The Brit

When I’m empty, I withdraw sharply, and leave her falling to her front. She quickly spins over, her mouth engaged to speak—maybe to ask why I haven’t seen to her. My expression must say it all. “Get out,” I demand, leaving her silently incredulous on the bed as I head back to the bathroom.

It’s all steamed up by the time I make it there, wet smoky clouds sticking to my skin, doing nothing to warm me.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Amber calls.

She’s not sorry. Not many people will be. I’ve been holding the business up for six months, and I’ve heard the whispers of relief that Carlo Black was on his last legs.

Stupid fucks.

They might be rid of my father, but they’ve got me and me alone to deal with now. I didn’t earn the name Angel-faced Assassin because I give good fucking hugs. And if they don’t know that, they’ve got no idea what’s coming.

I stand on the shore by Winstable Boatyard staring across the water. We’ve leased this boatyard for decades from an old boy who didn’t ask questions and never showed up unexpectedly. He just took his monthly wedge of cash and minded his own business. Until the poor fucker died and his son sold the boatyard to developers in a quick deal done in a matter of days. I suspect the arrangement was in place before the old man snuffed it, which is why I couldn’t intercept the deal. I had planned on offering the developer’s double what they paid to enable me to retain my operations here. I also planned on putting a bullet in the old man’s son’s knee for the inconvenience he caused me and my business. And then I had a change of heart. Turns out a college campus is being built here that focuses on scholarships for the underprivileged. Call me sentimental, but I’m all for supporting disadvantaged kids. Besides, Byron’s Reach Marina came to my attention, and it’s twice as big and even farther off the radar than here. Sealing the deal should have been a breeze. Fucking Perry Adams. I’ve only got a few more weeks here before I need to move my business. For his sake, he’d better get me that marina.

The water is peaceful, the waves lapping gently at the sandy shore. I watch bubbles pop at the surface, rippling rings appearing and growing before disappearing. I love it here. I’ll miss it, but I, of all people, know not to get attached to things.

Brad’s phone rings, and I look over my shoulder to him. “Volodya,” he tells me before answering. “Yes?” Brad’s eyes remain on mine, and then he clicks it to loudspeaker.

I hear the broken English of the man who fronts the Russian mafia. “We need to bring the exchange forward and double the order.”

I shake my head, returning my attention to the water. Does he think I just magic this shit from my fucking armpits?

“Not possible,” Brad tells him straight. “It’s organized for the third of the month for a reason, Volodya. If it doesn’t happen then, it doesn’t happen at all.”

“Where’s The Brit?” he asks.

“I’m here,” I say to the water. “What’s the issue?”

“The Serbians,” he rumbles, low and slowly, like the words are being chewed over his tongue. “A rat told me they’re buying out of Miami.”

“Impossible.” I almost laugh. “I’m the only dealer for a thousand miles.” I know that for a fact, since my father killed every other one.

“Not impossible if they’re buying from you.”

“I don’t deal with the Serbians,” I remind him. “Are you questioning my integrity, Volodya?” I look to Brad, whose eyebrows must be as high as mine. Someone’s stirring shit. I wouldn’t touch the Serbian mafia with a ten-foot pole. I’m selective with whom I do business with, and rapists are at the bottom of my pile. “Now, the third or not?”

“The third,” he confirms. “I’ll have half transferred. The rest you’ll get once the merchandise has been checked by my men.”

“Fine,” I say, not insulted in the least. We’ve done dozens of deals with the Russians. We’ve always delivered. But, as my father always told me, never trust anyone, and don’t be surprised when someone doesn’t trust me. The Russians and Serbs are enemies and have been shooting to kill for over a decade now. I don’t think they even know what they’re fighting over anymore, and I couldn’t give a shit. They can keep killing each other to their happy, fucked-up hearts’ content. It keeps the business rolling. I smile, sinking back on my heels and breathing out.

“The Serbians are buying,” Brad says from behind me. “You think someone’s moving in on our territory?” He seems more concerned than I am.

“The only way to get shit into Miami undetected is through this boatyard or Byron’s Reach. We’re here. Byron’s is being watched twenty-four/seven. Nothing is coming into this city without me knowing about it.”