Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(35)

He drove for a while, formulating a plan as best he could, knowing that he needed to get out of the city before nightfall. While he couldn’t be sure how long it would take for Jetmir or one of his other men to catch up with him, he knew eventually they would, especially since he knew the truth about what happened to the boy.

Before he left, however, he needed to make a phone call. Until he could do that, he needed a change of clothes. Pulling up to the curb, he undressed, tossing his clothes in the backseat, and then looked at Loki.

“Stay.”

He wasn’t the least bit concerned as he walked into the store wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs. At this hour, it was relatively empty. The few associates behind the registers and stocking the shelves gawked as he came in but couldn’t seem to form words as he went hunting through the store, grabbing a pair of jeans and the first shirt he saw that didn’t have a logo on it.

Valon went to the register, slapping enough cash down onto the counter to cover the costs of the clothes as he met the eyes of a young woman, no older than he was, who couldn’t tear her eyes away from his chest. Any other time, he might have been amused, but now, he was annoyed.

“Restroom.” She didn’t seem to hear him, so he repeated, a bit more forcefully, “Restroom.”

She pointed in the general direction, her eyes snapping up to his, and if anything, that only made it worse. Valon was used to the way women reacted to him. He’d slept with enough to know, but—like many parts of him—that attraction, that need for another person. He could turn that off in himself as well.

Heading in the direction she’d pointed, he didn’t stop until he was in the men’s room, the door locked behind him. He went to the sink first, splashing water on his face, over his hands and arms, absently washing away the day as best he could.

Maybe he had always known that it would come to this, or maybe his life was so dismal that he didn’t have to worry about leaving anything behind back home. Everything he valued, he’d brought along with him.

He didn’t know for how long, could be a few hours, could be days, but for the first time in his life, he was finally free of the hell he’d lived for the better part of twenty-three years.

Drying off with the paper towels, he pulled on the clothes, shoving his fingers through his hair to push it back out of his face.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Valon tried to see something other than the monster they created, but with each mark, every imperfection that made up his appearance, he saw the trials he’d endured for a life he never wanted. Valon had never wanted to follow in Ahmeti’s footsteps, knowing what it would ultimately do to him.

Did…

Because at this point, he was already that man, even if he didn’t want to be.

____

Lighting up a cigarette, he inhaled the nicotine, holding it in his lungs for several seconds before exhaling and relishing the burn. Loki was asleep on the seat, oblivious to the tension inside of Valon.

He turned the cell phone over in his hands, contemplating what his next move would be and whether it was worth it. He had done some questionable things over the length of his life, more than he had thought himself possible of, but now he had the opportunity to do something good, very much like what he had done for Elena. This was small compared to the damage he had done to some people, but it at least was another way to pay for his sins.

They might have thought he wasn’t listening, but Valon had retained everything they’d said and knew exactly who to call.

Valon was not stupid enough to call Mishca Volkov himself. No, he needed to call someone close to him, but one who wasn’t close to the Pakhan. Hunting through the contacts in the phone, Valon found the name he was looking for and dialed the number.

It rang three times before someone picked up, and the gruff voice on the other end sounded impatient and had a heavy Russian accent.

“Vlad.”

“Tell your boss his brother is dead,” Valon said slowly, laying on his own accent to make sure his voice couldn’t be recognized.

Over the man’s sputtering, he gave him the address repeating it twice to make sure he heard it, then hung up and tossed the phone across the field. That was the thing about people. It didn’t matter that they knew Mishca did not have a brother, but their curiosity would ultimately force them to go and see what Valon had told them.

Today was the last mistake he would ever make for The Organization.

____

For the second time, Valon walked toward the tattoo artist, carefully pulling off his shirt as he tossed it in a nearby chair. This time, she was better at hiding her reaction to the scars that covered his back though there were still questions in her eyes.

For the past three months, Valon had come to this place, slowly erasing the physical reminders of his life back in Albania. His hair was growing out once more, concealing the ‘slave’ brand on his scalp, and now with the help of the artist, the long jagged scars were being covered in an intricate back piece, complete with color.

Nicole had done other pieces for him. A week after he left The Organization, he’d wandered into this shop and had a snarling tiger head inked onto his chest. He might not have wanted it this way, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Whether rightfully acknowledged, he was an enforcer as much as Gjarper had been.

If there was one person he missed from that time, it was him. He had helped him in ways that he hadn’t fully understood at the time, but now that he was free and could truly think back, without Gjarper, he didn’t know where he would be.