Sold to the Hitman(39)

Sergei looks taken aback, but he chuckles with a disgusting grin to Boris as he takes the terrified Ada’s hand. “You don’t say? Well, I won’t be one to turn down such a generous offer!”

Boris gives Ada a meaningful look, and she nods demurely, swallowing hard. “I believe our gracious host has guest rooms available for just such things,” he remarks gesturing in a general direction, and without another word, Sergei takes Ada away, and I’m left alone with Boris.

After Sergei is out of sight, Boris turns his eyes on me, narrowing them as he takes a sip of his wine.

“You know, Shadow,” he remarks, swirling his glass, “I’ve been trying to place why you look familiar.

I arch an eyebrow. Privately, I begin going through the names of men I’ve killed over the past few weeks, wondering if Boris might have known any of them particularly well — or rather, if word of my face might have gotten to him. “Oh?”

“Yes. There’s something unforgettable about your jaw, the way the light catches it when you look over your shoulder.” My muscles are already tensing, preparing to hurl this monster of a man over the balcony and make a run for it if need be; the client gave few specifications as to the manner of the man’s death.

“You like gazing at my face in the moonlight, eh?” I shoot back with a smile, and Boris laughs.

“Not that way, my friend, but tell me…” He sets his glass down and crosses his arms, raising his chin and peering at me judiciously. “Where were you in ‘92?”

I blink and think for a moment before replying. “Hm. That year’s a bit of a blur — I was in the middle of my sentence in prison, back in Siberia.”

A spark of warmth comes back to Boris’s eyes, and I see him roll up his sleeve to the forearm, showing me a black tattoo of a skull in front of part of a Russian star. A prison tattoo, unique to the prison where I served my time. My eyes widen in surprise, and without another word, the two of us embrace and exchange a greeting in Russian.

“Ha! And here I was thinking nobody here had seen as much hardship as me! Good you survived that hellhole, comrade,” Boris says as we break apart, returning my smile.

“Impressive, just another thug from the world’s blind spot running such a prosperous business as yours,” I chuckle, nodding at him.

“Come, we have some real reminiscing to do. I know where our host keeps the good wine, out of the prying eyes of the rest of these fattened vultures.”

Boris leads me outside the estate, a short walk to the cellar entrance of the estate, a pair of large, fine oak doors leading to where most of the wine on the property was left to age.

It’s cool and quiet inside as Boris leads me down, but our laughing chatter echoes through the rows and rows of fine barrels containing the best wine New York soil can produce — which isn’t saying much, but coming from Siberia, I don’t have the most refined palate for wine. Such things are for the leisure class.

“...and I remember, I remember seeing the guards drag him kicking from his cell after that little stunt of his, and they made him stand outside in the snow for the whole day! They nearly had to take off his legs from the frostbite!” Boris laughs at the memory, but our laughter is only part of how we cover up our inner scars from the abuses we suffered in prison. To this day, I’ve never known a greater hell.

Eventually we reach a cask obviously set up for sampling, a spigot already set up on a very low stool, the barrel coming up to our waists.

“Here,” Boris beckons me closer, swaying a little as he tries to keep his balance, the wine strong in his blood, “this is where the owner is going to bring me and some of the richer guests later on — he’ll try to impress them and say this is some of their fanciest stock, but it’s only okay — and they won’t miss a couple of glasses between brothers, will they?” He winks and fills our glasses, standing up and toasting with me as we drain them.

“Ah, but really, Andrei,” Boris says. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Working for the likes of Sergei, I mean,” he says, looking meaningfully at me. “You won’t get anywhere — New York is nice, but you’re overqualified to be working for a man whose pride won’t let him promote you any further than you are. He only cares for his own dynasty. You know he brought his bastard boy to the city?”

I arch an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “He has a son?”

Boris nods, a gossiping smile on his face. “His name’s Kasym — Sergei knocked up some Chechnyan daughter of a powerful man, and now Sergei’s got to pay out the ass to pamper the boy. He’s a little monster.”