Archive of Our Own

Blyat…

Blyat!

Iosef wants to scream but it comes out muffled, swallowed by the cloth stuffed between his teeth. Rope burns into his wrists, already raw and sticky with blood.

His right eye throbs hotly. Every heartbeat pushes another wave through it. Thump. Thump. Thump. Iosef tries to open his eyes but sees nothing but darkness. Right. He is blindfolded. Whoever tied it did it tight.

Iosef kicks wildly. Or tries to. His legs move an inch before the rope snaps them back together. The movement sends him tipping sideways and his shoulder slams against something hard. Concrete, metal. Whatever.

Fuckin’ sobaka. Damn those filthy dogs. He should’ve gone to Buryatia to spend his spring break with his babushka. Oh the cold mountain air, the creak of the porch boards when you step outside in the morning. And the girls. Praise the Lord for the girls. He could’ve been there, flirting in Russian that doesn’t sound like a native to the locals…

But nah. Look at him now. Tied up like a hog.

To be fair it was his idea to spend spring break in New York. Iosef doesn’t know why he was so attached to this city. He attends university here (economy major in New York University, just like Papa wants), lives here, and why should he spend holiday here? Huh? What’s so special about The Big Apple?

Even Victor told him to go overseas. But noo, he was too stubborn. Told Papa he wanted to help here and there. As if Papa thought he was competent enough to help with anything. The truth is obvious now. Papa humored him. Pat on the shoulder. Let the boy pretend.

All it took was a drunken night in Red Circle, his family’s fucking territory. No one stupid enough to start trouble there. He’d been angry. It had been Victor again. God, what were they even arguing about? Money? Women? Friends fight all the time. That’s normal.

He just needed air. That’s all. He remembers pushing out the back door of the club, the cold night hitting his face. The bass from inside still thumped through the walls, but out here it was calmer and he could think more clearly.

There were bodyguards too here. Papa’s men through and through. One of them offered to drive him home and looked at him with same loyal-dog expression he always wore. Iosef hated that look. It reminded him too much of how Papa’s men looked at his father: obedient and ready to bleed.

Fuck it. Iosef wasn’t some fragile heir who needed a leash. He was a Tarasov. One day they’d all answer to him, not the other way around.

So he snapped, “I said fuck off. Go suck up to my father somewhere else.”

The bodyguard complied and left Iosef alone.

Then a four-by-four rolled uncomfortably close and snatched him–someone grabbed him from behind, a hand over his mouth. And then darkness.

When he woke up, he was furious. Rightly so.

Consciousness crawled back slowly at first. His head felt packed with wet cotton. The inside of his mouth still tasted like vodka. Something salty and sticky had dried along his lip. Somewhere nearby a drop of water tapped steadily against metal.

“Do you know who my father is?” He spat.

His throat burned as if he’d swallowed sandpaper. Still, he forced the sentence out with the same confidence he'd used a thousand times before in the streets. Or anywhere someone needed reminding of the name attached to him.

Tarasov. Tarasov drenched in red and black glory.

Instead there was a pause. Then laughter. That was the moment Iosef realized he had made a mistake. Big fat mistake.

It turned out they knew exactly who his father was. In fact, that was the entire point. Because he was Viggo Tarasov’s only son. The man standing in front of him crouched down so their faces were level. Iosef couldn’t see much through his swelling eye—just a thick beard and a heavy brow.

And it turned out they were some Chechen gang his father had fucked over.

The first punch came before Iosef even processed the gravity of his predicament. It smashed into the side of his jaw hard enough that his ears rang. His head snapped sideways and stars burst behind his eyelids. A second blow followed immediately. This one to his ribs. Then hands grabbed his hair and knuckles slamming into bone. There were boots thudding into his side whenever he slumped too far.

They were careful, though. No broken throat or shattered jaw. That was enough to leave him able to speak.

By the time they were finished his head hung forward, his body swaying slightly where he sat tied to the chair. Blood pooled along his gums and trickled down the back of his throat every time he swallowed.

Someone dragged a lamp closer. The sudden brightness stabbed into his swollen eye. He squinted instinctively, trying to turn away, but a hand clamped down on his jaw and forced his head up. The interrogation lamp blared hot and white, its heat prickled against his face.

“Look at camera,” someone ordered.

A phone was held up in front of him. He could see the tiny red recording light blinking. When he flinched away from it, the slap came hard and quick. His head snapped sideways again.

“Look, mudak.”

The hand tightened in his hair, yanking his face back toward the lens. His heart pounded. They shoved a piece of paper into his blurred field of vision. The letters wavered and doubled until his eye managed to focus. Ah, damned ransom script.

“Read this.”

