“You’ll pay for this you shit!” cries their leader, and he’s pumping lead into the couch with no concern for how likely any of them are to hit me. None do, but it’s a risk with each shot.
Sure, most of those potential hits would not kill me on their own. But even a grazing shot could make me flinch, and then the shotgun does me in.
I dive in close to Mr. Shotgun, jab my knife down into his shoe and he screams. The shotgun goes off.
But it’s wild, thankfully. He wasn’t aiming at anything, the squeeze of the trigger was probably the result of a spasm of pain from my knife slicing open his foot.
I roll and spring up behind the wounded man, but their boss is on point and fires. Luckily I’ve got about two hundred pounds of Irishman-wannabe between him and me, and I survive unscathed. The guy holding the shotgun though? Not so much.
It’s one on one.
I fire a shot and for one of those rare moments I don’t hit my target. Not directly.
I do, however, turn the right side of his neck into a spray of blood that coats the west wall of the room in crimson. The ‘boss’ clutches his neck, big eyes now bug-eyes, as he watches me in horror, desperately trying to aim a shaky hand.
With a sidestep I avoid the shot, but it wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t have hit me anyhow with that lousy aim. And I come in close, pushing that gun arm of his away from me.
“This is for that girl you did last Sunday, and all the rest before her,” I say, and he watches in horror as I slowly sink my dagger up in beneath his jaw, through his mouth and into his skull.
It’s better than he deserves. But life’s not about what you deserve.
Otherwise Katy wouldn’t be mine.
13
Katy
I wake up on a Wednesday morning to the shouts of people down along the streets. At first, in my barely-conscious haze, I feel panicked. I fall out of bed and rush to the window, afraid that perhaps a riot is taking place just outside my apartment building. But looking down, I see the throngs of people aren’t angry — they’re just a little drunk. Or a lot drunk, judging by the number of them holding huge pints of beer.
Of course. How could I forget? St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow.
Even here in Brighton Beach, with a great number of Russian people, St. Patrick’s Day is a big deal, and people get really into it. In the years before my dad died, I may have taken advantage of the holiday for a little bar-hopping, myself. But nowadays it means one thing and one thing only: the Amber Room is gonna be packed.
And even though the holiday isn’t technically until tomorrow, and despite the fact that upon looking at the clock I realize it’s only 9 AM, all the local party crowds are already diving straight into the festivities. After all, there is a 24-hour liquor store down the street from my apartment complex. So naturally this early morning parade of drunkenness would occur practically right outside my window. Either way, I’m up now, so I might as well get dressed and prepare for the day.
In the past month, a lot of things have changed. For example, when I walk by my bed on the way to the bathroom, I run my fingertips along the firm, exposed backside of a Russian hit man. Ivan groans and turns over, rubbing his jaw with one strong hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say sweetly, bending down to kiss his forehead.
He smiles up at me, his blue eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He has good reason to sleep so heavily — last night we must have fucked well into the early hours of the morning. My body is still sore from it, but I’ve never been happier. I’m moving into Ivan’s place, and tonight is the last night I’ll spend in my own apartment. In the meantime, we’ve been going back and forth between his place and mine, falling asleep beside each other every single night.
It’s been absolute bliss.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Ivan asks, scowling toward the window.
“Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Ah.” He slowly gets to his feet and pulls me close to him to press a kiss to the top of my head, his hands rubbing their way down my back. I’m wearing a thin robe, and he is completely naked. I don’t know if it’s the chill in the March air, or morning wood, or what… but I can feel his massive cock hard as a metal rod against my thigh. I can’t help but lean into him a little bit, nudging my leg against his shaft teasingly. I can feel little vibrations down my core when he chuckles, his chin still resting on top of my head.
“I hope you know what you’re starting here,” Ivan warns. I press harder into him, and he responds with a deep groan. “Damn, mishka, you didn’t get enough last night?”