Page 100 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Fine,” I say, turning into the parking lot.

I park outside the café but don’t get out immediately.

My phone sits in the cup holder now. The message thread is closed. The number is hidden again behind everyday things: school, friends, errands, reminders, the sensible architecture of a life I built because there was no one coming to build it for me.

Karina taps on the passenger window and makes me jump. She bends down and peers in. “Are you having a breakdown in there?”

I unlock the door.

She opens it and looks at me carefully. “You cried.”

“A dignified amount,” I say.

“Then stop looking like you’re about to throw yourself into the sea over kindergarten.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Karina pulls back and studies my face. “You’re lying, but I’m hungry, so I’ll interrogate you after pancakes.”

“Very generous.”

She steps back. “Come on.”

I pick up my phone and shove it into my bag without looking at it again.

And I follow Karina into the café, where the coffee is strong, the pancakes are too sweet, and for the next hour, I can pretend the only thing aching inside me is the normal grief of watching my daughters grow up.

14

RUSLAN

The man stops lyingafter the third tooth.

That’s usually how it goes. Men lie while they think pain is still a negotiation. They deny, bargain, insult, pray. Then something in the body understands that pride will not protect it, and the truth comes out with blood.

He’s tied to a chair in the back room of a closed butcher shop on Vanya Street. The place hasn’t sold meat in nine years, but the drains still work, and the neighbors know better than to complain about cars arriving after midnight.

Stepan stands near the freezer door, arms folded, face bored. Dima is by the exit. His arm healed badly years ago, leaving him with a stiffness he pretends not to notice.

Kirill spits blood onto the tile and says, “I told you everything.”

I hit him again. His head snaps to the side. The chair scrapes back an inch.

“No,” I say. “You told me what you think I already know.”

Kirill Sokolov has been stealing from me for three months, and the worst part is how patient he was about it.

He didn’t take a whole shipment. That would have been stupid. He let the losses look ordinary at first. A truck came in lighter than expected. A crate was marked damaged before anyone checked it. A driver changed his route by six minutes and blamed traffic. On paper, each mistake had an explanation.

Together, they formed a pattern.

Pavel found it last week, buried under delivery reports and corrected invoices. By then, enough product had disappeared to make the warehouse men nervous. Enough money had gone missing to make my captains start watching one another.

That’s why Kirill is hanging from a hook in the back room of a closed butcher shop, wrists tied above his head, feet barely touching the stained tile.

That’s why I need a location, not an apology.

I stand in front of him and flex my hand once. “Where is it?” I ask.