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He looks at Dimitry for approval, but Dimitry looks at my mother and then back at my clueless dad.

I’ve watched enough mafia movies to know what he’s saying without saying a word. I want to yell it to my dad, but there’s no way I’m letting him, or Dimitry, know I’m watching this whole thing unfold.

Even as tense as I am, I know my dad’s even more on edge. There’s no way he’s thinking straight and it’s clear he’s absolutely not in control of anything that’s happening in his own home. I feel bad for him, but I also can’t deny what I’m feeling either.

My nipples are hard as rocks. I feel them painfully pressing into the fabric of my bra. I carefully raise up slightly on my forearms.

“Man never ask woman to listen to business matters,” Dimitry clues my dad in.

“Sorry,” my mom says, scurrying out of the dining room and into the living room.

“Na Zdorovie,” Dimitry says, raising his shot glass, or at least I assume so. His hand is off the table, but it’s so big the shot glass practically disappears even though the position of his thick wrist makes it appear as though he does have it in-between his thumb and index finger.

He takes the shot down, making no noises or faces afterward, the banging of glass on wood, and the lack of any spillage, the visible proof that he did indeed make quick work of the clear eighty proof liquid.

My dad takes two tips back, with a wince in-between, but manages to follow suit, before carefully placing the shot glass down on the table.

“What can I do for you?” Dimitry asks.

“My daughter, D-…my daughter,” he begins as if he doesn’t even want this feral beast to know my name. “She’s having trouble with a boy at college.”

Dimitry sits there, unamused. “And?”

“I was wondering if you,” my dad verbally tiptoes. “I was just guessing you might know someone who could help me…help my family, with this problem of ours.”

Dimitry’s hand moves from his knee to my dad’s chest, taking up the entirety of it. He pats him so hard my dad slides back in his chair, but before he slides further, or falls backwards altogether, he fists my dad’s shirt and pulls him right back to the table, bellying him up.

He stares him down as his hand moves across his collarbone and then to his back before finally moving across his lower back.

My dad is like a rag doll as Dimitry manhandles him, before sliding his hand underneath the table. I hear his hand sliding against the underside before his eyes track the corners of the ceiling.

I jerk my body back behind the wall, just as his eyes approach my position.

My cheeks are full of air as I very carefully exhale through my nose. That was too close for comfort.

But I can’t resist.

I slide forward, thanking my lucky stars I didn’t make any noise.

Dimitry leans to his side, leaving only one leg of the chair touching the floor. His pants aren’t tight by any stretch of the imagination, but it still takes him so time to wedge his big mitt into his pocket and pull it back out again.

He places his hand on the table and when he moves it away I see a tiny piece of drafting paper that appears to be been torn out of a notebook, and one of those half sized pencils you see carpenters keep behind their ears.

My dad looks at the paper and then cluelessly at Dimitry.

“Write,” he bellows.

My dad fumbles for the pencil, practically bumping it off the table before grabbing it with two hands.

He leans forward, writing what I assume to be my ex’s name on the paper, painstakingly slow as if messing up one letter may end in something tragic for some poor, innocent person.

Dimitry’s hand comes down over the paper as soon as he’s done grabs it, wads it up in his hand and stuffs it back into his pocket.

“Hurricane,” he says. Is he talking about some sort of code word for the punishment he’s giving out or guessing the name of my university’s mascot, but in a declarative way, not as a question.

My dad nods, seeming to finally be on the same wavelength as the big Russian in our home. At least as much as possible as he can ever hope to be with a creature like this.

Dimitry stands and steps back over the chair without looking down at it.

I quickly bury the side of my face in the carpet, listening to the footfalls of his thick-soled boots hammer into our kitchen floor as I recognize the sound moving toward the door.

I lift my face up off the carpet and my eyes go to the only thing that’s not black on him.

The big, silver barreled gun tucked into the back of his pants. My eyes bulge and I breathe in through my mouth, taking in some dust from the carpet.


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Ken Edgar | Regarder | Descargar