"We welcome the Red Eagles, joining us! May this alliance last long!"

Everyone cheers and whoops, my men and the Red Eagles, likewise. They are my men, too, by the way, from now on, and it's a good enough reason to celebrate.

I called it an alliance out of courtesy, but it's obviously not. It's an annexation. I conquered the Red Eagles, against their will, and I forced them to follow me. Simple as that.

Their ex-leaders, father and son, are sitting side by side like a happy family.

They both have bandages on their shoulders. When I visited the boss with his trembling and bleeding son, I allowed the boy a minute in private with daddy dearest, after telling him that he can't kill him if he wants to live.

I smile graciously at them. They smile back. Gritting their teeth a little, maybe, but they manage to make it believable. That will do. I don't expect them to be happy. I expect them to obey me.

And they will. They have no other choice.

Boulder is our third guest of honor. Not only did he survive, but he also looks unusually happy. He's smirking as if he achieved something huge by being shot. There's a beer in his hand, and, holding no grudge against the Red Eagles, they're drinking together as if nothing had happened.

Good. Everything turned out fine. In the future, I should be more careful, though. I take a mental note of paying him more attention during fights to prevent accidents like this. His zealous fascination with trying to protect me is more dangerous to him than I thought.

The other person I should pay more attention to, apparently, is Pavlov. Only when my phone rings, do I remember that I promised him the vaccine for today.

"I was about to call you, Pavlov."

"I'm sure you were."

"We faced an unexpected problem," I tell him, to get over the worst.

"I know. You had to seize the leadership of another fucking gang instead of delivering my vaccine."

I wonder what kind of connections he has if he knows that for a fact. I wish I had been more careful about making a contract with him. Jorge may be right. I sold my soul to the devil himself.

"We needed their numbers to attack the lab," I tell him. "We'll face armed resistance of unknown magnitude."

"If it could be done by nice words, I'd do it myself," he snaps. "I'm paying you to raid that shit without excuses."

He's right, I know. My unwillingness is bad for business. And for survival too, I'm afraid.

"It will be done, Pavlov. As soon as my informers report back."

"Good. I trust you—"

He stops abruptly, clearing his throat.

"I trust you," he starts the sentence again. "I advise you not to disappoint me, though. You're the best, but only cats have nine lives."

It's an open threat. I don't even try to conceal the derision in my voice.

"I'm afraid I used up eight already."

"You certainly did," Pavlov agrees. "By the way, congratulations on overthrowing the old fuck and his stupid son leading the Red Eagles. It's really something. Are you striving to be the king of the world, or what?"

"I'm not. Are you? A person deciding who lives and who dies is the ultimate king, right? It must feel better than buying a Porsche during a midlife crisis."

I know I shouldn't poke the bear, but I can't help it. I feel an irresistible urge to oppose him, for no reason.

"You understand nothing," he says, sounding like an offended monarch. "One day, you'll be grateful to me!"

"I doubt it," I say, but he's already hung up. That's my only luck.

I throw my phone on the table. I had no plans to drink today, but now I grab a bottle, and I take a long gulp.

Jorge raises his glass on the other side of the table. Great. Now I feel twice as guilty. My men around us follow his example. They all cheer for me because I'm their boss, and bosses need to drink like a man. I take another sip, grinning at them. I feel ten times as guilty as ever, being the only person in the hall, knowing about our client's intentions in detail.

It seems that I have two options: I'm going to have lots of booze, or a panic attack. Or both, in no specific order.

My dark thoughts are interrupted by two girls kissing each other while looking at me in a most sensual way. I don't bid them come closer, and I don't look away, either. They interpret it as an invitation, approaching me from both sides, sitting on my lap.

They are professionals. Every move, every touch, every noise is designed to arouse me. I nod appreciatively in the direction of the Red Eagles' once proud, now broken leaders. It's a thoughtful gift.

I let the ladies entertain me for a while. Then I notice Olaf, watching us with hungry eyes. I point at him, and I shoo the girls away.

"Thank you, boss," Olaf says, grinning from ear to ear. "You're very generous. Thanks for your kindity."

I almost inform him about the fact that kindity is not a word, but taking a look around, noticing the ex-Red Eagles watching me as their titular bird, I decide against it. I can't be kind. I must be rude. Tools of the trade, or else I won't be taken seriously. I also must show power, or else I'm dead.

I sneer at Olaf as unkindly as I can. He almost wets his pants. He has no way to know what he did wrong, so he flees with the women by his side, as fast as he can, before the death demon takes over and slices his throat.

I start to drink methodically. I need to knock myself out before I pick up that fucking phone and do something I'd certainly regret later.

Just when I feel that I'm getting plausibly close to said goal, Carlito senior stands up and raises his glass. It's going to be a speech. Full of laudations, praising my unparalleled cruelty, and offering his undying loyalty to me, if I'm not wrong.

"It's an honor to be here," he bellows.

A rare honor, indeed, I add mentally. Not many are lucky enough to try to outsmart me and live.

"We also brought you a little gift to celebrate the occasion," he goes on.

He's probably talking about the girls. My bad, I shouldn't have passed them on to Olaf. I hope they're having a good time, though.

"I'm sure it's something that will please you," he says, smirking suggestively.

Well, I have nothing against beautiful women, but I have so many of them that he can't expect a round of applause for bringing two more, now can he?

"My men were following you in the last few days," he confesses.

Probably trying to kill me, but I bet you don't want to spoil the party by adding that, you old fuck. I grin grimly at the thought. My smile fades quickly, though, when he goes on.

"And there was that bitch, disrespecting you, arguing with you, trying to defy you—waiting for someone to teach her a lesson about proper obedience, right? Because that's not the way a hoe should speak to men of your kind, right? We couldn't capture her, sadly, because, I don't know how, unconsciously, with a whore's instinct, she always chooses a safe spot."

My sarcastic mental remarks dry up in a second.

"But we took one of her children when they were out with another whore," he laughs. "You can use him for leverage. Sending the child back to her in pieces will teach her some manners."

I feel my throat closing. Suddenly, it's harder to breathe.

"We didn't bring the child here," he adds, "because he's not old enough to drink alcohol."

The laughter around us is painfully loud. I try to rule my rebelling nerves, but my smile is probably as honest as a hanged man's.

"He's kept in our headquarters," he says. "My men are watching over him. Not as if such a small kid had a real chance to escape."

I stare at him. He misunderstands my silence and starts to apologize.

"It's your headquarters now, of course. And your men, boss."

It's the first time he calls me that. It's a great moment of pride for everyone. The Red Eagles aren't Red Eagles anymore, they are my soldiers now.

The cheering gets louder than ever before.

I sit there, in the middle of the crowd, with two words going on and on in my mind.

I'm fucked.