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“We are the darkness, Mav. We’re black holes. Guys like you and me? The sun doesn’t shine for us. It can’t.”
“Why?”
Why. It’s possibly the single most dangerous question a person can ask. Because questioning whether or not you can have something leads to hope. And hope is a deadly fantasy to lend power to.
“Because simply sharing a space with us would kill it.”
He stares at me, wearing a contemplative look, as though considering his rebuff to my statement. Something he can grasp hold of to validate this delusion of any happy-ever-after he’s constructed in his head involving my sister. It’s a narrative I cannot, nor will I, tolerate.
Mav’s eyes soften, his grip on his weapon loosening as his mouth opens to speak. Seizing the opportunity his momentary distraction offers me, I lunge forward, throwing an elbow into his chin while pinning the hand clutching his gun to the wall above his head.
It discharges, the deafening echo of the shot ringing in my ears while the bullet embeds in the ceiling above us. Mav glares at me, chest heaving as he attempts to fight against the pressure of my forearm currently pressed up against his neck.
“Every time you think about chasing down my sister, I want you to think about if she’d still look as pretty inside a box. Because that’s the fate you’re condemning her to if you pull her back into this life.”
I shove off him, pushing to stand as he drops to the side, clutching his throat. Mav rolls to his back, a few intermittent coughs escaping him while looks up at me with uninhibited hatred. My hardened stare meets his, my hand drawing his attention when it lifts to dangle his gun I’m currently in possession of. With a few key swipes, I dismantle his Glock before tossing the various pieces to different corners of the room. Holding up the mag, I point at him before my thumb works to clear each round. The bullets fall to the floor, one after the other, pinging with my accompanying words.
“Figure your shit out, Mav. Whether it’s going home to Hydetown and fucking your way through a long list of rebounds, or staying here and swallowing a bullet on my floor. As long as none of your options involve Joanna, it really makes no difference to me.”
Spinning to give him my back, I march from the room, briefly stopping downstairs to scoop up the duffle bags on my way out the door.
I take no joy in breaking Maverick Bishop. But if it keeps my sister safe, I will carve her from the center of his heart, stopping only when the hollow space I leave behind holds no echo of her name.
***
“Mr. Conners.” A middle-aged gentleman greets me in a thick Russian accent, approaching me from the center of the room. Yuri Petrov, Vor for the Bratva, looks like a plethora of garish stereotypes photoshopped together, with a reputation for having the tolerance level of a temperamental toddler. He smiles, revealing an angled set of teeth before his lips close around the end of his cigar. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Mr. Petrov.” I extend my hand, offering a firm shake. “I apologize for delaying this meeting. As you are aware, I had some internal conflicts which required my immediate attention.”
“I understand, Daniel.” He addresses me by my first name. It’s an offense I’d typically correct, though I don’t plan on interacting with the shithead long enough to be bothered by his mistake. “It’s a dark day when one of your own goes rogue. I understand the need to work swiftly to ensure it does not escalate to inspiring a mutiny amongst your soldiers.”
I can almost physically feel JP and Rico bristle behind me. Yuri’s way off base in his assumption regarding their loyalty. However, I take a page from Rico’s old school playbook—not looking to stir up shit by mouthing off. I’m trying to be in and out, and I have a feeling things will go a whole lot smoother if I just placate this motherfucker.
“Indeed. Tommy’s actions were unsanctioned. I appreciate you being forthcoming in disclosing the details of your arrangement so I can rectify the situation.”
“Rectify?” Yuri removes the cigar from his mouth, expelling a cloud of smoke.
“Yes.” Extending my hands out to the sides, I signal for Rico and JP. They approach from behind, depositing the straps of each bag into my grasp. “While I understand you were promised exclusivity as my distributor, I’m already under contract with another supplier. I apologize for Tommy wasting your time. Please accept this offering for your troubles. I’m sure a businessman such as yourself has better things to do than waste his time with a bunch of children.”
Yuri looks to me skeptically, eyes shifting between me and the bags I’ve now dropped at his feet. He glances to the right, signaling one of his goons with a subtle tilt of the head. The steroid-ridden oaf meanders over, crouching down and tugging open the zippers.
“Two million,” I state as the stacks spill into view.
“Well…” Yuri takes another puff of his cigar. “That’s very generous of you, Daniel.”
“It’s the least I can do.” I nod, the tension in my shoulders somewhat receding as his man collects the bags. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Just a second, Daniel.” He stops me, his lips curling into a smile that inspires a host of feelings, none of them comforting. I find myself suddenly regretting turning over our weapons on the way in—not that we had a choice. “They tell me you’re a professional athlete. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“Bicycles, is it?”
“Motocross. They have engines.”
“Ahhh.” His shit-eating grin widens. “That’s right. Motocross. That must keep you busy. One can’t help but wonder where you find the time for all your other responsibilities.”
“I make do.”
