Gavriil (Stepanov Mafia)

He grimaced and spit blood into a bowl on the table. “I got beat half to death, what does it look like?”

He wasn’t lying. In fact, if I’d seen him napping on the couch like this, I would have believed he was dead. His face was an explosion of purple and black, a sickly green creeping around the edges. Both of his lips looked to be twice their normal size with matching slits down the middle that leaked occasional droplets of blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was bloodshot.

“Well, obviously,” I said. “But why? Who did this to you?”

He dabbed some peroxide on a paper towel and pressed it to a gash on his face. And then I realized where the hissing noises had been coming from. He winced and squeezed his good eye closed, trying to endure through the pain.

Impatient, I ripped the towel away from his face and shrugged. “What is going on? What happened?”

Devin ran his tongue over his teeth and shook his head. “It’s no big deal.”

An eyebrow raise let him know I didn’t believe that lie for a second.

“I guess you could say I borrowed some money from the wrong person.”

I groaned. “Devin, no.”

He leaned back in the kitchen chair, arms crossed over his chest. As he settled back into the cushion, he winced.

“You stole it,” I said, dropping into the seat next to him. “Is that how you’ve been getting us money?”

He wouldn’t make eye contact with me, so I knew I’d hit the nail on the head.

“I thought you had a job.”

“You thought right,” he said.

“Being a thief isn’t a job, Devin.”

“But being a dealer is.” He was trying to keep his face emotionless, but just like me, Devin had never been a very good liar. I could see the guilt written all over him.

“You idiot,” I said, grabbing the peroxide-soaked towel and pressing it to his face. He winced, but I only pressed harder. “You deserve everything you got. Do it again, and they might kill you next time.”

“They still might,” he said, taking the towel out of my hands and beginning to tend to his own wounds, apparently not pleased with the way I was doing it.

“What are you talking about?”

“This,” he said, gesturing to his mutilated face. “Was simply a teaser. I have to pay them back.”

I let out another huff of air. “Okay. That’s okay. Things are tight, but we can cut back a bit more. I can look for some part-time work. Mrs. Yancey next door said she could watch Mom in the afternoons if I ever needed her to. We can make this work.”

Devin shook his head. “No, we can’t.”

“Be positive,” I said, telling him what I was constantly telling my mom.

“I owe him $50,000.”

I couldn’t even muster up the energy to gasp. My mind was too busy trying to wrap around the number of zeroes Devin had just said. $50,000. Four zeroes. Four zeroes were what we had in our bank account. Nothing. No number in front.

“How long do we have?” I asked.

Devin looked down at the table just as a drop of blood fell from his lower lip. “Ten days.”

“Shit.” Suddenly, exhaustion overcame me. I fell forward onto the table, my head resting on my arms. I just focused on regulating my breathing, keeping my heart pumping at a steady rate.

“So much for being positive, huh?” Devin asked.

I looked up at him and scowled. “I’m positive you are the stupidest man on the planet. And I’m positive we can’t come up with that much money in ten days.”

We were quiet for a minute, each of us lost in our own depressing thoughts. Then, Devin reached out and grabbed my forearm.

“Doesn’t Mom have a retirement fund?” There was hope in his eyes, and if he hadn’t already been so battered, I would have slapped him.

“Do you really think Mom managed to put $50,000 away in retirement from working at the drug store and the diner? There’s a couple thousand in there, tops. And we’ve already pulled from it a bit to take care of her medications.”

“Well, it’s a start,” Devin said. He stood up and began pacing, though he was limping hard on his right leg. He winced with every step. “I could sell a kidney.”

“Where?” I asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“The black market!”

“You know that isn’t just a store you can call up on the phone, right? Hello, is this the Black Market? I have a kidney I’d like to sell you. It’s not a pawn shop, Devin.”

“I know a lot more about this shit than you do,” Devin said, pointing a finger at me. “Just let me take care of this. I’ll deal with it.”

I scoffed. “You can barely walk.”

“I got myself into this, and I’ll get myself out.”