For a moment he hesitated. Humiliation burned hotter than the bruises. Then the fingers in his hair tightened painfully.

Reluctantly, Iosef read the script, “My name is Iosef Tarasov… son of Viggo Tarasov…” Shit, was that his voice? He sounded like a weak ass runt. “If my family wishes to see me alive, in three days they must wire–”

The amount that followed was absurd. Even in his dazed state he knew the sum was ridiculous.

“Please give everything back. We’re guilty…”

Fuck off, his family was not guilty. The Chechens were the ones who’d crossed the line. Papa had every right to crush them, to take their territory, to make examples out of their brothers and cousins.

That was how it worked. That was how Papa had built everything. Iosef had grown up hearing the stories how Dyadya Abram once had burned a whole block because someone shorted them on a shipment. How Papa had smiled while men begged.

And now these shitstains thought they could make Iosef beg on camera?

They finished recording and lowered the phone. Someone laughed again, satisfied. Iosef spat blood at the nearest boot and snarled, “My father will skin you alive. All of you. And I’ll watch.”

They only laughed harder after backhanding him. The lamp clicked off and darkness rushed back in around him.

Well… The sum sounded absurd but it should be easy enough for the Tarasov family. Or so he had thought. Three days, huh? That kind of money was nothing for them. It jus' a rounding error in some offshore account Papa barely remembered owning.

Of course they would pay. At first he counted the hours. Well, not precisely. He had no clock, after all. But he could guesstimate anyway. Then the hours passed and passed again.

Papa must already know. He must’ve seen the video.

Iosef imagined Papa or Avi paid the ransom. Wires would move through banks in Zurich or Cyprus or God knew where. And then he would be free. And soon, they would avenge him.

Papa would not simply pay ransom and walk away. No. That wasn’t how the Tarasovs worked. Burning this place down was the bare minimum for him. He clung to that image. It helped pass the time.

But then the room was cold at night. Sometimes they left him alone for long stretches, the only sound was that slow drip of water somewhere in the building.

In the darkness, other sounds emerged. Tiny scrabbling claws on concrete. The rustle of something small moving through the shadows near his feet. Rats. He could hear them sniffing around the chair legs, drawn by the smell of his blood and sweat. Once, soft fur brushed against his bare ankle before quickly skittering away. He jerked, praying they wouldn’t bite.

Sometimes the Chechens brought another punch, another slur in Russian.

They never brought food. Not once. His stomach had started cramping on the first full day. By the second, the hunger turned constant, a gnawing hollow that radiated up his chest. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he tried to swallow.

They gave him water occasionally. Twice a day if he was lucky. Filthy plastic bottle was shoved against his cracked lips, a few lukewarm gulps before they yanked it away. Never enough. He would have given anything for real fresh water. His head pounded worse now, not just from the swollen eye but from the headache that throbbed behind both sockets.

His body stopped feeling like his own. Bruises spread under the skin. His ribs ached whenever he sneezed from the cold. Even small movements sent fresh ripples of pain through him.

In the long empty hours, his mind wandered to escape the misery. He remembered the parties at Red Circle—the ones in the VIP section with the glowing blue pool. Girls in tiny bikinis laughed as they splashed him, their skin warm against his when they pressed close.

One blonde, Anya, (was her name even Anya?) had straddled his lap on the edge of the pool. He’d had a bottle of premium Russian vodka in his hand that night, ice-cold, passing it around while Victor cheered him on. The liquid burned perfectly down his throat, warming him from the inside. It had made him feel invincible.

God, he wanted a bottle of vodka right now. Just one long pull to dull everything.

Days came and went in agony. Three days passed.

Maybe they’re negotiating, he told himself at first. Maybe Papa was arranging something. Papa was planning. Papa was… He stopped the thought. 

Perhaps he was wrong. About Papa, about Dyadya Abram. About fuckin’ Tarasov family. Maybe the ransom wasn’t worth it. Maybe the family problem called Iosef Tarasov solved itself if they simply waited.

On what the Chechens announced was his last day, one of them tapped his cheek, "Today, you die."

Tears stung the corners of Iosef’s swollen eye before he could stop them. Of fucking course Papa would never bothered to pay ransom. Why would he? Iosef was just a pathetic suka in Papa’s eyes. Spoiled. A disappointment. Razvalyukha.

For reasons he cannot understand, they left. The door slammed shut behind them. Iosef was left alone.

And that brings him to now. Him, blindfolded, bound and gagged, his chair leaning against something hard. The angle makes his shoulder ache.

He waits. Nothing happens.

Then a distant noise can be heard. At first it’s so faint he thinks he imagined it. A dull pop somewhere far down the building. Another. And another. Gunshots?

