“I’ll fuck up the men that deserve it,” I tell him. “Those fuckers out there are nothing but ambitious fools. If they try this shit again, I’ll make them rue the moment they chose to disregard my warning. But for now, we have five hundred grand of heroin to resell and didn’t even break a sweat.”
Cillian shakes his head as though he’s trying to figure me out. “Something’s different about you, Artem.”
I smirk as we pull out onto the road. “You need a woman. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so obsessed with me.”
Cillian laughs. “You might be right. I haven’t gotten laid in almost a week. My balls are full to bursting.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Sounds like a personal problem. Drop me off at the mansion before you take care of that, though.”
9
Artem
It’s a short ride to my father’s mansion.
As we drive through the security booth behind the iron gates, I can see the lights of the mansion in the distance.
I can just make out the glowing window of Stanislav’s study. I wonder if he ever sleeps anymore.
“Any more news about Stanislav?” Cillian asks, pulling to a stop in the circular drive way.
“Fuck if I know. He doesn’t tell me anything. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I give Cillian a parting nod and get out of the car.
Heading inside, I go straight up to Stanislav’s study. The door is closed, but I’m not in the mood to knock today. Instead, I push my way in.
I’m expecting to find Budimir in there with my father. But my uncle is nowhere to be found.
I see only a man in a long white doctor’s coat standing over Stanislav.
“Father,” I say in greeting.
My father’s eyes meet mine momentarily. They flash with irritation. I know he isn’t pleased to be interrupted.
“Where’s Dr. Konstantin?” I ask, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of the massive mahogany desk.
“Off tonight,” my father replies. “Dr. Sergei here is stepping in.”
The doctor turns to me and gives me a respectful nod. I notice that he’s got an IV in his hand and he’s checking my father’s forearm. His brow is furrowed with concern.
“I apologize, don,” Sergei murmurs. “I’m having trouble finding a vein.”
Stanislav snatches the IV out of the thin man’s hands and flings it across the room.
“Then get out,” he says, in a low, dangerous tone. “I feel fine anyway.”
“Sir?”
“Now!” Stanislav barks.
The doctor stumbles out the door in terror without another word.
When it swings shut, I fix my eyes on the stubborn old man in front of me.
“That one’s not gonna last,” I drawl.
“What are you doing here, son?”
“The deal between the Albanians and the Polish is taken care of. They won’t be stepping into our territory anymore.”
“That news could have waited till morning.”
“Why?” I ask. “You never sleep anyway.”
He looks older than usual, I realize. And worse. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin sags like it’s losing the fight with time and gravity.
“What are the doctors saying?”
He hates talking about it. But some things can’t simply be ignored or bulldozed. Even if he wishes otherwise.
“The same old shit,” Stanislav replies gruffly. “Bah, the fuck do they know?”
“You’ve had three teams of doctors. And they’ve all said the same thing.”
“I’ll outlive them all,” he snorts.
Sometimes, I’m inclined to believe him. My father is as stubborn as they come.
But tonight, I can feel death and sickness looking in through the window at us. It’s the same feeling I’d had with Mama years ago. Just before she’d died.
“You need to listen to them. You need to rest more.”
“I’ll rest when I die,” he retorts, “and not a moment before.”
“I thought you weren’t planning on dying?”
His tired eyes narrow. “Did you come to discuss my health or my business, son? If it’s not the latter, then it’s time for you to leave.”
We stare daggers at each other for a second.
Two stubborn men. Proud men. Powerful men. Neither of us willing to back down.
In the end, I shrug and rise to my feet.
My time as don will come soon enough. For now, I wait.
“Get some rest, Father,” I tell him.
Then I leave.
On my way out, I stop by the bar and grab one of the most expensive bottles of whiskey in my father’s collection.
I walk out of the mansion, whiskey in hand, and head straight for the garage. A little parting gift from me to me.
There’s always two security guards manning the massive garage that resembles a warehouse. They nod respectfully as I sweep past them.
But neither one has the balls to say a thing to me as I grab the keys of Stanislav’s favorite Mercedes and get inside.
I tear out of the garage and down the drive towards the black gates. I barely slow as I pass between them with hardly an inch to spare on either side.
From there, I go to the cemetery.
I park the car haphazardly across three parking spots, grab the bottle of whiskey, and clamber out.
It takes me only a few minutes to reach Marisha’s headstone. I don’t need light to find it. I could walk there in my sleep.
The stone is ivory marble and engraved, but I don’t bother reading the words. I know those by heart, too.
I sit down in front of the headstone and twist open the whiskey.
The first drink tastes like heaven. It burns, deep and glowing, the way only good whiskey like this can. Whiskey aged enough to reminisce about the old days.
About the way things used to be.
About Marisha.
The smog hides the stars, making the graveyard so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face.
Out of that darkness, a kind of hallucination appears. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or my eyes playing tricks on me.
At first, I think it’s Marisha’s face. That pale cheek, the light, tumbling hair…
But that’s not right. It’s not Marisha.
The hair is darker.
The eyes are bigger, more innocent, more pleading.
I’m not seeing Marisha at all.
I’m seeing her.
The girl from The
