Ivan took a deep, shaky breath, struggling to keep his composure as he left the large sterile building. God, what a nightmare the last couple weeks had been.
First was Natalia. Oh, she had completed her job as efficiently as always, but the gang members had been surprisingly tough, leaving her injured enough to require a hospital stay. But they were dead, and she would be fine.
They were not so sure about Raivis. Their youngest member, still practically a kid, the son of a dear friend, had been shot while out the other night. They did not even know by whom, that would have to wait until he woke up. Assuming he did.
And because life just had to throw that cherry on top, Ivan's favorite horse, which he had a lot of money riding on, came in last.
Ivan threw one last dark look at the hospital, then turned to his waiting limo. The driver asked if they were to be heading home as Ivan passed, and he grunted an affirmative as he slipped inside. He helped himself to the limo's small bar as they pulled away, swirling the clear liquid around in its bottle, ready to lose himself in oblivion for the night.
On impulse, Ivan set the bottle away and gave the driver new instructions. He honestly had no idea why he did it. Probably, he reasoned, because it was a bar in town he knew the name of, but the owners did not know him. That was it. He wanted to drink in a bar atmosphere without being recognized by somebody who was aware of his activities.
That was the reason, exactly.
Ivan made sure his money was safely tucked away as the limo rolled to a halt. He checked the mirror to make sure his appearance was up to par. Not bad. Suitable for public. Satisfied, he stepped out to face the brick building, a sign above the green awning declaring it The Hideout. Not a high class joint, but not a dive, either. Hoping it wasn't too crowded, Ivan tugged the door open and stepped in.
The place had a mellow, homey feel to it, all wooden floors and paneling, sparkling bottles lining the wall, patrons seated at the long bar or chatting together on chairs or booths.
Ivan stepped closer to the bar, immediately recognizing the bartender—in the middle of muddling mint at the bottom of a glass—as the delivery boy from a couple weeks ago. “Excuse me.”
“Just a moment.” The boy—Alfred—set the glass down and grabbed a bottle of rum to add to the drink. “There we go.” A bit of ice, a sprig of mint, and Alfred handed the drink to its waiting owner. “Okay. What can I do—oh!” His face broke into a grin. “Hey, I remember you. Igor?”
“Ivan.”
“Yeah! I'm Alfred. Remember me? Well, sure you do, if you remember me telling you about this place. You do, don't you? Or is it a coincidence?”
“I remember,” Ivan said. “I wanted to see what it was like here.”
“Pretty nice, huh?” Alfred made a sweeping gesture.
“It is. Are you even old enough to drink?”
“Hey, I'm old enough to tend bar. I'm just not supposed to sample the goods.” Alfred winked. “So what can I get ya? Mojito? Cosmo? Daiquiri?”
Ivan grimaced. “Just vodka, please.”
“Just vodka?”
“Please.”
“You're the boss.”
Ivan grimaced again at that particular phrasing. He watched the boy work, fetching a bottle and glass, pouring, setting it down... Ivan picked the glass up with a smile. Chilled, no ice. Perfect.
“So how's the business?” Alfred said, leaning against the bar.
“There has... been some trouble lately.”
“Ahh. That's why you're here, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I don't think I could handle owning my own business.” Alfred wrinkled his nose. “The worst I have to deal with now is the occasional fat guy answering the door naked. Or drunk cougars hitting on me.”
Ivan smiled again. “That would be troubling.” He fought down the urge to offer... assistance... if Alfred's jobs were causing him trouble.
“Hey, y'know. That's life.” There were a few shouted orders, and Alfred set to work mixing some more drinks.
“How is your brother?” Ivan said after a few sips of his vodka.
“Oh, hey, he's cool.” Alfred gave him a grin. “Thanks for asking. He's doing good in school. Always has. I did good, too, but I was more of a B student.”
Bratva 2a/??
First was Natalia. Oh, she had completed her job as efficiently as always, but the gang members had been surprisingly tough, leaving her injured enough to require a hospital stay. But they were dead, and she would be fine.
They were not so sure about Raivis. Their youngest member, still practically a kid, the son of a dear friend, had been shot while out the other night. They did not even know by whom, that would have to wait until he woke up. Assuming he did.
And because life just had to throw that cherry on top, Ivan's favorite horse, which he had a lot of money riding on, came in last.
Ivan threw one last dark look at the hospital, then turned to his waiting limo. The driver asked if they were to be heading home as Ivan passed, and he grunted an affirmative as he slipped inside. He helped himself to the limo's small bar as they pulled away, swirling the clear liquid around in its bottle, ready to lose himself in oblivion for the night.
On impulse, Ivan set the bottle away and gave the driver new instructions. He honestly had no idea why he did it. Probably, he reasoned, because it was a bar in town he knew the name of, but the owners did not know him. That was it. He wanted to drink in a bar atmosphere without being recognized by somebody who was aware of his activities.
That was the reason, exactly.
Ivan made sure his money was safely tucked away as the limo rolled to a halt. He checked the mirror to make sure his appearance was up to par. Not bad. Suitable for public. Satisfied, he stepped out to face the brick building, a sign above the green awning declaring it The Hideout. Not a high class joint, but not a dive, either. Hoping it wasn't too crowded, Ivan tugged the door open and stepped in.
The place had a mellow, homey feel to it, all wooden floors and paneling, sparkling bottles lining the wall, patrons seated at the long bar or chatting together on chairs or booths.
Ivan stepped closer to the bar, immediately recognizing the bartender—in the middle of muddling mint at the bottom of a glass—as the delivery boy from a couple weeks ago. “Excuse me.”
“Just a moment.” The boy—Alfred—set the glass down and grabbed a bottle of rum to add to the drink. “There we go.” A bit of ice, a sprig of mint, and Alfred handed the drink to its waiting owner. “Okay. What can I do—oh!” His face broke into a grin. “Hey, I remember you. Igor?”
“Ivan.”
“Yeah! I'm Alfred. Remember me? Well, sure you do, if you remember me telling you about this place. You do, don't you? Or is it a coincidence?”
“I remember,” Ivan said. “I wanted to see what it was like here.”
“Pretty nice, huh?” Alfred made a sweeping gesture.
“It is. Are you even old enough to drink?”
“Hey, I'm old enough to tend bar. I'm just not supposed to sample the goods.” Alfred winked. “So what can I get ya? Mojito? Cosmo? Daiquiri?”
Ivan grimaced. “Just vodka, please.”
“Just vodka?”
“Please.”
“You're the boss.”
Ivan grimaced again at that particular phrasing. He watched the boy work, fetching a bottle and glass, pouring, setting it down... Ivan picked the glass up with a smile. Chilled, no ice. Perfect.
“So how's the business?” Alfred said, leaning against the bar.
“There has... been some trouble lately.”
“Ahh. That's why you're here, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I don't think I could handle owning my own business.” Alfred wrinkled his nose. “The worst I have to deal with now is the occasional fat guy answering the door naked. Or drunk cougars hitting on me.”
Ivan smiled again. “That would be troubling.” He fought down the urge to offer... assistance... if Alfred's jobs were causing him trouble.
“Hey, y'know. That's life.” There were a few shouted orders, and Alfred set to work mixing some more drinks.
“How is your brother?” Ivan said after a few sips of his vodka.
“Oh, hey, he's cool.” Alfred gave him a grin. “Thanks for asking. He's doing good in school. Always has. I did good, too, but I was more of a B student.”
“I see.”