Petrovitch passed Sorenson his, and looked Marchenkho square in the eye as they both flipped their wrists and swallowed hard. They slammed the empty glasses down on the desk within moments of each other.

“ ‘s’okay.”

Marchenkho sloshed more vodka into their glasses. “Your American friend seems less sure.”

“Reconstruction has made him soft.”

“We have to look elsewhere for worthy adversaries.” Marchenkho ran his fingers across his mustache again. “And elsewhere for loyal partners.”

“Yeah. About that.” Petrovitch glanced round at Sorenson, who was still trying to brace himself to drink, the brimming glass hovering at his lips. He shook his head in disgust. “The Oshicora girl was an accident.”

“A very fortunate accident for her. Less fortunate for me. And I am still very unhappy with you.” Marchenkho pointedly looked at the Glock rather than Petrovitch. “You cost me, boy. Cost me dear.”

“Maybe you should have had a better plan.”

“You need to be careful how you speak to me.”

“Bite me.” Petrovitch leaned forward for his vodka, then crossed his ankles and propped his feet up on the edge of the desk. “Any plan that could be thwarted by a kid just wandering past was govno. If that was the height of your capabilities, you’re screwed.”

Marchenkho blushed red with fury and snatched his Glock off the table. He pointed it in Petrovitch’s face. Sorenson took a step forward, but Grigori was already there, gun at the American’s neck.

“You little…” said Marchenkho.

“A huy li?” Petrovitch slugged back the vodka and threw the glass onto the table. “You’re the past. Oshicora’s the future. How do I know this? Because even you won’t kill me. Pull the trigger and Oshicora will destroy you,” he said. “What little you have left will be taken from you.”

“Why did you do it? Why? My one opportunity to beat him and you ruined it.” Marchenkho was raving, spittle flying through the air from the foam at the corners of his mouth. “What’s he paying you? I’ll double it. I’ll triple it. Just tell me why!”

“Fine.” Petrovitch dragged his legs aside and slapped both his palms down on the tabletop. The vodka bottle jumped. “You want to know why I did it? Kindness. That’s why I did it. Because I was being kind. Just once. Just to show the world that a complete bastard like me still has a shred of human decency left inside.”

The gangster’s jaw worked as if he was trying to gag down something so wholly unpalatable that it stuck in his throat.

“You don’t like that, do you?” crowed Petrovitch. “You don’t understand it. It doesn’t compute. Maybe you’ll understand this: eede vhad e sgadie kak malinkey suka!”

Marchenkho swept the tabletop clean with one movement. Everything crashed to the floor—desk set, photo frame, paperweight, bottle, shot glasses. The air thickened with alcohol fumes.