Page 17 of Sexting the Pakhan

The stupidity.

“You want to try again?” I ask.

He coughs, spits red onto the floor, and says nothing.

Stepan stands off to the side, arms folded, expression flat with the kind of patience that comes from seeing this too many timesto be impressed by it. Two more men wait by the door. Quiet. Still. Smart enough not to speak.

I crouch in front of the bastard and take hold of his jaw, forcing his head up. “I am giving you,” I say softly, “one more chance to remember who you belong to.”

His eyes are glassy with pain. Fear is in there too now. Good. Fear clears the mind.

“I didn’t,” he rasps.

I hit him again. Short. Brutal. Precise.

His head snaps sideways with a wet sound, and he makes a broken noise deep in his throat before sagging against the chair. Blood runs from his nose, his mouth, the cut above his brow I gave him ten minutes ago.

I straighten and take a handkerchief from my pocket, wiping my knuckles while I look down at him. “Take two fingers,” I say to Stepan. “If he still can’t remember after that, dump him in the river.”

The man jerks against the restraints so hard the chair scrapes. “No, no, wait.”

There it is.

I say nothing.

He pants through his teeth, then blurts a name. Another one after that. Half a route. A warehouse. Not enough, but more than he was giving me before.

Stepan steps forward, already filing it away. He’ll verify it. He always does.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. In this room, at this moment, the sound is jarring.

I pull the phone out, more annoyed than curious at first. That number should not light up unless something matters. Business. Trouble. Movement.

I look down and see an unknown number and a message that says:Hi. My friend says I need practice talking to strangers, so… hello.

For a second, I just stare at it.

The man at my feet is still whimpering. There’s blood on my hand, blood on my cuff, blood drying under one of my nails. And on my phone, like it has arrived from another universe entirely, is this.

Stepan watches my face. “Problem?”

I keep looking at the screen.

Not a setup. Not my first instinct, anyway. Too awkward. Too plain. Too honest in its embarrassment. It reads like exactly what it says it is. A woman being pushed into something ridiculous by a friend she’ll probably end up blaming for it later.

I should ignore it.

This phone is not for random women and whatever impulsive little games they’re playing in wine bars or kitchens or shared apartments. This line belongs to a different part of my life, the part built on fear, caution, and loyalty earned the hard way.

And still I find myself reading it again. I think it’s the tone that gets me.

Nobody who texts this number ever sounds uncertain.

Nobody ever sounds soft.

Nobody sounds real.

I look at the message, at my bloodied hand, at the trembling man strapped to the chair, and I feel something I haven’t felt all night.