They’re not really that professional and must be some small-time bastards who have a grudge against Nikolai.
When you’re powerful, the world is your enemy.
Life is your bitch.
That’s exactly what I strive to be.
We corner the van near an empty, industrialized road with abandoned warehouses.
They open fire, but Kolya and I are faster. Our shots hit their wheels and they swerve before banging against the wall of a warehouse.
We storm out of the car, not giving them a chance to recover. Two men stumble out of the van, shaking their bloodied heads and holding AK-41s.
Kolya shoots the first between the head and he drops dead. I don’t blink or attempt to take the kill.
I might use violence to my benefit, but I don’t get off on it or seek it out.
Violence, just like everything else, is a means to an end.
A method to get things done.
Those who thrive on it become addicted to it, and I don’t allow myself to get consumed by anything.
Or anyone.
Kolya easily disarms the other guard and hauls him to his knees in front of me. I don’t even bring out my gun.
“Who sent you?”
“Fuck you,” he snarls with an accented English then spits blood at my leather shoes.
“Fuck you isn’t an answer. Either give me one or I will find your family and make them watch as they’re being tortured and killed.”
That does it.
Bringing up the family always breaks them. And it’s why people like me can climb the ranks higher.
We have nothing that weakens us, no beloved ones to go back to, and certainly no people that control our fate.
We always go up while everyone else stays down.
After he finishes selling out his boss, the bastard in front of me stares up. “Go ahead and kill me, but one day, you will be killed, too, Volkov.”
“That day isn’t today. Thank you for killing my father for me.” I bring out my gun and shoot him between the eyes.
Now, nothing and no one will stop me.
2
Adrian
The scent of roses has morphed into the stench of death.
I stare down at the blood gushing from her wounds, at the life stubbornly leaving her body without pause or second thoughts.
The red color is marring her fair skin, painting rivulets down her arms and legs and contouring her soft face.
Her eyes are open, but she’s not looking at me. Their blue is blank, vanished, already existing someplace else where I don’t belong.
I cradle her head in my arms, gently stroking her dark brown hair. Lifting a wet strand, I inhale deeply, searching for what’s possibly my last fix of roses. It doesn’t matter if they’re thorny and would prick me in the process. The method holds no importance to me as long as I get things done.
What greets me is the furthest thing from roses. It’s not even death. It’s worse.
Nothingness.
Numbness.
A place where she can’t and won’t feel me. Where she ended everything just so she could seal her heart and her soul.
Just so she could…disappear.
I sweep her hair away from her face and brush my lips over her forehead. “I’ll find you again.”
People say death is the end.
For me, it’s only the beginning.
3
Winter
I think I’ve stopped feeling.
It’s not that I’ve turned off my emotions, but I’m pretty sure I’ve lost sense in my hands and feet.
I can almost see the blisters from the cold on my fingers inside my torn gloves and between my toes that are covered with old socks and man shoes that are a size too big, making my feet slouch with every step I take. The frigid air is even moving past the barrier of my four thin sweaters and the coat that’s three sizes too big.
Snow season hit hard this year in New York City. I feel like I’m a walking snowman with the weight of the clothes I’m wearing. None of them feel soft or protective enough, but it’s better than dying from hypothermia.
It’d be ironic if I died from the cold when my name is Winter.
Is Fate a little too cynical, or what? He must have thought of this moment when he whispered to my mom that she should name me after the coldest, harshest season.
Fate also chose the worst state to throw me in. Not only are the winters here cold, windy, and wet as hell, but the summers are also unbearable with all the humidity.
But who am I to complain? At least here, I can slip through the crowd unnoticed.
As if I don’t exist.
Invisibility is a powerful tool. In a city that harbors over eight million residents, it’s actually easy for someone like me to go unnoticed.
The cold forces me to stand out more, though. As I walk down the wet streets among the hundreds of thousands of people, I get looks sometimes. They’re not always out of pity—oftentimes, they’re judgmental. I can hear them say, You could’ve done better, young lady.
But most New Yorkers are so desensitized that they don’t give a flying fuck about a nobody like me.
I try not to focus on the people exiting bakeries with takeout, but I can’t ignore the divine smells that waft past me. I open my mouth, then close it as if that will get me a taste of the goodies.
If only I could have some hot soup right now or a warm piece of bread.
I swallow the saliva that forms in my mouth at the thought. Whenever I’m starved and don’t have access to food, I picture a table full of delicious meals and pretend that I’m feasting on them. But my stomach just believes it for half a minute before it starts growling again.
It’s hard to deceive that one.
As hungry as I am, however, what I’d really love is more to drink.
I lift the can of beer that’s wrapped in a brown paper bag and down the rest of it. There goes the final drops that were supposed to get me through my day.
It’s only the afternoon and I haven’t eaten
