Page 34 of The Lies Between Lovers

Igor muttered a reply that Vaslav didn’t pay close enough attention to hear because he was too busy flattening himself to the ground as he readjusted the barrel of the gun to the right. At the end of the property, lined up on a row of old sawhorses that he’d pulled out of the dilapidated shed—where he kept the Rolls and other toys that he didn’t like leaving around for just anyone to see—sat a variety of items he intended to destroy one shot at a time.

Gift after birthday gift from men all across Russia that liked to remind Vaslav of their connection to him. For good reason—the dozen or so oligarchs that sent a gift, usually with a note, to his home were the same men that afforded him, and his organization, protection, of sorts. Money could only go so far in his world, and while everyone had a price, power and control happened to be two things that sometimes could not be bought.

In certain circumstances.

However, it was a good method of encouragement. Hence, the gifts. Every oligarch in his pocket would give their left hand to remind the infamous mafiya boss that he had friends in very high places. His birthday just happened to be an occasion to do so in such a way that they could keep a safe distance.

Wisely so.

“I liked that watch,” Igor told him when Vaslav took a shot and blew the first item on the closest sawhorse to bits. The bottle had been wrapped in braided leather, but that offered no protection to the glass. He bet the cologne that sprayed into the air probably stunk to the high heavens.

“How many times do people need to meet me in person before they realize I don’t wear scents?” he asked himself.

Igor only sighed.

Vaslav rolled his eyes back, telling his companion, “Go get the goddamn Rolex if you want it that badly, yes?” Then, he grinned over his shoulder at Igor, adding, “I won’t even shoot at the sawhorse it’s on while you run down there.”

“I said I liked it, not that I wanted to die for it.”

Chuckling low, Vaslav settled back with his gun and targets. He’d set up a good thirty gifts all in a line ranging from least favorite to probably the most expensive. None of them meant shit to him. Some of the gifts had come from within his organization—whatever brigadier felt comfortable sending their boss something to open with their name attached.

Nothing he planned to keep.

Vaslav blew through two sawhorses, hitting every target without missing, before he stopped to take a break when the wind picked up again. “I did keep the cash gifts, at least.”

Igor laughed darkly. “Who wouldn’t?”

With the screech still constant in his ears and a target not in his sights, Vaslav’s mood worsened fast. Rolling to his side so he had better access to his slacks pocket, he pawed for the item he knew should be there that would, at the very least, take the edge off.

Not his pain, really.

Just his mood.

The pills in the bottle rattled as he tugged it free from his pocket, not even looking at the cap as he popped it off. Vaslav fished out two of the white bars and tossed them into his mouth, swallowing back the pills dry.

Igor came to sit by his boss on the damp grass. He didn’t look at Vaslav when he said, “You know, the Vicodin doesn’t even work for your headaches, Vas.”

“Do you think the neighbors have called to report me yet?” he asked instead of acknowledging the issue that Igor presented to him. His Vicodin habit was bad enough without adding someone else’s opinion to what he already knew.

The withdrawal would be a bitch.

“Well,” Igor drawled, “they do think you aren’t supposed to have guns on the property, so if they do call and make a report, can we really fault them for it?”

“But it was the only gift I really liked.”

That made Igor grin. The rifle, custom made with a hand-chiseled engravement of snakeskin along the butt, had been from him.

“Did you see the teapot Mira found for me?” Vaslav asked as he rolled back to his belly, tossing the pill bottle to the grass beside him.

“I picked it up for her, actually.”

“Ah, well ... I liked that, too.”

The two men quieted as Vaslav went back to his target practice. He was halfway through destroying the items one at a time when the tingling started in his left hand. The one he was using to shoot.

At first, he just tried to shake it away. The hard crack of his wrist with every wag of his hand did nothing to rid the pins and needles starting to crawl higher up his arm.

Igor, not noticing Vaslav’s plight, said, “Kiril called with an update on the Italy situation. Seems your newest conquest is—”