His body stiffens instinctively. More shots follow in quick succession. Someone shouts before turning into a scream.

The sound ends suddenly. Silence crashes down for a heartbeat. Then more gunfire, this time closer. Iosef’s pulse starts racing, pounding painfully behind his injured eye. The fuck?

Another panicked scream. Heavy footsteps running somewhere beyond the walls. Something crashes to the floor with a violent clang. The gunshots move through the building like a storm. Room to room. Even closer now.

The door to his room bursts open. Light floods in. Even through the blindfold it feels bright enough. Heavy footsteps cross the concrete floor. Someone is inside. Iosef freezes and his mind races toward the worst possible conclusion.

Is this his execution? They said today was the day. This must be it.

A hand grips the cloth tied around his head. The blindfold and the cloth in his mouth are yanked away. Blinding white light explodes across his vision.

“Blyat!” The sound finally escapes him as his eye squeezes shut. Even through the swelling and bruising the sudden brightness burns like fire.

For several seconds all he sees are shapes, smears of colors in the air. Slowly the room comes back into focus.

A figure stands in front of him. He’s tall and broad shouldered. Everything about him is dark–black suit, black tie, black trousers. His hair is dark too, falling just past his ears in neat strands. His face is calm in a way that somehow unsettles Iosef.

The man pulls a large knife from somewhere—Iosef doesn’t even see where—and begins cutting through the ropes. The blade slices through the coarse fibers. One rope. Then another.

Iosef stares at him, mind struggling to catch up with what’s happening. His voice cracks from dryness, “Kto…?” Who?

His brain tries to think of explanations but none of them make sense. Did the Chechens sell him? Oh. He looks like a professional. This must be the man they sent to kill him.

The last rope falls away from his wrists. Blood rushes painfully back into his hands and the stranger straightens. Up close Iosef notices the details he missed at first glance. This man has a pistol holstered under the suit. Another at the back of his waistband, with extra magazines clipped neatly to his belt. Shit. This man is armed to the teeth.

“Move,” the stranger orders. He scans the doorway, pistol raised in his free hand, “Your father sent me.”

For a moment Iosef simply stares. His brain feels sluggish. The ropes are gone but the phantom pressure of them still clings to his wrists, burning where the skin is torn and swollen.

Then he tries to stand up but his knees are trembling. His muscles have stiffened from days of sitting tied to the chair, movement reduced to small shifts whenever the guards allowed him to shuffle to the restroom.

He grabs the back of the chair instinctively to steady himself. Pins and needles prick across the soles of his shoes. He sways. For a second he thinks he might actually collapse. It takes some seconds until Iosef can stabilize himself.

“Move,” the stranger says again, “And stay close to me.”

They step out of the room. The corridor beyond is wide. Concrete walls stretch in both directions. A row of bare industrial lights are above them, casting white pools across the floor.

Now that his eyes have adjusted, the details become impossible to ignore. Bodies. The first one lies half inside the doorway across from them, slumped on his side. One arm twisted beneath him at an angle that looks wrong. Blood has spread outward across the concrete.

Iosef’s stomach tightens.

Another body lies farther down the hall, face down, one leg still twitching. They pass through another doorway. Turns out they’re inside an old warehouse with multiple rooms. High steel rafters vanish into shadow overhead. Rusted catwalks line the walls. Crates and stacked pallets create uneven aisles between old machinery and empty storage racks.

And everywhere, more bodies. Men collapsed against walls. Men sprawled across the floor. Gunshot holes pepper the concrete pillars. Spent casings glitter across the ground like fucking confetti.

His mind struggles to process everything. No way. Did he do this all himself? His eyes flick toward the stranger walking a few steps ahead of him. The man moves with smooth strides, not even glancing at the dead men around them.

And also… did his father send a fuckin’ one man to save him? A single man to retrieve him from an entire Chechen crew?

Iosef tries to picture how it even happened. How the hell did this guy get inside? Did he walk through the front door? Climb in through the roof?

The warehouse looks more like a maze. How many guards had they posted? Ten? More? And yet the result lies scattered around them. One man. One fuckin’ man turned an entire crew into meat. This is what Iosef is supposed to inherit one day.

Iosef gags at the sight but the stranger doesn’t slow down.

“Keep moving,” the stranger says without turning

Iosef swallows hard and forces himself to follow. The hunger is a constant clawing now, deep in his gut, making his stomach cramp every few steps. His legs feel heavy.

They pass another row of crates. Something catches his eye near one of the bodies: a gun. Beretta M9. Sweet sweet Beretta with steel frame, not plastic like Glock.

