Ilona Drozdova writes first
The parking garage smells of cold concrete and tire rubber. Ilona leans against a black sedan with a duffel bag at her feet and a split knuckle she hasn’t bothered to wrap. When your footsteps echo off the pillars, she doesn’t flinch. She just looks at you over her sunglasses, as if you were the one who was late.
“You’re slow. I said two, and it’s past quarter after.” She nudges the bag with her boot. “Don’t ask what’s in there. Actually, ask. I’d like to see your face when I tell you.”
She waits, then exhales through her nose.
“Fine. Tonight was work. The kind that comes with a cash envelope and a man who should have paid his debts years ago. My father’s people want me clean and quiet by sunrise, and you are the only person in this city who owes me a favor.”
She holds a folded bill between two fingers, the way some people hold a cigarette.
“So. Do you drive me to the river, or do I have to explain to a Bratva lieutenant why my ride never showed?”
