Blood Red || Book I

Chapter 11: your nights belong to him

Hell's Kitchen : 2016

Alek's POV

The car ride to the meeting was pleasantly quiet. Wesley didn't even say hello to me. He sipped his coffee silently and would take long, slow blinks. He either can't hold his liquor and is hungover from the night before or, the more realistic answer is that he can't function without a full eight hours of sleep. He makes fun of me for being tired after only four hours, but he can't handle less than eight. Typical American.

The car ride is long. We're trying to get somewhere out of the city, where we can talk in peace without security cameras and nosey people. Well, technically where they can talk in peace. I like my role in these meetings, protection, and intimidation.

I keep my eyes trained on Wesley the whole car ride. He's been acting off recently. He's usually stressed beyond limits but he's been a little more angsty than normal.

"What are you doing?" Wesley looks up from his coffee to me, annoyed at something I'm doing.

"Hm?"

"You're staring at me. Why?"

"I'm not staring, I'm keeping my eyes forward, you're forward."

Wesley does an exaggerated eye roll. "Why?"

"I just told you."

"Why can't you fucking look somewhere else."

I glare at him slightly then turn my head to look out the window. I don't wanna aggravate him even more and ruin my day in the process. It's a beautiful day. It's that type of weather where the summer heat is gone but it's not too cold where you need to wear a coat. It's nice I'm getting to leave the city for the first time. I'm not able to do that on my own, in case Fisk needs me. It's nice outside the city, quieter. It reminds me of Russia a bit, the cities are loud and crowded while the suburbs are quiet and calm, and the contrast makes a collage.

My thoughts are once again interrupted by Wesley. His phone buzzed, receiving a single text from God knows who. His brows furrowed and his jaw tightened -- he wore a painfully obvious look of distress while looking at his phone. His hands reach for his briefcase, unlocking it and pulling out his tablet.

"Did you do this?" he shows me a picture of Healy that was sent to him. His head is through a pole. "It's believed by the police to be suicide." He states, giving me more context to the photo. It looks like suicide for sure. I wouldn't have made this mess, especially after letting loose with Adams.

"No. It was suicide."

"The cops may have ruled it suicide but it doesn't mean it is. Did you do this?" His voice is a bit sterner this time.

"Are you implying I went off my list?"

He did his cocky little smirk he does when he's threatening someone, I hate it. I hate his face. He's so fucking annoying "Healy was a loyal employee, he was one of the few who knew our employer's name, he wouldn't just show up dead one day by killing himself, someone must have done this."

"Look at his hands. He lined himself up on the pole so he could kill himself." Wesley looked back down at the picture, to see if I was right -- of course, I'm right. "Besides, I left a mess with Adams, which I will remind you I had permission to do. I wouldn't leave a mess more than once every few months. We don't want the cops looking for a serial killer now do we?"

Wesley's lips form a straight line, knowing I'm right. I'm not just one of their goons, I'm a professional assassin, a horror story in Russia. I wouldn't be so stupid as to kill someone that brutally two days in a row.

"Well then, find out who did."

"I told you, it was suicide."

"Then find out why!"