bombs.”
He frowned. “They’ll be gone in a few hours.”
“Why so long?”
“It’s a lot of bombs.”
I scowled.
“My men are due to fly back to Moscow tonight.”
“And your war with the Corsican?”
His jaw clenched. “That’s a discussion inside of the bar.”
I tapped my foot and thought about for a few seconds. “Okay. I’ll go, but this doesn’t mean anything.”
“Let’s take the limo.”
“My men are coming.”
“Fine, but they can walk and when they arrive, they’ll stay outside.” He took my hand, wrapping those strong fingers around mine. “Have I told you that I missed you?”
My voice went weak. “Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have walked in the tunnel. You shouldn’t be walking at all.”
“You closed the airport.”
He spoke through clenched teeth, “Of course I did.”
We approached the car.
He opened the door for me.
I climbed in.
He followed.
Shutting the door, he handed the flowers to me again.
I took them and inhaled the petals’ perfumed scent. “Thank you.”
Silence filled the space.
The limo moved forward.
I gazed out of the window on my left and took in Kapotnya. In this part of the district, it appeared less like a city and more like a place after an apocalypse. It was an urban space, just devoid of warmth. It was a collection of buildings, yet not many lived in them. And if they did, it was to do drugs or suck cock for a ruble.
Today, no one walked these streets but my men behind the limo. However, I knew that many watched us from the roofs and some windows. And those people had guns pointed at the vehicle, ready to shoot, if asked. Boris would have made sure of that.
Kapotnya was a tricky place, but I was glad that I had more friends here than enemies.
This was a part of the district I hadn’t seen.
Every city had a cusp, where the good part of town turned bad. Moscow was no different. Kapotnya lay twelves miles southeast of the center of Moscow. It was hard up against the MKAD—the ringed beltway surrounding the capital city. The border between desirable and undesirable where trash lined the streets and gutters stand of vomit and urine. Here the ragged truth of poverty bulged outward.
Boris told me that during Russia’s brutal winters, the homeless froze to death, huddled in abandoned building’s doorways and crouched beneath broken cars.
When I had first arrived there was more abandoned buildings than homes. More dirty, homeless kids begging for food outside than happy ones playfully walking home from school. More prostitutes than working mothers. More dealers than employed men. Kapotnya had a population of twenty-seven thousand—all lost souls packed into a crime and drug-infested district. Full of migrants ignored by the Kremlin. Crumbling low-rise buildings and all overshadowed by a monstrous oil processing plant that polluted the atmosphere yet didn’t give the locals jobs.
Currently, the district had shifted some. Less trash littered the streets. Somehow the shattered streetlights had been changed. There were still a few prostitutes here and there, but no homeless, starving children.
I’d given Boris money to have his sister and mother start a shelter. I bought up two decayed buildings and just gave it to them. It had been barely a month, but I was told that people worked around the clock—day and night shifts. Painting, repairing, and making the place a home for all those that needed a safe spot to sleep.
I should go by there today and see how everything is going.
Also, street art had suddenly begun to take over a lot of the buildings. I didn’t know if it was because I’d given all the dealers and killers jobs in the area. Therefore, not many people lurked around hungry at night. It left the streets free for the artists to paint their passions on bricked walls.
Only God knows. . .
Regardless these artist had a lot to say. A roaring lion stalked one wall while a mouse rode its back. Shadowed people marched behind the creatures. I wished the limo had slowed down, so I could further take the image in.
President Smirnov decorated another building. Daggers stabbed his eyes. Blood dripped down his cheeks. A hole sat in the center of his chest, exposing that he had no heart within his ribcage.
A starving child decorated another building. She gazed up at a rich man covered in diamonds. He gave her the middle finger.
We passed more street art. And they were living dreams on brick. Visual critiques of the world. Pictures of the soul. Visible emotions too vivid for words, shouting in the truest language.
Kaz’s deep voice sounded.