Page 47 of I’m The Worst

“Drink. It’ll warm your bones.”

I don’t move, thinking about how I got Sergei killed.

He smiles a little. “Good stuff. Not cheap shit. Better hurry…before the volk comes back.”

The word “volk” echoes in my head. The same Russian word Sergei had used, laughing, right before everything went to hell. Right before Wolff put a bullet in him because of me.

My eyes flick toward the doorway.

Then back to the glass.

I grab it and tip it back. It burns all the way down, harsh enough to make me cough.

“What is that?”

He laughs. “It’s Russian.”

He nudges the bottle closer.

I hesitate for half a second, then pour another glass and drink that one faster. The urge hits hard—just keep going, finish the bottle, drown everything out. Forget where I am. Forget how I got here.

I pour a third. It’s smoother now, or maybe I just don’t care as much. The heat settles in my chest, spreading out.

“See? Better, da?”

I don’t answer.

The other men are watching now too, smirking, saying things under their breath in Russian. Unease slithers beneath my skin as I set the glass down.

“What are they arguing about?”

Viktor glances toward the doorway. “Nothing. Savva likes to bitch. They’ll be at each other’s throats until one of them is dead.”

I swallow. “Do you know Wolff? I mean…have you worked with him before?”

Viktor lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he inhales and exhales slowly, smoke curling between us. “No. Only what I’ve heard. And the volk, he’s not someone I want to know.” He snorts quietly. “Savva’s different. They’ve got history. Long time.” Another drag. “Or maybe he just talks too much.”

I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.

Across the room, one of the men laughs and calls something out to him in Russian. Viktor glances back at them, then at me, then toward the door again.

“I should go.”

My stomach drops.

Please don’t leave.

I need the distraction. I need something to focus on.

He grabs the bottle and both glasses and walks back to the others, slipping easily back into their conversation. They laugh, smoke, and talk like this is just another routine morning.

My eyes drift back to the doorway.

Wolff’s silhouette is sharp against the white outside, completely still. Savva gestures, talking fast, frustrated, but Wolff doesn’t move, standing with his arms crossed.

After a moment, Savva throws his hands up and storms off.

Wolff stays unmoving for a moment longer.