Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(36)

Nicole pulled on a pair of gloves, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist. “Ready to finish this?”

Without a word, Valon climbed on the table, waiting for the first line. It hurt like a bitch, worse than when he was fighting, but he never protested, never took a break, just remained still until their session was up.

He deserved this pain, needed it so that it could erase the painful reminders already embedded in his skin. The scars would always be a part of him until the day he died, but he didn’t need another visual reminder of the person he had been before he had found his way out of the darkness.





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Epilogue



Valon took one last drag of the cigarette he’d lit a few blocks from the restaurant he was approaching, tossing it down onto the sidewalk and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. He stood there for a while, blowing out a long stream of smoke as he thought of everything that had brought him to this point, starting with the legacy of a man who had hated him since his birth.

He recalled Ahmeti raging about it one night, that Valon would be the reason that he became the laughing stock of The Organization. Valon’s mother was not a woman who was seen favorably. She was only meant to be used as a toy and nothing more, but father bastards with her. Having them be his only heirs, Ahmeti hated Valon for that though it hadn’t been something he could control.

It was funny, really, that while he was a dead man walking, Valon still had all of the fear and respect that Ahmeti had craved up until his death.

But none of that mattered anymore. They were dead and Valon had to forget about them.

Lowering his hood, Valon walked into the restaurant, already noticing a few of the Russians watching him. He merely nodded to the hostess who was preparing to offer him a menu, heading toward the back of the restaurant where the kitchens were, along with a secret back room that the Pakhan used for meetings.

Valon could hear the Russians calling out to him, but he ignored them, making it through the kitchen doors before they could reach him, but outside of the closed door of the office were two armed men, hands already on the guns at their sides when they saw Valon coming toward them.

He held his hands up, trying to appear non-threatening though that was difficult considering he was a good few inches taller than the pair of them. While they wore suits—even standing in the blistering hot kitchen—they assumed he couldn’t have been one of them since he was dressed as if he’d just walked off the street.

While true, they really didn’t know what they were up against.

“I’m here to see your boss,” Valon said before they could ask.

“Do you have an appointment?” one asked in return.

Valon shrugged. “No.”

He could already see the man about to deny him, and while he thought about arguing with the man until he was allowed inside, he needed to make sure he got this job. The only way he could be sure he would was if he sent a message.

Valon smiled, slow and easy, and jerked his head. “On your left.”

Both of the idiots looked in that direction, giving Valon enough time to disarm the first one, using the butt of the man’s gun to hit him in the temple, sending him to the ground in seconds. The other was still fumbling to free his gun from the holster as Valon reared back, sending his booted foot into the man’s chest, the force of the kick sending the man through the door.

Valon’s brows lifted in surprise at how easily the door gave away but didn’t complain as he merely stepped over the groaning man’s body into the office where a number of men were sitting around a circular table, all smoking cigars and now looking at Valon as he interrupted their card game.

He recognized Mikhail immediately from the pictures Bastian had shown him before the job. He had the same dark hair as his son, about the same length though he kept his slicked back. Cold gray eyes met his from across the room as Mikhail looked at him without an ounce of fear. Instead, interest lit up his gaze as he looked Valon over.

While in the two months that Valon had been living off the grid, he’d acquired a number of tattoos that covered majority of his arms and upper torso, to the trained eye, the marks of The Organization could be discerned. There was no mistaking what some of them meant, a few even crossing with the meanings of the Russians’ own.

Especially the one Valon had done on his chest.

Gripping the collar of his T-shirt, Valon tugged the fabric down, just enough so that they could see the beginning of the striped head, and then released his hold.

A small smile had formed on Mikhail’s lips as he saw that tattoo. Flicking the ash off the end of his cigar, he took a few long puffs, taking his time as he regarded Valon. “Are you looking for a job?” he asked after some time.

Valon shrugged, answering, “Something like that.”

He might have had the right ink—it was the only reason that he was still breathing since he was sure that at least two of the six men at the table had their guns aimed at him beneath the table—but even with that, he couldn’t be accepted automatically with them. He still had to prove himself.

Mikhail nodded, his smile disappearing as he rested his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. His eyes cut to one of the men at the table, one that didn’t look as at ease as everyone else.

His hand coming down rather harshly on the man’s shoulder, Mikhail smiled at him, giving him a little shake. “This man, my good friend, Vitaly, has been doing business with me for the last twelve years.”