Vik (Shot Callers 2)

If I didn’t get out now, he would be the death of me.

At one point, I thought the stories about these guys were exaggerated, but what I’d seen with my own two eyes over the past months told me those stories had been, in fact, watered down.

They were animals, The Disciples. And Roam, their demon king.

Everybody had limits. But, for a price, for The Disciples, there was no limit. There was nothing they wouldn’t do. Nothing too gruesome or too horrific. For a guy who wore a dainty silver crucifix around his neck, I figured he would have been worrying about saving his soul.

He wasn’t.

In the time I’d worked for him, I finally earned enough to save the house and pay off most of my parents’ debts. I wasn’t sure how I was going to come up with the rest, but it was enough that I didn’t have to dirty myself anymore.

When I started, it was an adrenaline rush. A reminder of who I used to be. I don’t know what happened, but some time in, I realized I wasn’t that same reckless twenty-year-old I had been. My priorities changed, and I had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Sasha had done the right thing in pulling the plug on Chaos.

One look at Roam told me why.

I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want the shadows in his eyes. I sure as hell didn’t need whatever lurked inside his mind at night. He had it all and yet remained wanting. He was so desensitized to his brutal life that the coldblooded murder of a grandfather of three was just another day at the office.

This cold, haunted man… I could have become him. And that scared the shit out of me.

Roam stood from his desk and walked over to the bar in the corner, looking back at me and uttering, “The fuck you are.”

My sigh was purely internal.

I wasn’t surprised. I knew it was coming. Props to him for sticking to script.

Roam poured a glass of whisky, then another, and when he returned, he placed a glass in front of me. To deny it would be a huge disrespect, and you did not disrespect a guy who had your head in a vice. I lifted the glass and sipped. Whisky wasn’t my thing, but even I knew this glass held some expensive shit.

He took his seat opposite me, and because I was officially done and had no further use for him, I relaxed, leaning back and resting my ankle on my knee before revealing a frank, “I don’t like you, Roam. In fact, if I had a good enough reason to, I’d take you out in a heartbeat. Probably enjoy it too.” Roam grinned at that, and I was so glad to amuse him. “You play a hard game. One I no longer wish to participate in. I got plans for myself, and they don’t include you.”

Roam’s brow rose slowly. “Now that’s a speech.”

“You just look like a guy who appreciates honesty,” I said in way of mollification. “Nothing personal.”

“Business rarely is,” he conceded, lifting his glass to his lips, sipping to cool honey-colored spirit. To my surprise, he said, “That’s a real shame, because I like you, Viktor. You’re a cocky shit who needs to have someone throw him off his pedestal, but I like you. You know the job, you get it done, and you do it with class.”

Now that… that surprised me.

Roam went on. “I know what you think of me. I know what you think of my boys. I get it. They’re orphans and runaways, ex-cons, vile criminals, the displaced and unloved. They’re not sixth generation mobsters. Not pure of blood like you. I guess that means something to you, but it never bothered me. I collect them, and do you know why?”

I didn’t, but I had wondered.

He stated simply, “Because everyone needs a family. Even the reckless, the damaged, and the mad.” He waved a stern finger at me, unblinking. “Especially them.”

My back went rigid when he reached into his drawer, but as he pulled out something covered in a black velvet cloth, I relaxed. He gently unfolded the velvet to reveal a stack of cards and spoke as he held them in his hand. “I know your stock. I know who you break bread with.” He tilted his head, appearing puzzled. “I just don’t know where you fit in.”

Confusion settled over me like a mist.

What was this?

What was happening here?

“Lev.” Roam took a tarot card and placed it down, face up. It was a lone figure wearing a gray cloak. It held a long walking stick and a glowing lantern. I peered at it and frowned as his gaze lowered to it, and he stated, “The Hermit. Wise but isolated. Clever. Mad as a hatter.”

Uh… okay.