Page 3
The blond guy scowls, turning his back to me to finish his drink.
The guy at the pool table points his cue toward the back hallway. “Go down there. There’s an elevator at the end. Take it to the third floor. Yakov is in Flat Number Three.”
“Thank you very much.”
I bob my head in a quick nod and hurry past the living room. Keeping my eyes locked straight ahead, I rush down the dark corridor until I reach the metal elevator doors. I smash the button and step inside the second the doors slide open. The metal panels close, sealing away the heavy smoke and hostile stares as the elevator rises to the third floor.
The metal elevator doors slide open on the third floor, leaving me in a quiet, carpeted hallway. I face the heavy wooden door of Flat Number Three. Raising my hand, I knock twice against the solid frame. Complete silence answers me. I stare at the thick wood, realizing how stupid it is to knock on a door built to insulate a luxury flat. I find the illuminated doorbell button and press it.
Less than a minute later, the door swings open.
The guy standing in the frame steals the air from my lungs. He towers over me, his shoulders broad enough to block the hallway light. He doesn’t say a word at first. His dark eyes fixate on my face, tracking my features before he mutters something low and harsh in a language I don’t understand.
“Hello,” I say, holding up the plastic bag of milk tea and lollipops to break the tension. “I have a delivery.”
He keeps staring. A long second passes before he blinks hard, snapping out of whatever trance he was caught in.
“I’m sorry,” the guy murmurs, his voice a deep rumble. “You’re just… wow. Please, come in.”
Stepping inside the massive flat, I look around the space. High-end modern furniture fills the room, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the dark ocean surrounding the island.
“Sit down,” he offers, gesturing to a sleek leather chair near the center of the room. “I rushed to the door thinking it was one of the guys from downstairs coming to annoy me. Give me a second to go get your cash.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
I perch on the edge of the leather cushion as he disappears down the hall. Glancing to the side, I spot an open first-aid box resting on the glass coffee table. A piece of dark clothing lies discarded next to it, stained with fresh, wet blood. He must be injured.
He returns a minute later, holding out the payment and adding a crisp fifty-euro bill to the required total.
“Keep the tip,” he tells me, pressing the money into my hand. “I know coming out here this late in the evening isn’t easy.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Standing up to leave, I catch sight of his hands. His knuckles are split open and bleeding, wrapped in a messy, careless layer of white gauze that already shows dark red spots.
“Do you need help with that?” I point to his damaged hand.
He pulls his arm back, hiding the injury against his thigh. “I can handle it myself.”
I look at the terrible wrapping job, knowing the open wounds will get infected by morning. “I’ll help you. Just sit down.”
He hesitates, his jaw clenching, but he finally drops onto the sofa. I sit on the edge of the coffee table right in front of him and pull the supplies from the open medical box.
“I’m a pre-med student,” I tell him, unraveling his ruined gauze to expose the deep cuts. “I can help you do this properly. It’s fine.”
I clean the torn skin, dousing a cotton pad in stinging antiseptic before pressing it directly to his knuckles. He doesn’t react to the pain. His breathing remains steady.
“You aren’t flinching at the spirit,” I note, keeping my focus on my work to avoid looking at his face. “It seems you have a really high pain tolerance.”
“You get used to it when you are in my line of hobbies,” he answers quietly.
I stay silent, feeling the rough, calloused texture of his skin as I wrap the fresh bandages tight around his hand, securing the ends over his thick wrist.
“Alright. You’re all set.” I pack the supplies back into the box and stand up. Pointing toward the open kitchen area, I gesture to the stainless steel sink. “Mind if I wash my hands?”
“Go ahead,” he says, watching my every move.
I walk over to the sink, turning the cold water on to scrub the smell of antiseptic and the faint smear of his blood off my fingers. Grabbing a paper towel, I dry my hands and walk back into the living room.
