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But Mischa Nikolayev has made a name for himself since coming to America. He settled in Brighton Beach, from what I know. At twenty-three, the Russian American Bratva’s pakhan as he’s referred to, runs a crew up and down the entire length of the East Coast. The extent of his business is unknown, at least to me. But one thing is for sure: my boss has his eyes on him. That’s evident at this very moment.
Phil slides a handgun out of his jacket pocket. From his side profile, I can see every move he’s about to make before he does it. He’s too focused on the side entrance of the club to know I’m standing in the shadows, hugging the brick building at his back. It’s a fatal error on his part. If you can’t have eyes in the back of your head, you better make damn sure you have a man that has your back at all times or else you’re dead.
My eyes snap to the metal door that opened five yards from where Phil is crouched, and I’m guessing he’s waiting on whomever is leaving the club.
As Phil slowly stands, I pull my handgun from the waistband of my fitted slacks. Having ditched my suit jacket when the sun set hours ago, it was my only option to conceal my weapon with the tail of my shirt untucked.
By the time I aim, Phil is raising his gun as a blonde exits the club. I can tell from my distance that she’s striking with hair down to the small of her back. The tight black dress only increases the appeal. Although she is attractive, the desire or lust I once possessed for all beautiful girls is gone. Since finding Ariana, she is the only one I want. She sates my needs in every way like I never imagined was possible.
A man following the woman out the door takes a step down, and it’s as if the silence of the night is heightened. I can hear his dress shoes splash in a puddle of water, but I don’t recall it raining in the last few days. The blonde woman laughs, the sound pulling one side of the man’s lips up. I’ve only met Mischa Nikolayev once up close. Other times I saw him at a distance, same as right now. Never have I seen a smile on the Russian’s face.
Before Phil has his sight locked on his target, I squeeze the trigger of the gun, the sound pulling a scared shriek from the woman, making her jump. Mischa moves with speed, covering her with his body and shocking me at the same time.
My aim wasn’t at either of them, but the Russian Pakhan didn’t dive for cover to save his own ass. He used his to shield his companion. It’s a move I know my father would not make if the roles were reversed and my mother was with him. Perhaps I’ve misjudged Nikolayev. Maybe he isn’t the enemy that I’ve been preached he is.
Phil drops to the ground, then his head bounces as it meets asphalt. When I move my gaze from Phil’s dead body and back to the Pakhan, he has a gun aimed in my direction.
“You can come out of those shadows, boy, or I’ll start shooting, not caring where I’m firing or who’s in my path. Reveal yourself,” he orders.
Perhaps saving Mischa Nikolayev’s life will be of use sometime in the future. That is if he doesn’t shoot me first.
