Page 28 of Hate to Love You
I sit at my desk, watching as he walks up to Kristinah and with a well-practiced smile asks her to “come with him.”
Shame. She had just learned how to get my coffee right.
“Oh my God! Please! Don’t…don’t do this!”
Screams echo through the old factory, scaring away a few pigeons squatting in the rickety old rafters.
“I’ve already told you everything I told them!” She wails as her hands and feet are bound with rope.
“You know what,” I say, loudly chewing on a bite of filet mignon. “I actually believe you.”
I had dinner reservations, but obviously with the way things developed today, I had to pivot my plans. So, Giorgi, one of my younger men, picked up takeout from my favorite steakhouse. My dinner table, placed atop an old barrel, consists of a porcelain plate, my gold silverware, a silk napkin, and a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice.
And perhaps out of amusement that we were inside an old candle factory, or perhaps just out of convenience, he’s also set up a single lit candle in a discarded beer bottle.
“Y…you do?” Kristinah asks, her mascara-stained face looking up at me, her eyes wide. “You believe me?”
“Yes, I actually do,” I nod, grabbing my glass of wine and taking a sip. “I’ve found people are always the most truthful…right before they die.”
“Oh, God,” she groans.
“Apparently, they think clearing their soul will bring them closer to the “Big Man Upstairs, or something,” I say, pointing my fork at her, and smirking. “But I am the big man upstairs. At least for you little people anyway.”
“Roman, Pl—”
But Igor cracks her hard across the face.
“Bitch, you will address Mr. Antonov by his proper name,” he growls. “Or I will sew your mouth closed!”
“Jesus, Igor,” I cringe.
Kristinah, albeit bewildered, looks up at me, a fleeting look of hope skating across her face.
“I mean, at least let me finish my dinner first before you start carving up the girl,” I say, cutting a piece of steak. “This is delicious by the way. Alberto knows how to cook a steak.”
“Mr. Antonov, please! Mercy, I beg you!” She pleads.
“You know, Giorgi,” I snort, pointing to the candle in the beer bottle. “This is a nice touch.”
“Thank you, Boss,” Giorgi says, staring straight forward.
“Mr. Antonov!” Kristinah shouts in the background.
Screaming and flailing about as much as she can with her hands and feet tied, she is forcibly picked up by Oleg and Pavel, two of my oldest soldiers. They carry her up the rickety metal staircase leading to the main wax-melting drum in the center of the room, which is currently churning at nearly 300 degrees.
“See, you veterans could stand to learn a thing or two from the kits once in a while,” I ignore her, instead motioning to Pavel and Oleg. “They have something you don’t.”
“Boss?” Igor asks me, confused.
“Hunger,” I say, slicing the rest of the steak and popping it into my mouth. “You seasoned men think you’re above growth, and you tend to get comfortable and lazy, because you’ve been gorging yourselves from the generosity of my table. Meanwhile these kids here, well, they are just willing to do more to try and make a good first impression. I like that.”
“Yes, Boss,” Igor says, who has been keeping his formalities up all afternoon and evening, ever since I scared him shitless in our little meeting today.
Maybe I should make that a weekly thing for him.
“Mr. Antonov, I swear, I had no choice!” Kristinah pleads again, reminding me of her unfortunate existence.
“You’re new here, aren’t you, kid?” I ask, ignoring her.