Page 50 of Dark Christmas
There’s no shortcut out of this.
I take out my phone, scrolling until I find the number I hoped I’d never have to use.
For a second, my thumb hesitates over the screen, but then I press call. The line rings once, twice, before a voice answers, rough and heavily accented in Russian.
"Melor. It’s been too long."
My grip tightens on the phone, and I stare at the wall in front of me, knowing that this call is pulling me right back into a world I’d fought so hard to leave behind.
"Indeed, it has," I reply. "I need your help."
I step into Amelia’s room. It’s past midnight, and she’s finally asleep, curled up under the sheets, her breathing steady. I stand there watching her, feeling a mix of emotions that I can’t quite place. She looks peaceful, but I know better. The world around her is anything but safe, and I’m the one responsible for that.
After a moment, I turn and leave. There’s work to be done.
A half hour later, one of Mashkov’s men is posted in front of my house. I head to The Rusted Nail, a dive bar tucked away on 24th Street. The place reeks of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and desperation. It’s dark, the kind of spot where people come to disappear. The flickering neon lights above the bar cast an eerie glow, illuminating the rough edges of this forgotten corner of San Francisco. A few Christmas decorations are hung here and there, almost as an afterthought.
My eyes scan the room until they land on a massive figure sitting at the end of the bar. Though dressed in a sharp jacket, he still looks like he belongs in a cage fight. Tall, burly, and broad-shouldered, the man’s sheer size makes him hard to miss.
As if he could feel my presence, Sasha slowly turns toward me, a sly grin spreading across his face. He hasn’t changed a bit.
“Melor!” he bellows, his voice booming through the bar. Every head turns, but I keep my eyes locked on him.
Before I can say a word, he’s up and wrapping me in a bear hug that crushes the air from my lungs. I laugh, more out of impulse than joy.
“Good to see you, Sasha,” I say, pulling back. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you, brother,” he says, and for a moment, it’s as if no time has passed.
I size Sasha up again, letting my eyes drift over his sharp, expensive jacket and tailored pants. “Actually, I was wrong. You have changed. What’s up with the fancy clothes? They’re a far cry from the shit we wore when we were young punks fighting our way out of the gutter.”
Sasha throws his head back and laughs, the sound reverberating through the bar. “Let’s just say I made a few solid investments over the years. And as far as new looks, I could say the same about you.” He smirks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly slumming it these days either.”
I grunt, acknowledging the truth. “Fair enough.”
We order a couple of whiskeys and find a worn-out booth near the back—dark and dingy, the kind of spot where no one will bother us. Perfect.
We sit down, and Sasha takes a long sip of his drink as he eyes me.
“So, Melor,” he says, leaning back, “what the hell’s a guy like you been up to? I hear whispers, but it’s not like you’ve been in touch.”
I smirk. “You know I left that life behind. I’ve been busy creating a new life for myself.”
Sasha chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Mr. Straight and Narrow now, huh? Bet it’s a hell of a lot different from the old days.”
I shrug, taking a sip of my whiskey. “A little quieter, but I make it work. What about you? Living large with that Bratva retirement fund, I see.”
He grins. “Yeah, you could say that. Bought myself a nice pad up north. Got the toys, the cash, but it gets boring, you know?”
“Boring, huh?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a new one for you.”
Sasha laughs. “Yeah, well, we’re getting old, brother. But you didn’t call me just to catch up, did you?”
I glance down at my drink, swirling the liquid before looking back up at him. He’s just as sharp as he’s always been. “No, I didn’t.”
Sasha leans in, his expression turning serious. “So, what’s going on? You said you needed my help.”
I lay it all out for him—Amelia, the home invasion, the assassins. How they’ve been following us, waiting for the right moment. I admit that I’m stuck. “No matter how many times I replay it in my head, I can’t figure out who’s behind this,” I tell him.