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“Prashchay, bratan,”I say, then turn and head toward the door, passing Kostya along the way.
“Jesus fuck,” Kostya mumbles, staring at the body of the man I killed with my bare hands. “I’m gonna puke.”
When I get back into my office, I grab a vodka from the minibar and take a hefty drag directly from the bottle. It tastes even more awful than I remember. Sitting down in the recliner by the minibar, I take another pull. I don’t recall the last time I got drunk.
Someone yells downstairs. Looks like Roman’s arrived. I lift the bottle and drink again. Five minutes later, more noise—something’s breaking. It sounds like someone is throwing around pieces of furniture. More shouting.
“Dimitri!” Roman roars “Get Angelina on the phone. Fucking now!”
Sounds like Sergei is here, as well. I stand up, bottle in hand, and walk toward the glass wall to look at the scene below. Sergei is standing in the middle of the dance floor, gripping a broken bar stool in his hand. Roman is facing him, his palm is extended toward his brother, and he’s saying something to Sergei, who looks like he’s going to smash the stool over Roman’s head at any second. Dimitri approaches them from the side, holding a phone in his outstretched hand. Sergei’s head snaps toward the phone, his gaze zeroing in on the device. The stool crashes to the floor. Sergei grabs the phone out of Dimitri’s hand, presses it to his ear, and listens for a few moments. He then throws the phone back to Dimitri and leaves.
I should probably stay and see if they need my help, but I can’t stomach the idea. Yuri is gone. The look in his eyes as he stared at me during those last few seconds of his life is going to haunt me for the rest of mine. I shake my head and set off toward the fire escape.
I find Kostya leaning on the wall near the back exit. He looks over at me, then at the bottle in my hand.
“Since when do you drink alcohol?” he asks.
“Since today.” I tip my head toward his car. “I need a ride.”
We don’t speak during the half-hour drive to my place, both of our gazes fixed on the street in front of us. It’s started snowing again, and I find myself fixated on the white flakes falling from the sky. I guess I don’t like snow anymore, either.
I close my eyes, lean back in the seat, and take another heavy gulp from the bottle.
The front door bangs open, and I exhale with relief. He’s back. A moment later something crashes to the floor.
“Pasha?” I shout.
There are a couple of seconds of silence before I hear his voice.
“It’s me, mishka.” His voice is strange. Strangled.
I expect him to come into the bedroom, but he doesn’t. I stare at the open door. Then, there’s a sound of glass breaking and a thud.
“Pasha?”
Nothing. I tense. Something’s happened. I throw the blanket off, intending to go look for him, but I can’t make myself move. He said to wait for him in bed. Should I stay here? Or go and see what happened? I can’t decide.
“Pasha?” I call again. No reply.
My hands start shaking. Something bad has happened. I know it because this is so unlike him. I move toward the edge of the bed, and the tremors in my hands intensify while nausea claws its way up my throat. The thought of leaving the bed makes me want to weep. Grabbing a handful of the bedsheets in my fingers, I squeeze and try to swallow down the bile. Finally, I dash across the bedroom at breakneck speed, hitting my elbow on the doorway. I misjudged the distance. Ignoring the pain, I burst into the living room.
“Pasha?”
The lamp in the corner is on, illuminating the room in a dim, dusk-like glow. The front door is hanging wide open. The narrow table near the door where Pasha leaves his keys lies overturned on the floor. He’s nowhere in sight.
I head toward the overturned console and feel something wet and sticky on the floor under my bare feet. I know the light switch is close, so I start feeling the wall with my palm. My sight is worse when there’s not enough light. Both the switch and the wall are white, making it hard to spot. When I find it, I turn on the lights and look around.
Pasha is sitting on the floor in the kitchen, leaning with his back against the oven door. His eyes are closed. There are pieces of glass everywhere, and the smell of alcohol is in the air.
“Pasha?”
He opens his eyes and cocks his head to the side, regarding me. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Careful not to step on the glass, I cross the kitchen and crouch between his legs. He doesn’t look like himself. His hair is a mess, and he’s wearing only jeans. His bare chest is splattered with what looks like dried blood. And I’m pretty sure he’s drunk. I reach out and cup his face in my palms.
“What happened?” I ask.
He closes his eyes and leans forward until his forehead touches mine.
