“Assuming Nikolai didn’t injure him himself, we should pay him a visit. You know, talk to him,” I reply, hoping that Stepan picks up on my subtext. “But we should at least wait until we know that Nikolai is going to be alright. I don’t want to leave until he’s stable.”
Stepan agrees, and we smoke together in the silence of the misty October night. The streetlights shine through the fiery leaves of the recently turning trees that line the street across from us, and it would be absolutely brilliant to observe under different circumstances.
Hours go by before we hear any sign of improvement, but eventually, the doctor leaves the basement to inform us that Nikolai is stable and will survive his injuries with the proper aftercare.
“He’s in and out of consciousness from the drugs we’ve got him on, but you can talk to him if you need to. Just don’t stress him out too much, alright?” the doctor says, and Stepan nods curtly as he hands the doctor a huge roll of cash.
The assistants clear the room as Stepan and I enter, and Nikolai’s paperwhite face glows against the dim grey atmosphere of a forsaken building that was once overrun with industry and life.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he begins, tears forming in his eyes as he stares up at me.
Seeing him suffer like this, to feel like a failure in the face of near-death, feels like a punch to the gut.
“Hey, do not apologize, okay? We’re going to make sure nobody gets away with what they did to you,” I reply, keeping my voice down.
“I never wanted this, I never wanted any of this,” he continues, now completely unable to hold back as hot tears stream down his face.
I glance at Stepan in confusion.
“What do you mean? Nobody wants to get shot at. It’s all part of the job,” Stepan says, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of silent judgment.
“No, not just the gunshot. Everything. I never wanted to join the Bratva. I came here to earn money for my mother back home in Russia. I was just looking for a job with people I had something in common with. This isn’t who I am,” Nikolai confesses, sputtering as he holds back painful sobs that pull at his stitches.
This information is new to me. I knew Nikolai wasn’t necessarily cut out to be a part of the mafia, sure, but I figured he would at least be able to handle the less intense work. I should have known that such a thing doesn’t exist in this life, and it’s my fault that he was ever assigned to do it in the first place.
“We’re going to make sure you and your mother are taken care of, don’t worry. You put your life on the line for us. That makes you a soldier and a part of our family,” I say, and Nikolai exhales shakily.
“Now get some rest. I’ll place some extra protection around this building just in case anyone decides to get brave about shit,” I say, and Stepan and I disappear back into the hollow, damp hallway leading to the exit.
“So, now we’re going to go fuck the guy up, right?” Stepan asks with unmistakable bloodlust in his eyes.
“Absolutely, it would be asinine of us to let that dude get away with this shit,” I reply as we both climb into my car.
“Guess I’m texting my wife that I’ll be home late again. She hates that shit, you know?” he says, sulking a bit.
“You’re making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to run around town with me. I’m sure that Svetlana has been enjoying that lifestyle of hers enough to deal with it,” I respond with a subtle note of bitterness.
“Speaking of women, who’s that lady you’ve been hanging around with? Maggie something?” Stepan asks.
I’m suddenly reminded of the sweet, naive little blonde woman camped out in my apartment, likely wondering what the hell is going on. Shit.
“Millie? Yeah, I like her a lot. We were on a date before all this shit happened,” I say as I pull away from the curb, making my way to The Bombshell. “Her pussy is to die for.”
“You know these American women aren’t raised right. Why would you waste your time? She probably has no work ethic and just wants you for your money,” he replies with a scoff.
I roll my eyes. “Well, she’s one of my tenants at the 241 building downtown. She owns a bakery, probably works six or seven days a week,” I reply, my agitation growing more prominent.
Stepan doesn’t relent. “No, you need yourself a good Russian woman, someone who grew up with the same values as you,” he says.
“What values are those, exactly?” I grumble, recalling the grim reality of my upbringing in the Russian slums where my father fought in the streets to provide for us. Whatever Stepan believes my life was is a delusion.
“You know, the natural order of things. Someone more traditional like
Katya. You know she was raised right. She and Svetlana are both perfect examples of what you should be looking for, someone submissive and feminine,” he continues as if he can’t read my expression at all.
I allow him to prattle on for the rest of the drive, regaling me of all the horror stories he’s collected of American woman and their ‘desire to be men’, as he so eloquently puts it. Of course, this is all really about Katya. He wants me to marry her vapid ass, but that’s not happening, especially now that I’ve found Millie.