Page 92 of The Killer Card

I meet Elias Santos and Rowan De La Torre when I crash a club after one of Elias’ shows. He’s not insanely famous yet but well known already amongst the Latin community. He’s good from what I got to see of the show, but I didn’t crash the party expecting to meet him. I certainly didn’t expect for him to invite me to drink with him or for him to…. Want to get to know me? No one ever wants to get to know me, kind of comes with the disheveled homeless thing. Except Elias genuinely seems interested when he asks, “So where are you from, Graham?”

I haven’t been able to officially change my name yet, the legal system and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, but it’s my father’s name I give out now when I introduce myself.

I take a long drink from my beer and tell them, “Right here in New York.”

Elias laughs. “No shit,” he nudges Rowan who has watched me like a hawk since we left the bar for the VIP section. “We’re from Washington Heights. Where are you from?”

Shrugging, I take another sip of my beer. “The city.”

Rowan’s glare becomes more prominent. “Which part of the city?”

He doesn’t trust me, and that’s valid. I’m pretty fucking shady compared the people he normally surrounds himself with, being a military man and all. Doesn’t mean I have any desire to make him feel better or like me or whatever. I stopped giving a fuck who liked me years ago.

Meeting his eyes, I wait what I can tell is an annoyingly long time to him before admitting, “The Upper East Side.”

Military man snorts, shaking his head. “No fucking way.” Eli frowns at his cousin. “This guy is such a liar, Eli. No way you,” he gestures to me. “Are from the Upper East Side.”

I set my beer down on the table between us, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. From the hidden inner pocket, I take out my I.D.- the real one I got at sixteen with my old address- handing it over. Rowan snatches it from me, reading the address, looking between the picture and me, checking my birthday, and then my name. Slowly he raises his hazel eyes back to me, narrowed further with suspicion.

I take another sip of my beer as Rowan passes my license to Elias, who’s brow narrows more in concern than betrayal as he looks over all the information.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Can you not read, camo pants?”

Eli snorts but hides it behind his drink when Rowan shoots him a glare. The soldier turns back to me. “Grigory Lucas Antonov? A Russian who speaks perfect Spanish, has an elite address on Central Park but looks like his last meal was out of a dumpster. Who also gave us a fake name—”

“It’s not fake,” I snap. I take back my license from Elias, tucking it away in its hidden pocket again. “I’m in the process of getting it changed. Parlo anche italiano, se questo ha qualche valore per te.”

Elias blinks several times. “And Russian—”

“Конечно, я говорю по-русски,” I say in my native tongue. Switching back to Spanish I add, “My jaw line and sparkling personality does not make it obvious?”

Eli let’s out a clearly uncomfortable chuckle, “So what? Were you part of the Russian mob or something?” He laughs again, looking at Rowan who is watching me closely. Neither of us join him and slowly his laughter dies. “Coño…”

Looking around at the security detail for the club, Elias leans in to mutter, “Are you like, wanted or something?”

His concern is adorable, but I shake my head, assuring him, “Trust me, I was no one important.”

His brow furrows. “You’re a little young to be ex-mafia….”

“I grew up in it,” I tell him. “I didn’t join willingly or anything like that. It was a family business. I did a lot of work for my Grandfather.”

“And,” Rowan interjects. “He won’t be looking for you? Where is he now?”

I look him right in his sharp hazel eyes, lifting the beer to my lips as I say the word, “Dead.”

By the way he looks at me, I can tell Rowan knows I had something to do with it. Elias is not as perceptive as his cousin, but I’m not going to wait for him to catch up to the conviction in my tone. He seems like a really nice guy and maybe a little too trusting for his own good. Best I end this before it goes any further or before Rowan decides to make the judgement call for him.

Finishing my beer, I set down the bottle and stand. Both of them follow my lead but I hold up my hands. “Look, it’s been nice chatting with you both, but I really need to run.”

Elias follows me out of the VIP area despite his cousin trying to keep hold of him. He leans in, glancing at his security quickly before asking, “Do you need a place to stay, Graham? We can get you a room at our hotel, it would be no trouble—”

“No,” I tell him too quickly. He blinks, brows knitting further. Coño, this is not what I needed tonight. Holding out my hand for him to shake, I say a bit more gently. “Thank you, Elias. But I can handle myself. It was nice meeting you. Good luck becoming a big shot. Your music is awesome.”

“Gracias, amigo,” he smiles. Patting my shoulder, he adds a bit too casually, “Don’t be afraid to come around again sometime. Drinks on me.”

I nod, promise to take him up on that, and then I disappear into the crowd without looking back. I doubt we’ll ever meet again. Guys like Elias Santos don’t become friends with lowlifes like me. One day he’s going to make it big and I’m very likely to end up in prison. Best I forget we met and go back to my regularly scheduled programming. You know, being unhoused and starving on the streets while I pander whatever I manage to procure and not inhale.