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4
MISHKA
Scrubbing at my hands and arms, I watch the dark-tinted water swirl around the industrial sink’s drain. Malik and Kristof were tasked with disposing of the bodies since Lenka and I were Rasputin’s main support in the prisoners’ torture and dismemberment.
I know I said I would find Alina after, but I don’t dare by the time we finally finish with the five men locked in Sergio’s basement. It’s too late, and I’m covered in so much blood. I can’t let her see me in this state.
All I want is a shower and to forget this day ever happened.
Because aside from the night I lost Sascha, this has to be the worst of my life.
I can’t stop thinking about that look in her eye, the one that tells me she’s never going to forgive me. I’m a monster to her now.
I can only imagine how she might look at me if I walked into her room with blood up to my elbows. My clothes I’ll have to burn. Thankfully, they’re simple, black, and can mask the gore decently well for my short walk to my 4Runner and up to my apartment.
“That was some beautiful work tonight, Orlov,” Rasputin says, clapping me on the back after he finishes cleaning off the significantly less blood on his hands. “I might just make an interrogator of you yet.”
I snort, fighting back the wave of repulsion at the thought. “I don’t think I’ll ever turn it into art like you,” I state. At least, that’s how Rasputin likes to describe his interrogation techniques—art. Like flaying a man while he’s still alive or removing his fingers one knuckle at a time requires some kind of creative genius.
In my eyes, all it requires is an iron stomach and a psychopathic fascination with pain and blood.
It makes my skin crawl to have his hands on my shoulder—even if the men we tortured to death tonight did almost kill Alina. I could hate them for that. I could grit my teeth and do what was asked of me solely because it at least means Alina will be safe from the men who ambushed us.
But I can’t keep doing Sergio’s dirty work.
It’s slowly and steadily driving me insane.
“I’ll see you later, yeah?” I say, struggling not to shrug off his hand too quickly and raise his suspicion.
“Sure thing,” Rasputin agrees with a smug grin.
I leave the torture chamber, cramming my fists into my pants pockets to hide the way they shake. My muscles ache with the tension of forcing myself to use a causal gait, and when I reach the stairs, I climb them two at a time.
The house is quiet. Sergio and Viktor left over an hour ago—after the men were so far gone, they stopped screaming from the pain. I suppose it got too boring for the Pakhan and his heir at that point. The rest of the dirty task and cleaning up could be done while they sleep soundly.
I’m grateful no one else is around as I pass through the dim hallways to the grand entry of Alina’s home. My eyes flit up the stairs, my heart aching to see her, to try and gauge better where we stand now. But nothing I say or do tonight is going to help. Of that, I’m confident.
With a nod toward Sergio’s night guard, I slip through the front door and down the steps, making a beeline for my ancient white 4Runner, the invincible car my brother and I bought together to haul our asses around Boston in the dead of winter.
And I try not to think about how I betrayed Sascha tonight.
The torture of knowing how utterly I’ve failed my brother gnaws at me now.
Before, I had too much on my mind—thoughts of Alina, the need to take my shot while I had one, the very real possibility of her exposing my treachery. Then the slow and intentionally agonizing murder of five men whose motivations and desires so closely mirror my own. It was like watching my fate unfold before my very eyes—participating in it.
If Alina decides she can’t forgive me, I know firsthand just how horrible my death is going to be. And all I can think about is that if I die like those men tonight, it’s only what I deserve for failing my brother so miserably.
I glance up at her window, dark because it’s nearly midnight, and I wonder what our next encounter is going to look like. The odds of her telling her father about my betrayal seem pretty high. I wouldn’t trust me if I were in her shoes. So, how can I possibly expect her to?
I’m sorely tempted to go back inside, to steal one last look at her peaceful face while she sleeps. Because I won’t likely get the chance again. But that’s a sure way to get myself killed, and I know it.
Shaking my head, I bring my car’s engine roaring to life and pull away from the curb. The drive back to my apartment happens in the blink of an eye, my thoughts such a tumult that I can’t seem to make sense of where to go from here. I trek up to my simple studio flat, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I’m stripping my blood-soaked shirt. Balling it up, I toss it in the bathroom sink, my jeans following a moment later.
I step beneath the frigid stream of water coming from my shower head without giving it a chance to warm. That will take too long, and I can’t stand the way the blood has caked to my skin for another minute. At least I can be grateful for the water pressure that blasts my skin, rinsing the gore from my face and hair within seconds.
It colors the white floor of my shower a grisly pink, and I press my hand to the wall, bracing against it as I consider just where I’m going to go from here.
I can no longer kill Sergio. That’s pretty obvious after tonight. Even if Alina decides she never wants to see me again, I can’t fathom hurting her. I’m just not strong enough, not hard enough for that. I had the opportunity, the perfect moment, and I let it slip through my fingers because I couldn’t get her out of my head.