The man who owned it lies on his back with a hole in the center of his forehead. His hand still rests a few inches away from the gun, fingers curled as if he almost managed to grab it.

Iosef crouches down too fast and the world spins. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision. He manages to grab the gun. His ribs protest at the movement, a stabbing ache spreading across his side. Iosef ignores it anyway.

His hand closes around the pistol. The grip is sticky with someone else’s blood. He wipes it quickly against the dead man before straightening again.

He’ll need it. He ain’t no damsel in fucking distress. (Even if his hands are shaking)

He glances up to see if the stranger noticed. The man doesn’t comment. Doesn’t even turn his head.

“I can handle a gun,” Iosef says anyway.

Suddenly a door to their right bursts open.

A surviving Chechen lunges from a side room and the stranger dispatches him in one fluid motion. Elbow to throat, knife to heart. The Chechen gasps once, mouth opening soundlessly. His pistol slips from numb fingers and clatters onto the floor. The stranger pulls the knife free. The body collapses heavily at his feet. It all happens in less than two seconds.

Iosef stares. This isn't like Papa's men at all.

Okay, stop staring. Iosef’s grip tightens on the Beretta. The weight feels good after days of misery and humiliation. If this stranger can walk here alone, then Iosef can at least cover his six.

They push forward. The warehouse opens into a larger loading bay: roll-up doors half-raised, night air seeping in cold. Two more Chechens wait near a forklift, backs turned, arguing in low, frantic Russian about where the intruder went.

The stranger moves silently. He drops the first with a suppressed shot to the back of the head. The second Chechen spins, raising his AK, but the stranger is already closing the distance. A twist, a crack of bone, and the man crumples.

Iosef doesn’t wait. He steps out from behind a pallet, legs wobbling. He levels the Beretta with both hands. No proper stance, just point and pray like he’s seen in movies.

He squeezes off two rounds at a third guy bursting from the shadows on the catwalk above. The shots go wide. One clips the railing, sparks flying. The recoil kicks harder than he expects; his weak grip lets the muzzle climb. But the second catches the man in the thigh by sheer luck. The man howls, tumbles over the edge, and hits the concrete.

The stranger glances back, no disapproval in his eyes, “Stay behind me.”

Iosef grins through bloody teeth, “I got one.”

The stranger doesn’t reply. He’s already moving.

More gunfire erupts from the far side. Reinforcement pours in through a side door. Jesus H Christ, just how many are they? Bullets ping off machinery, shatter crates. The stranger returns fire methodically. Iosef ducks low, heart slamming. His mouth drier than ever. He fires recklessly when he sees an opening. Adrenaline drowns the pain and hunger for a glorious second.

Then something hot punches through his side, just above the hip. The impact spins him half-around. For a split second he doesn’t even understand what happened. It feels like someone slammed a red-hot poker.

Iosef stumbles, catches himself on a steel beam. Fire spreads fast, wet warmth soaking his shirt. Blood. The world feels like tilting sideways. He clamps a hand over it, presses hard. A choked groan escapes through gritted teeth. Fuck. Hurts like hell, but he’s still standing. 

He grits his teeth and forces himself upright before the stranger can notice. No. He refuses to be the weak link. Not now. Meanwhile the stranger is still moving forward through the loading bay. Another gang member drops.

Iosef staggers after him, breathing through clenched teeth. His left leg drags slightly, the wound pulling with sickening wetness. Every step is a fresh torment. Don’t say anything. Don’t slow him down.

His hand presses hard against the wound. The pressure makes black dots swarm at the edge of his vision, but at least the warmth stops spreading quite so quickly. This jus’ a scratch.

Sweat pours down his face, stinging the cuts and bruises, mixing with the dried blood. Heartbeat throbs in every wound.

They move into another corridor that leads toward the back of the warehouse. The night air leaks through broken windows somewhere ahead. Iosef keeps walking, but his pace keeps slowing down.

“Stay close,” the stranger reminds him.

Iosef is sweating buckets now. Salty sweat burns in every cut. Dizziness hits like a slap. He rasps, “I am.”

What a lying suka. He's lagging, stumbling over casings, pressing his hand harder against the wound. Blood slicks his fingers, warm and sticky. This is nothing. Just a graze. He can walk it off.

Iosef raises the Beretta with trembling arms. Another shadow moves at the far end. Maybe nothing, maybe another. He fires twice aimlessly. Bullets spark off concrete. Miss.

The stranger’s head snaps toward him. Eyes narrow. “I said stay behind.”

Iosef opens his mouth, "Can't you see I'm tryin' to help?"

His knees buckle suddenly. The floor rushes up. He hits hard, shoulder first, then side. Pain explodes through the wound. The Beretta clatters away.

