AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTERONE
GRISHA
“Loser hasno idea what’s coming.”
I’m not so sure tonight’s mark, or ‘loser’ as Artem puts it, is that clueless. Personally, I don’t like to take things for granted. That’s how a person ends up dead. And in our business, shit like that happens all the time.
I throw Artem a side-eye. The man’s confidence never wavers. Not even when, staring at the ass of a woman sauntering past us, he ends up on the receiving end of a scowl that would have a lesser man’s balls crawling up inside his abdomen in retreat.
She looks away just as quickly, and I figure he probably fucked her ages ago and never called afterward.
She really shouldn’t be all that surprised. Everyone knows Artem’s modus operandi. It’s the same all us guys operate under.
When the woman and her perfect bottom are out of view, he turns to me. “Grish, you always have to interrupt me when I’m appreciating the female form. Why must you do that?” he huffs, taking a swig of his scotch.
I’m also choking down, or trying to, the shitty scotch that Sergey, our host and said ‘loser,’ has the fucking balls to serve us. He can afford better. Much better. Cheap bastard. I’m tempted to say something to him, that his cheap-ass liquor is an insult to not only me but also all his guests, but it would be pointless. Before the evening is over, it won’t matter. He won’t be buying any more scotch, ever, whether the cheap or good shit.
Still irked, which is pretty much baseline for Artem, he turns to Valentin, my brother, and gestures at the art donning the walls of the gallery where we’re attending an upscale Christmas Eve party. “Do people actually pay money for this shit?” he asks, sullen and disbelieving.
He has a point. For fuck’s sake, the six- and seven-figure paintings on offer look like something a six-year-old could do.
In the dead center of the room, people are drooling over the artist responsible for said art, lining up to talk to him like he’s proffering blessings or some shit from a high altar, like the goddamn Pope or Dalai Lama.
Yeah, I have to agree with Artem on this point. I have nothing against art. It’s just that this stuff is not my jam. “No kidding. Think about it. If you buy one of these… paintings,” I say, unsure what else to call them, “you gotta look at them every fucking day.”
My brother shrugs. “I like them. I do.” He looks around approvingly, like the other fake-ass poseurs in the room.
The fucker always has to contradict me. If he wasn’t my younger brother, I would have beaten him senseless long ago.
“Yes,” he says thoughtfully, as if he might pull out his checkbook right there on the spot. “I can see one or two of these hanging in the house. I don’t mind abstract impressionism in the right setting.”
What the fucking fuck.
“And how do you know so much about art, Val?” Artem asks, laughing.
Valentin gives him dirty look. “I took an art history class in college for an easy A. Talk about a way to meet hot babes. I got so much pussy out of that course I could hardly walk.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not because of all the pussy, but from the gonorrhea.”
“Fuck off you jealous prick,” Valentin says, laughing.
He’s the only one of the three of us to get a university degree. He’d insisted on it before agreeing to join the family business, and since he was always my father’s favorite, he got the old man’s blessing. But I don’t begrudge him much. He is, after all, my only brother.
A strong blast of perfume assails my nose, adding to my already-shit mood. I hate overly fragranced women. Actually, I hate overly fragranced anything.
This night’s just getting longer and longer. And it’s goddamn Christmas Eve.
“Gentlemen,” a scratchy voice purrs as a large, undeniably fake breast presses against my elbow, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Friends of Sergey’s?” a woman asks, sizing us up and trying especially hard to get a look at my wrist watch. In these circles, one’s watch is a critical calling card.
It never ends, the sizing up. The assessments. I consider saving her time and getting right to the point.
Yeah, bitch, we’re loaded.
But that doesn’t mean we’re going to let you suck our dicks. At least not tonight. We’re here to take care of some business. Messing around with gold diggers will have to wait for another time.
“He’s one of our… business partners,” Artem says, clinking his scotch against her champagne flute full of pink bubbles.
I shoot him a look warning him not to encourage her, but he conveniently ignores me. Artem’s number one goal in life is finding receptacles for his dick. He’s so obsessed with getting laid he’d probably fuck his sister if he had one.
