When she walks, it is with purpose and grace. She knows what she’s here to do, she’ll accomplish. A confidence I wish I knew.
My problems with her were largely my own staring back at me – she never allowed me any illusions as to what we were, the terrible shit we did. She tore them from my eyes until I had to really look at myself. “It’s always one more thing,” she had said and I knew it as true, despite what I had told myself, told June. I was good at killing, it came easy and the money was fantastic. I liked the respect it had won me within the LA-13 and now with various organizations outside of it. If you needed someone dead, I was the person to hire.
Still, I didn’t feel like that was the sort of life to aspire to. The Dream was a nice house, a beautiful wife, kids, and barbeques on Sundays, wasn’t it? I could have that with June. She was a comfort, a lie I could use to shelter myself against what I was – am.
I never could have had that with Emilia. She was a bitter, cold wind; exhilarating, damaging. God, I had missed her. When I saw her with that necklace on, I knew it for what it was – she was going to see Yulian and she wanted it to hurt but for a split second, I could pretend that we –
“Yes? How can I help you?” came a bored sounding voice. I looked away from her, embarrassed that I had been watching her hips sway when she strode in and hadn’t noticed anything else.
“I’m here to see Yulian Volkov,” she says and the man’s eyebrows rise as she says the name.
He looks her over, but I suppose she doesn’t look familiar to him because he shrugs and looks back down at his computer, “Visiting hours are over, you’ll have to try again tomorrow from the hours of-“ She slams two fat folders down on the counter. I had wondered what they were but, with her, sometimes it was better to not know. He slowly looks back up again, not bothered by the noise, “Are you a lawyer?”
“No. I’ll see Rourke instead.”
“Rourke’s schedule is current-“
“Listen, you fuck,” Emilia hisses, “you either take me to my fucking husband or you take me to Rourke or I’ll beat you until you’re pissing yourself under that desk. Open the folder – What do you think Rourke will do to you once he finds out that he could have avoided seeing all that shit that’ll end up on the news stations because you turned me away?”
The man picked up the top folder haughtily, making a great show of opening the folder, and picking out a glossy sheet. His mouth dropped open when he focused on it, “You know,” he says, flipping quickly through the rest of the contents to see everything, “I think a time slot just opened up in Chief Rourke’s calendar.”
“Imagine that,” Emilia responds dryly.
“Wait right here, I’ll deliver these to his office and then walk you in.” He’s gone for a few minutes, but when he returns, he looks like he’s about to double over laughing. He collects himself and clears his throat, “Chief Rourke will see you now. This way, Mrs. Volkov.”
We’re escorted through a dimly lit hallway with walls just as dingy and scuffed as the linoleum tile under our feet. I keep my bandaged hand tucked in my pocket, unwilling to appear weak in case anyone decides to go after us but everyone we pass makes an effort to stay out of our way. The receptionist raps on Rourke’s door twice before opening it. Emilia takes a seat without a word. I stand near her, keeping an eye on the hallway.
The police chief says nothing until the door is closed and the receptionist is out of earshot, he sighs and closes his laptop. “What do you want?” he asks tiredly.
“I want my husband released.”
“I think you can. Say it’s ‘work release’.”
“Work release?” The older man scoffs, “No one would ever believe a Volkov needs ‘work release’.”
“What people believe is not my concern, you’re letting my husband out or everyone will know your favorite pastime is snorting blow off of prostitutes’ titties. Expensive ones, at that. Tell me, Rourke, where do you get enough money to afford a §2,000 a night escort?”
He slams his fist down, “We had a deal,” he bites out.
“Did we?” Emilia purrs. “I don’t remember discussing anything with you.”
“Your husband and I,” he growled.
“Yes, and you got what you needed. The election is fixed, no one is going to vote for Handy, you move up the chain, Marzetti will get reelected as district judge, everyone wins. Congratulations. Now, give him back.”
He shakes his head, “I can’t until after the election. We have to make it looks legit. Keep all of the court dates. We can’t push it.”
“Then just let him out, he’ll be there for the court dates.”
“You don’t understand! My reputation -!”
“Will be ruined either way. You need to choose the one that will be the easiest to live with.”
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