He lies there gasping, vision tunneling to a pinpoint. Blood pools beneath him. The concrete chills his skin while internal fire devours his side. He tries to push himself up on one elbow, but his arm collapses under him.

The stranger is there in an instant. He’s kneeling, one hand on Iosef’s shoulder to roll him, the other already pressing over Iosef’s clamped hand, “You’re hit.”

“No shit.” Iosef tries to laugh, “But it’s nothin’…”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The stranger asks. He doesn’t raise his voice but Iosef can tell he’s pissed. “I can’t protect you if you don’t listen.”

Iosef shrugs weakly, trying to sound casual, “Didn’t want to slow you down.”

For a moment the stranger just stares at him, “You already are.”

Iosef blinks up at him. The stranger’s face swims. Dark hair falls forward, eyes unreadable but something flickers there.

The world tilts harder. Black spots bloom and spread. His ears ring. Hunger, thirst, blood loss—all crash together. His breathing becomes shallow.

“Blyat…”

Then darkness consumes him.

—

Slowly, he regains his consciousness. Cold. That’s the first thing he notices.

Cold air brushing across his skin. Pain throbs in his side. Iosef’s eyes flutter open. The ceiling spins above him. His head turns slowly. The stranger is kneeling beside him, knife in hand.

They’re inside a cramped storage room. Cracked wooden shelves line the walls. Rusted cans and broken tools sit abandoned in the corners.

There are muffled steps outside. Voices too. Yelling in Russian. Well, shit.

The stranger already sliced through the collar of Iosef’s shirt, peeling the bloody fabric apart. Iosef shivers. The shirt sticks where it’s soaked through with blood. The stranger cuts through it anyway.

“Hey, that was expensive…” Iosef croaks weakly. That’s not a lie. That shirt was imported Italian. Hand tailored. Victor once said the color didn’t flatter him but still…

“Stop talking.”

The man studies the wound for half a second. Blood still seeps but it’s slower now. His steady fingers then press a wad of gauze against the wound. Hard. Iosef tries his best not to yell. His entire body jerks.

A strangled sound escapes his throat anyway. Jesus fuck. Jesus Christ. His brain screams at him to shove the man away, to curl up, to claw at something. Anything, anything, just to make the pressure stop. But the stranger holds firm.

Okay. Okay. He’s not screaming. Very manly of him. Definitely not whimpering like a kicked dog.

“Why…” He manages hoarsely. His mouth is running again before his brain catches up, “Why didn’t you leave me if I was slowing you down?”

Iosef, Iosef, shut your stupid mouth. Do you want this guy to really abandon you? Because that’s how you get it.

“Contract,” the stranger answers as he ties Iosef’s cut shirt as makeshift bandage. “Can you stand?”

Iosef nods. Tries to, anyway. His legs shake. The stranger’s arm snakes around his waist with iron grip and hauls him up. Iosef sags against him, head spinning. For a moment he just stays there.

It doesn’t last long. Somewhere outside, footsteps are getting closer. Voices shouting, “Blood here!”

“Check the rooms!”

Well. That’s bad.

The stranger hears them too. His head tilts slightly toward the doorway. Gun already in his hand.

Two gang members burst into the room. Both of them carry pistols raised halfway. Their eyes drop instantly to the blood on the floor. Then to Iosef. Then to the stranger holding him upright.

The stranger shoves Iosef sideways, “Down.”

Iosef collapses against the wall with an undignified yelp. The stranger’s pistol fires once. The first bullet catches the lead Chechen right between the eyes and he drops instantly.

The second man fires wildly as he falls backward through the doorway. The bullet punches into the wall inches from Iosef’s head. Another shot rings out but the stranger’s follow-up misses as the man barrels forward too fast, closing the distance before the muzzle can track him, knife already flashing in his hand.

The bigger man crashes into the stranger with brutal force, slamming him back against the concrete wall. The stranger's gun slips from his grip.

They grapple hard. The Chechen is massive, all raw power and brute force, easily outweighing the stranger by fifty pounds. He uses it, pinning the stranger’s shoulders to the wall with one thick forearm while the knife in his other hand drives forward, aimed straight at the stranger’s throat.

The stranger twists, blocks with his left arm, but the blade still bites deep into his right bicep. Blood wells instantly, dark against the black suit sleeve. The stranger doesn’t make a sound but he inhales sharply as he fights to keep the knife from sinking further.

But then the knife keeps moving. Inch by inch. For the first time since the stranger appeared, Iosef understands something horrifying: the man can actually die.

No, no. Not him. Not after everything.

