K U S T O V (NaNoWriMo 2014)

XII

XII

            “Boss? Boss?” a voice asked behind Ivan, annoyingly tapping his shoulder in a rhythm.

            “I’m busy, Peyta,” Ivan snarled, not even looking at the shestyorka as he continued to load the pistol in front of his, cocking it with a jerking, harsh movement. He was angry. Angry that he was weak, angry that he could only stand by as his men were thrown again ad again into battle, again and again into suffering because he was weak. Because he wasn’t fit to lead.

            The hand tugged on his jacket again, “Pakhan?”

            Ivan turned towards the boy, looking down on wide, innocent, almost fearful eyes, and he was suddenly scared for what he was going to say. “Yes, Peyta?”

            “They’re dead, sir. All of em’.”

            “All of who, Peyta,” Ivan growled, eyes narrowing as he caged in on the quivering boy. “Tell me.”

            “All of the bosses, Pakhan. Jimmy Coonan, Barney Bellomo. They were found jus’ minutes ago. And…” Peyta paused, looking down and shuffling his feet. “They were killed by someone they known. The door weren’t forced open or the window. They were just sittin’ there, dead, sir, from what Sean O’Barren and Mario Agressini have paged me. You got to be careful, boss, it could be anyone. If they went for the other two, they’ll probably come for you too, boss.”

            Ivan froze, his hand clutching the gun, fingers pressing so hard into the sides that he could feel the cold, steel metal of the weapon digging imprints into his hands. “Wh-what makes you think that, Peyta?”

            As if able to detect the hidden, shaky rumble of his voice, Peyta stepped forward, hands outstretched. Now, Ivan was the dancing, nervous stallion and he was the man with an arm outstretched, snatching onto the horse’s rein. “They’re dead, Pakhan. All of em’… And I think you will be next. Ju-jus’ pay attention, be on your guard, boss. You never know who’ll put a knife in your back without a second thought these days.”

            Ivan sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as he finished assembling the gun, sliding it on to the table next to the rest. “I will, Peyta, I will. How’s your mother doing?”

            The boy paused, before a fake, almost pathetic grin made its way onto his face as he forced out, “Fine!”

            Ivan cast an unbelieving look to the boy before pulling one of the weapons off of the table, tossing it up into the air and catching it with a practiced, perfect arch. As he handed it to Peyta, along with a box of bullets, Ivan couldn’t help but feel guilty that he was giving ammunition to a fifteen-year-old boy, whose voice was just deepening.

            But why worry? They were all going to die, anyways. May as well give the mouse a fighting chance before the cat caught its tail, right?

Ξ

 

            Natalya applied one last, perfect strike of blood red lipstick, smacking and rubbing her libs together as she smiled and placed the tube back into her bag. As she stood up, her phone rang and she pulled it out, answering without checking the caller ID with a quick, “Privet!”

            “Natalya?” the voice asked, cautious and withheld. The recognized the deep timber of the voice, a forceful and very Russian pronunciation of her name. “It’s your father.”