The other man opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it again. His brows contracted together. “Well… I can’t blame you for your suspicion, but I didn’t hire you with the express intention of killing you. Someone may have you bugged, Alexi… someone may be wondering why I called you for a private conversation in my office. Given what happened to Grigori, and given that Sergei is returning to America, you can surely see why some of the men here might be concerned about what you’re being sent out to do?”
“No.” Everything he said sounded distant and dull in my own ears, as if he were speaking from far away. “No, I don’t. No one talks about this to my face. The problem is that no one talks to me.”
“Soon after you killed Grigori, there was talk of having you removed.” Lev glanced at my face, not long enough. Why wouldn’t he meet my eyes now? “The men in question are superstitious, and they fear. But I spoke for you.”
How nice. Old Uncle Lev looking out for me. “And I guess you’re not going to tell me who wanted me put down?”
Lev stopped trying to speak for a moment, exasperated. “No. I do not want another internal feud. The fact is that people wonder about someone capable of smashing his own father’s head in with a hammer, and they think: ‘Who’s next?’ That’s how it was. Grigori was a friend to many.”
So was Semyon. My ears were ringing. What a load of bullshit. Vassily had no cause to turn on me. Nic, Ovar, Vanya, even Petro… none of them had ever expressed concern in my presence. My memory flashed back to the Manelli spook. Carmine. The more I thought back—his contempt and arrogance, brashness, confidence—the angrier I felt. Someone was working with him, ratting out his own people to our enemy. “I hope you plan to have your office searched for bugs, Avtoritet. I’ll resume my search tomorrow.”
“Alexi, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t even walk.” Lev glanced down at my legs, and his mouth drew across disapprovingly. “I will put Nic—”
“No.” I counted to three and heaved myself to my feet. My head spun, the room looped, but I remained upright. While Lev watched me in silence, I limped to his living room door and caught hold of the jamb. “I resume tomorrow. I’ll find Vincent. The Manellis are going to pay for my knee surgery.”
Chapter 10
On the drive back, I lolled against the rear window of a hired car, brooding on nothing while I watched the city go by. The conversation with Lev left me feeling full and foggy and numb. My knee throbbed like a second heart, the discomfort echoing in my fingertips and the pulse under my tongue. The joint was slightly uneven, the patella smashed into several pieces and only just healed. It was better than nothing, but whatever Kutkha had done to help was not quite enough to put us all back together again.
The sensation of my Neshamah’s presence was disquieting. I’d always known that the Higher Self was real, but he was always there now, humming like a cloud of ozone in the back of my mind. I had no idea what to make of this new, invasive consciousness. Once the euphoria of connection had worn off, it left me with the sense that I was constantly being coldly observed by a pair of alien eyes. Judged. I dared not seek or ask him questions until we were alone.
Vassily was waiting for us in the foyer. It was cool compared to the early morning heat outside, but Vassily looked like he’d been in a sauna with his clothes on. He was pale, sweaty, his eyes sunken, his t-shirt clinging to his wiry chest. He was awake, at least, but he took one look at me and scruffed his hair with both hands. “Mother of fuck. What did they do to you?”
“Take him, Vasya.” Kir, my driver, was a spiky-haired Chechen with slow eyes and a very small mouth. He didn’t really believe in saying hello.
“I can take myself.” I checked the touch of impatience in my voice and hobble-hopped away from the back door, catching Vassily’s offered arm. “Thank you for the help.”
Kir flippantly saluted me before he turned and stomped out, his shoes ringing off the tiles. He hadn’t said a word about my injury. That was the way of the Organization. Much of the time, no one would tell you what they thought. It was every man for himself.
“Alright, you. It’s bedtime.” Vassily ignored my protest and braced his arm under my armpit, grabbing my shirt when I tried to push him away by the ribs. “You and me, a one-way ticket to Sandmanland. I am sooo fucked up.”
“No. No bed.” I put a hand against his ribs and tried to move away, but Vassily was stronger. He half-led, half-dragged me towards the elevator. “Vassily, there’s things I have to do.”
“Dude. You look like you’ve been trying to bone a hornet’s nest. You need to rest.”
“I can’t.”
“Lexi…”
“Don’t ‘Lexi’ me.” My temper lunged through the cracks in my will with disgusting ease. “Vassily, there’s business that can’t wait.”
“Okay, fine. Be an asshole about it, then.” Vassily rolled his eyes. I noticed then that he was sweating more than the heat really warranted. His skin was waxen and clammy to touch, his face and hands twitchy. I read it through my fingers and through the dark, gritty smell of unwashed hair. “Go fuck yourself up some more. I don’t fuckin’ care.”
“Are you… are you all right?” I asked.
The change in conversation made him pause. I could almost hear the gears grinding as he stared at me, catching up on the question. “Me? I’m fucking fantastic, but I want to know what the hell happened to you. Nic called before and said you got jumped. Who’s gotta pay?”
Carmine would pay. How? I wasn’t sure, yet. There wasn’t any point trying to fight a guy who could clean your clock from across the room. “The Manellis. Someone tipped them off. Someone inside the Organization. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you alright? You look ill.”
“You’d get a fuckin’ answer if you weren’t being such a bitch.” Vassily flushed an ugly shade of red across his face and throat. Something was not right. He smelled strange, a smell I didn’t recognize. My synesthesia translated it to something pink, lurid pink, and greasy. “Stop being a bitch and go to bed when I say so, and I’ll tell you.”
“What on earth have you been drinking?” We got into the elevator. Vassily took a moment to deliberate over the scratched buttons. There were only four of them. “You smell dreadful.”
“Antifreeze,” he said, cheerfully.
I stared. “You had better be joking.”
Vassily laughed. It had the edge of a bray to it, a high, manic pitch. “Just brandy, man. Just brandy. I’m fine, seriously.”
When we got inside, I used my good foot to get the first shoe off but had to have Vassily remove the second. I lost all ability to concentrate as soon as we were in the house. My hands were itching and stinging in my gloves, and when I pulled them off, I recoiled. My hands were naturally smooth and pale from years of keeping them covered, and after cramming the gloves on over bloody, wet skin, they looked drowned. The backs and palms were puffy and torn, with old blood under my nails and in the creases of my fingers. The smell curdled in my nose, thick and putrid and violet.
Dead.
The stench morphed in my nostrils, and suddenly, I could smell it. The kitchen, from my parents’ house. The old cabbage and stale sweat reek of angry, shouting people. Blood and urine on the old linoleum. Spilled horilka,[21] the bottle half-empty on the floor. My vision clouded. I stumbled on Vassily’s arm.