Iosef fumbles for the Beretta, his fingers feeling numb like sausages. He drags the gun out anyway. His arm trembles as he raises it. He fires despite his trembling fingers. The shot misses, nearly hitting the stranger instead. The recoil jerks his wrist sideways. The stranger doesn’t even flinch.

Pizdets. Okay. Try again.

The Chechen snarls, pressing harder. The knife inches closer to the stranger’s neck despite his iron grip on the wrist. Blood from the stranger’s slashed arm drips steadily onto the floor.

He squeezes the trigger a second time. Another miss. Fuuck, that's embarassing. But he's tired. Really tired. His vision swims again, arms shaking so badly he can barely keep the muzzle up.

Still, he locks his jaw and fires a third time. This one finds its mark.

The bullet slams into the side of the gang member's head with a wet crack. The big man jerks once, eyes going blank, and collapses sideways like a felled tree. The knife clatters to the concrete.

The stranger straightens. He doesn’t waste time; bends, retrieves his pistol, then turns to Iosef.

Iosef slumps against the wall, “Got you covered, Dyadya.” A weak, half-hysterical laugh bubbles up, “Didn’t hit you. Progress.”

The stranger steps close and presses his good hand over Iosef’s wound without asking. Firm pressure. He then says, “You almost did.” There's no anger in his voice, though. “Next time, stay down.”

Iosef’s head spins from the contact, from the adrenaline dump, and from the fact that this man is still standing after taking a knife for the job. The stranger’s fingers linger a second longer on Iosef’s side, then he pulls back, “Let’s move. We’re almost out.”

The stranger’s arm stays locked around Iosef’s waist, half-carrying him through the final stretch of corridor. Every step jars the wound. The makeshift bandage—his own ruined Italian shirt—already feels soaked again. His vision keeps tunneling. The hunger and blood loss turn his legs to jelly.

They burst out a rusted side door into the night. Iosef feels so grateful for the cold fresh air. Finally, freedom.

There are no city lights. No skyscrapers. Just dark trees, gravel underfoot, and the distant glow of what might be a highway miles away. The warehouse squats behind them like a hulking shadow, surrounded by nothing but overgrown lots and chain-link fence.

The stranger still walks. He steers them toward the low black shape parked in the shadows, but halfway there he changes direction slightly, guiding Iosef to the passenger side first. “Lean here.”

Iosef’s brain, foggy as it is, latches onto the first stupid thing it can: a car. Black. Long hood. Classic lines. Even in the dark he can tell it’s a Mustang. Early seventies. Maybe a ’70.

Holy shit, that thing has to be worth forty, fifty grand easy if it’s clean… or more if it’s a Mach 1 or Boss. Economy major instincts die hard, apparently.

Second thought slams in right after: wait… where the fuck are we? This isn’t New York. Not even close. No sirens, no neon, no towering buildings. He can practically smell pine trees. Bumfuck nowhere. The Chechens had hauled him way out of the city.

Iosef then sags against the Mustang’s fender, legs shaking. The stranger pops the trunk and produces a compact but serious medical kit. Woah, he’s a professional. The stranger pulls it out, along with a small flashlight, and sets everything on the hood.

“Sit.”

Iosef slides down until he’s sitting on the edge of the trunk lip, back against the quarter panel. The stranger crouches in front of him, knife already out again, this time to finish cutting away the rest of the bloody shirt. Cool night air hits bare skin.

The stranger clicks on the flashlight, clamps it between his teeth, and opens the kit. The zipper rasps loudly in the quiet night. Gauze, antiseptic, suture kit, gloves. He works fast, cleaning the wound with quick, efficient wipes.

A wad of antiseptic-soaked gauze presses against the wound. The liquid is icy for half a second… then it burns.

“Oh, fuck,” Iosef hisses through his teeth. The sting spreads outward like fire under the skin. The stranger wipes again, clearing away the blood.

The night air doesn’t help. Cold wind crawls over his bare skin. Goosebumps rise instantly across his chest and arms. The combination of cold air and burning antiseptic makes his body shudder uncontrollably. His teeth start chattering.

Then the stranger threads the curved needle.

Iosef’s eyes widen, “You’re… you’re going to sew me up right here?”

“Hold still.”

Well that’s not reassuring at all. He’s seen knives and guns his whole life, but this needle somehow looks worse.

The first stitch pulls. The needle pierces the raw edges of the wound and drags the thread through. Iosef flinches hard. Half groan, half whimper escapes his mouth, “Agh, shit!”

His back arches instinctively, trying to escape the needle, but the stranger’s free hand plants firmly against his hip.

“Easy.”

Easy my ass. It feels like someone is slowly tearing his skin apart stitch by stitch. But okay. He can handle this. He survived three days with Chechens beating the shit out of him. He can survive a little sewing. But God, it hurts more than he expected.

