus.

When he realizes I’m looking back, he gives a half-smile, but it’s a shark’s smile: all teeth, zero joy.

The table. We’re not in some random corner by chance. From this point, I can see the front door, the entrance to the kitchen, the emergency exit near the bathrooms, and the door to the smoking area. All escape routes. All entrances. Alexei chose the table with total control. Wherever Vania went, he would see. WhereverIwent too.

“I don’t understand,” I say quietly. “He got mad because I took your drink. Why would you do all this to someone who’s on your side?”

Alexei laughs. It’s a short, dry sound, completely devoid of humor, the sound of someone who heard the most ridiculous and improbable joke in the world.

“He’s loyal to theconceptof family, Griffin, not to the people in it.”

“What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I once solved a problem with a gang in West Sacramento that had been at his table for months. He toasted me with the family, toasted myfather. ‘To the brains of our operation.’ The next morning, my best data analyst involved ended up in the ICU.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“Do you think I’m a voyeur for having cameras everywhere?” he asks, rhetorically. “His trusted man at my door, fifteen minutes before the attack; he, right after, appearing in my office with a box of Cuban cigars. That’s what he does. It’s anapologyfor putting you in line. Do you understand?”

Alexei has clear eyes. With Vania, they are darker, more restrained.

He doesn’t seem to be lying.

“...Are you fucking with me?” I ask, because the story is too absurd to be true, and too real to be a lie.

He isn’t offended.

“I’m a liar, Griffin. But with you, it would be a waste of time.”

I look at Vania again, now with different eyes. His hatred for me is personal, but Alexei’s anger is of another nature. It’s civil war, fratricide.