Page 110 of Hush, Little Baby

Sunglasses sets his own drink down and stands, finally, coming over. “Why we only talk? I see two holes.” As he gets close, he starts to pull his fly down.

The zipper’s rasp is my panic’s starter pistol. I don’t even realize I’m screaming until my own voice cracks and breaks, pathetic and shredded, but it’s enough to make them pause. Or maybe it’s the new echo of heavy shoes on the warehouse floor.

I see Constantine approaching out of the corner of my eye. His face is a bleak mask of calculation until he takes in what’s happening—four men around my naked body, one with his dick out, all of them heaving laughter and insults in a language I hope I never learn.

He says, “What the fuck—” All four men turn to him, almost in unison, their animal grins not fading, just shifting targets.

“Isn’t this a little far?” Constantine says, voice rough and tight. “You were supposed to rough him up, not—” He glances at my exposed body, at the blood caked on my face, at the glistening vodka and vomit along my chin. “Not this.”

Stubble shrugs. “We were told to make him cry. He’s crying.” He gestures to the crusted tears and snot smeared across my cheeks.

Longhair chimes in, “You never say ‘don’t fuck him.’ So we fuck him. Is job.” He spits out the last word, like it’s a punchline.

Sunglasses tucks himself back in with a click of teeth. “Maybe he wants to go first, da? We can wait for you to finish.”

Constantine’s face twists. He grabs a bottle from the folding table and smashes it onto the floor in one sharp motion, glass splintering and skittering in every direction. The room goes quiet. No one moves, and only the slow drip of vodka onto concrete fills the heavy air.

“You’re done,” he says, voice shaking with fury. “Nobody’s fucking anyone. That wasn’t the deal. You were just supposed to rough him up a little bit for the photo.”

“We just here for fun. No harm, yes?” Longhair says.

Constantine doesn’t answer. He’s vibrating with anger, jaw working. “You’re all animals,” he spits.

Baldy laughs, but it’s a nervous sound. “Yes, that is our job. Maybe you want a turn, huh? You and the pretty boy, you make a show for us—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Constantine shouts.

And then, through the silence that follows, something else cuts through.

A click.

The unmistakable sound of metal cycling into place.

All at once, every eye in the room whips toward the source—a shadow in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered.

I know that silhouette.

My Daddy.

No one moves. The only sounds are my own breathing, ragged and wet, and the tap of Niko’s shoes as he enters.

He’s in another league from the men in this room. He doesn’t belong here, and the way he moves—shoulders squared, coat open but crisp and unwrinkled, not a hair out of place—makes everyone else look suddenly so weak.

He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes are locked on Constantine, who is halfway between the Russians and the doorway. Face flushed, knuckles white around the broken bottle, as if he thinks for a second he might use it. But he knows he won’t.

Nikolaus doesn’t raise his voice or posture. He gestures with his gun from the bottle to the floor, and says, “Put it down.”

Constantine does, instantly. The noise as the glass hits the floor is loud, a ricochet through my skull.

The four men have moved to flank Constantine like they’re the muscle in this scene, but Nikolaus doesn’t so much as glance at them. He keeps walking forward, aim unwavering, until he’s just a breath away from Constantine.

“Niko…” Constantine calls.

Nikolaus stops, the gun a black extension of his hand, and cocks his head. “You,” he says, voice deadly cold. “You did this.”

“What the fuck else was I supposed to do?” Constantine’s voice is brittle, ugly. “You’ve been obsessed. The business has gone to shit, the board’s nearly mutinied, and you didn’t even notice—” He cuts off, as if the truth is an insult best spat out fast. “You put him above everything, Niko. You made everyone else expendable, including me.”

Nikolaus takes another step forward. “So you handed him to these,” a flick of the gun at the Russian men, “to make a point?”