Iosef’s gaze darts around inside the open trunk and lands on a dark glass bottle tucked in the corner next to the spare tire. Oh, hello. Bourbon. Good stuff, from the label. His mouth waters instantly despite the nausea.

“Can I… have some of that?” His voice sounds meek, “Just a sip, for the pain… pozhaluysta.”

The stranger doesn’t even glance at the bottle. He pulls the next stitch tight, knotting it cleanly. The thread draws the flesh together with a sickening tug as he asks, “Have you eaten anything in the last three days?”

Iosef blinks. The question feels absurd in the middle of all this. “No,” he admits. “They never brought food. Just a little water sometimes.”

The stranger’s hands pause for half a second before he continues suturing. Another stitch. Another groan from Iosef’s throat, quickly strangled into a whimper as he locks his jaw hard. The pain is relentless now, building with every pass of the needle. He can feel the thread sliding through his skin.

“No bourbon,” The stranger says. “You’ll vomit. Or get a stomach ache. Neither helps.”

Iosef is still shivering, he lets his head thunk back against the car. A weak, bitter laugh rattles out of him, “Prekrasno! Starving, shot, and now I can’t even get drunk.”

The stranger finishes the last stitch. The thread tightens. Knot. Cut. Done. Then he smooths a fresh gauze pad over the wound, and tapes it down. The dressing is tight and tidy.

But he doesn’t stop there. The stranger’s gloved fingers move upward, gentle but firm, tilting Iosef’s chin toward the flashlight beam. Iosef freezes at the touch. Those hands then examine the damage to his face: the split lip, the bruised jaw, and especially the right eye, still grotesquely swollen and half-shut, the skin around it mottled purple and black.

The stranger soaks a fresh gauze pad with antiseptic and dabs carefully at the swollen eye. The sting is sharper here, closer to delicate skin. Iosef sucks in a sharp breath, tears pricking involuntarily at the corner of his good eye. 

“Easy,” the stranger repeats, thumb brushing lightly just beneath the swollen lid to hold it steady. He cleans the dried blood from the corner of Iosef’s eye, then applies a thin layer of antibiotic ointment before pressing a smaller gauze pad over the worst of the bruising and taping it lightly in place.

Then without a word he rolls up the sleeve of his own black shirt, exposing the deep knife gash on his right bicep. Blood has already soaked through the fabric in a dark line.

Iosef watches as the man cleans the wound with fresh antiseptic. He doesn’t flinch when the liquid hits. Just threads another (smaller) needle and stitches his own arm with the same calmness he used on Iosef. Three neat sutures, tied off quickly. Then gauze, tape, a makeshift pressure wrap.

The stranger removes his gloves, closes the medical kit, and finally reaches for his own suit jacket. He shrugs out of it in one fluid motion, black fabric still warm from his body, and drapes it over Iosef’s bare shoulders and chest. The weight settles like a blanket, trapping heat against Iosef’s chilled skin.

It smells like cologne Iosef recognizes, spiced lemon and woody… Versace Eros? Gucci Pour Homme?

“Thank you,” Iosef says.

The stranger doesn’t answer. But still… nice. The stranger simply closes the trunk, circles to the driver’s side, and slides behind the wheel. The Mustang’s big V8 rumbles to life.

Iosef opens the passenger seat before his knees buckle again. Iosef slumps against the leather, still trembling but it’s manageable now.

“Seatbelt,” The stranger says, voice flat, as he glances over once.

Iosef fumbles with it one-handed, still wrapped in the jacket. Nausea rolls through him.

The stranger shifts into gear. The car rolls forward smoothly over gravel, headlights still off until they’re well clear of the warehouse. Once they hit the narrow road, the stranger’s right hand leaves the shifter for a moment and settles heavy and warm on Iosef’s knee, a grounding pressure, “Stay awake.”

Iosef finally asks, “Where are we?”

“Far enough.”

Pravda, it doesn’t answer anything.

“The name’s Iosef…” He says after a moment, attempting something like conversation. Well, he assumes the stranger already knows his name. Papa sent him, after all.

“John.”

“Okay, John… I’ve never seen you. Do you work for my father?”

The stranger–John–answers, “I’m an associate of your father.”

Hmm. That explains things. No wonder Iosef has never encountered this man. Papa has dozens of associates.

Iosef leans his head against the cool window. The suit is the only source of warmth. Tremors keep rolling through his body; nausea keeps climbing. He pulls the jacket tighter anyway, curling into it.

“Did my father see it? The video…”

“Yeah.”

Yeah. Sure. Of course Papa has seen it. But come on. Think of something else. Something to make him feel better.

