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“Fucker!”
The pain that shot through him was sharp and hot and Andrey’s hand clawed at his face where Goncharov had cut him open. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t even open his eyes. He could only cover them with the palm of his hands as the blood poured out and pooled between his fingers, dripping to the floor.
“You don’t fuck me, Andrey!” Goncharov’s words cut through the ringing in Andrey’s ears, the pounding growing around his voice like a wardrum, “You don’t fuck with me!”
If it hadn’t been for the pain, Andrey would have been on his feet and in Goncharov’s face laughing about just how easy he’d made it. The fucker hadn’t even seen him coming, which he supposed was laughable now. Still, it was a good thing that the pain was such as to completely overwhelm whatever bitter, snapping part of him reveled in Goncharov’s anger.
Curled as he was on the floor of the office, Andrey listened to the sound of Goncharov’s steps move away from him. And then a familiar sound. A subtle metallic clicking. He was winding that fucking watch again.
It was a struggle to open the other eye, as blood poured down the left side of his face, but he had to see. Andrey was treading water, waylaid. He didn’t know whether Goncharov planned to kill him and finish the job; its what he expected, but he couldn’t be sure. So, he pressed his palm to his left eye, opening his right just enough to see Goncharov’s hazy form winding and winding that stupid fucking watch.
“You’re fucking lucky Mario’s a snitch or I’d have had to call you traitor.”
Of course, it had been Mario. He’d been muscling into Andrey’s business more forcefully over the past month and a half, around the time Andrey had started talking to the Ricci. He must have smelled something and like Goncharov’s loyal fucking hound, he’d followed the trail and dragged Andrey ass first back to the feet of Lo Staniero.
“I don’t want to call you traitor, Andrey. You understand?”
A hand in his hair, gripping it with a fierce, tight fist, dragging Andrey up to stare into Goncharov’s face, mouth twisted in a sneer.
“I put a lot of work into you. Trusted you too, you shitstain. You want me to forget all that? Go back to square fucking one with you on a tight fucking leash and a gun to your head?”
Something like panic shot down Andrey’s spine. He knew what Goncharov was threatening here; a casual loss of memory as to their relationship, the work he’d put into their partnership. He’d be fair game for any ladder climbing asshole to take out on a whim. One wrong move and Goncharov himself wouldn’t hesitate. There was a wildness in his eyes that warned Andrey about how serious he was. And he was silent, watching the man expectantly. Waiting for an answer.
“No.”
It was forced out from between bitterly clenched teeth, all the resentment Andrey felt carefully packaged into one word.
But it was the word Goncharov had wanted to hear if the shift in his face was anything to go by. The hand in his hair loosened, settling against the top of his head.
“That’s good, Andrey. That’s real good.”
The hand in his hair shifted, moving gently through his sweaty locks in one quick motion before Goncharov stepped back, finally releasing Andrey from his hold. Andrey slumped forward, catching himself before he fell against the hardwood floor. Not that it did much good, his hands were bloody and would no doubt stain the wood anyway.
The sound of a lighter flickering to life, a deep inhale, and Goncharov was making his way back across the room to Andrey. With his one eye, he stared at the polished shoes paused in front of him, watched ash fall to the floor, before a hand caught his hair again, significantly gentler than before.
“Come on, Andrey.”
The hand pulled his head up and there, kneeling before him, was Goncharov. His face was so close and his sharp eyes flickered over Andrey’s face, taking in every minute detail in a manner of seconds. He hated when he did that, but that was only because Andrey had never learned to hide anything from him. He couldn’t. When Goncharov looked at him, Andrey opened himself like a book, a habit he had never thought to unlearn.
He probably should have.
Goncharov scrutinized him with narrowed eyes, a cigarette smoking between his lips. Finally, took one final drag before blowing the smoke in Andrey’s face. Andrey inhaled sharply and couldn’t stop himself from coughing, eliciting another sharp laugh from the man across from him.
“Here Anny,” he held the cigarette up to Andrey’s face, settling it teasingly against his bottom lip.
For a moment, Andrey only stared, lost in that sharp, calculating gaze. Then, slowly, he wrapped his lips around the cigarette and inhaled. The nicotine did wonders for his shaking hands and pounding heart. He went to take another inhale but Goncharov plucked the cigarette from his lips before he could, taking a drag from it himself.
The pain had become a low throb somewhere in the left side of his face and he was becoming overwhelmed with the smell of copper. But still, Goncharov regarded him with a searching look.
“I’m not going to have any more problems with you, Andrey.”
It wasn’t said as a question, but a statement of fact. A warning. One more step out of line and he’d find himself kneeling on the other side of Goncharov’s gun. Suddenly very tired, Andrey could only shake his head.
“No.”
“Good.” The hand left his hair and moved instead beneath his chin, keeping his head up as Goncharov leaned forward. He pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Andrey’s mouth and whispered:
“Don’t. Fuck with me, Andrey.”
Another kiss, this time against his lips in that pushy, almost teenage way he did, coaxing Andrey to reciprocate but he was too tired. Goncharov pulled back, chucked him under the chin with a grin, pressed a kiss to his forehead and stood up.
“I’ll send Talia in to clean you up, then come see me downstairs. You still have a lot of shit to clean up but we might be able to do something about the Ricci.”
Then he was gone, striding out the door and down the hall, leaving Andrey lying the floor of the office, half blind. And all the while, he could hear the sound of that fucking pocket watch as Goncharov wound it again and again and again.
A scream rose in his throat.
He bit it back.