“So how much is the car?” Iosef murmurs, “Mustang ‘70, right?”

“She’s not for sale.”

Iosef closes his eyes briefly, “Shame.”

The road stretches dark ahead. Engine hums steadily. Iosef’s eyes drift half-shut, before he spots something in the distance. A diner. ALL NITE DINER neon glows like a beacon in the dark. His stomach gives a vicious, empty twist.

“Stop the car,” Iosef points out to the diner. He sits up straighter, ignoring the pull in his side. “John. Stop.”

John doesn’t brake immediately. The Mustang slows but keeps rolling.

“I haven’t eaten anything in three days,” Iosef presses. “You got me out. Mission complete, da? Papa can wait another hour. I’m not going to make it if I pass out from hunger.”

John glances over, eyes unreadable in the dim dashboard light. After a long second he pulls into the gravel lot and kills the engine.

Iosef exhales in relief, “Spasibo.” He reaches back, pops the trunk with the lever, and hauls the bourbon bottle out before John can protest. It’s heavier than it looks. “You said I couldn’t drink it on an empty stomach. So I’ll eat first, then drink. Perfect compromise.”

John’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough for him, “You’re pushy.”

“I’m starving,” Iosef shoots back, already climbing out. His legs still feel like jelly, but the prospect of food gives him strength. He tucks the bottle under his arm, John’s suit jacket hanging loose over his bare torso like a cape.

The diner is small. Inside, there's a long counter with spinning stools. Only two other customers: an old trucker nursing a mug and a tired waitress behind the counter. Perfect. No one looks twice at the bloody, half-dressed man.

They slide into a corner booth. Iosef sets the bourbon bottle on the table with a solid clunk.

The waitress appears with menus, “What’ll it be, boys?”

Iosef doesn’t even open his, “Vanilla milkshake, extra thick. And French toast. Stack of it. With extra butter and syrup.”

John orders without looking up, “Americano. Black. And a tuna melt.”

“Rough night?” The waitress asks.

“Yeah,” Iosef and John answer in unison.

When the food arrives it’s simply perfect. The French toast is golden, soaked in butter and real maple syrup. The milkshake comes in a tall frosted glass with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Iosef attacks it like a man possessed. Custardy bread, long pulls of creamy vanilla coats his raw throat. He barely chews. Just shovels.

The warmth spreads through his empty stomach, chasing away the hollow that’s lived there for days. John eats slower but Iosef catches him glancing over more than once.

Halfway through the plate Iosef finally slows, leaning back with a satisfied groan, “Fuck… this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Iosef reaches for the bourbon and unscrews the cap. Then he takes a long, straight pull from the bottle. The liquor burns down his throat—a rich, smoky heat. It hits his stomach and blooms outward like liquid fire, spreading through his chest, loosening the tight band of pain around his sutured side.

The throbbing dulls almost immediately. His shoulders drop. He sighs in relief. God, that feels good. Fuckin' good. Like liquid heaven.

“Better?” John asks.

Iosef nods, taking another smaller sip before setting the bottle down. His cheeks are already faintly flushed, “Much better.”

He sets the bottle down carefully on the scarred Formica table, right between the half-empty milkshake glass and John’s coffee mug. His gaze lifts across the small space and lands on the man sitting opposite him.

John.

The man who just stitched him up in a parking lot, who draped his own jacket over him. The man who has spoken maybe ten words total tonight.

Up close like this, under the diner’s warm yellow light, John is… not bad looking. The black shirt clings to broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal the fresh bandage on his own knife wound. He looks dangerous and cozy at the same time.

“Thank you, John.” Iosef says softly, the words slipping out before he can overthink them, “For everything.”

John just gives a single, small nod and takes another sip of his coffee. But his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary. Iosef notices. His cheeks flush. It’s just the bourbon, he tells himself.

“You always this quiet?”

John watches steam rise from his coffee now, “When there’s nothing to say.”

“Fair enough.”

Silence descends, but not uncomfortably. Distant clatter of dishes fill the space between them.

Iosef’s thoughts drift, hazy now with food and bourbon and exhaustion. Papa sent John–perhaps one of his best associates–to retrieve him. Some part of him feels… hungry. If he ever sits in Papa’s chair, he wants someone like John at his side. Someone who can singlehandedly paint walls red.

Perhaps Papa doesn’t hate him that much. Maybe he sees hope in him.

…Or maybe it’s just business. A matter of pride. No one touches a Tarasov and walks away. Even if the Tarasov in question is a fuckin’ disappointment.

He glances at John again. Iosef’s cheeks flush hotter. It’s definitely just the bourbon.