3. Logan

CHAPTER 3

LOGAN

I steer clear of anything that breathes of the Thoreau family. They are dangerous. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve never been inside Purgatory. I sure as hell heard of this place from my buddies a lot. Best and fanciest place to party in the neon-glittered bloodstream of Vegas.

That is if you have a fat wallet. I don’t. Every penny I make is to cover Ma’s medical bills.

But I guess if you are in my line of work, sooner or later fate sidles up all cheeky-like and drops you face-first into what you've been skipping around.

The club itself sucks up a good portion of Crown Tower’s ground floor. The rest of the building houses the casino and the hotel. This prime real estate on the Strip is just a small portion of what the Thoreau family owns in this city. Real estate moguls in the daytime and shadow lords after the sun goes down.

I step inside, my footsteps lost in the expanse of an opulent void. Plush velvet lounges leer from dark corners like fallen royalty while the scent of expensive spilled liquor lingers in the cool air. Above, a huge shiny disco ball hangs, like a shattered star suspended in time, its fractured light casting prisms on the polished floor. This is the kind of luxury that tells of power and wealth, us common folks, can’t even dream about. How Vlad Solovey wrenched control of this place from The Thoreau no one's saying. But Isaac Thoreau’s sudden disappearance right after Yuri Solovey was shot dead speaks—no, screams—volumes.

I try not to dwell on the details surrounding the strange change of power in Purgatory. My responsibility is to protect my client, not to dig for answers. Sure, old habits are hard to break and my mind enjoys a good puzzle, but I have to constantly remind myself that I'm no longer a cop.

I’m a muscle for hire.

A very expensive muscle who’s good at his job.

"Looking for Ricky," I say as I approach one of the bouncers.

"You have an appointment?" he drawls out skeptically, sweeping me with a gaze colder than the January chill.

"Yeah," I reply, eyes not leaving his. "It’s about a job."

His face is unreadable as he acknowledges my reply with a brisk nod and ushers me across the floor and toward the bowels of the club. He leads me through a labyrinth of corridors until we stop at a heavy door with a sign Staff Only . With a gesture, he gives me permission to enter.

I knock. Because it’s a considerate thing to do.

A sound comes from the inside, which I take as my cue to enter. I push the door open and step into the room.

The man who I assume is Ricky is a wall of muscle dressed in a suit behind the desk. First impression: he doesn’t seem to belong to the tight confines of this office. His voice is a low rumble on the phone, words clipped like gunfire. "No, you listen. That shipment needs to be there by midnight, or heads will roll. And I ain't just spitting a metaphor."

Ricky catches my eye, holds up a single finger—wait—and I do, feeling the weight of seconds stretching into more. He rattles off a few unsavory words and then ends the call. The room goes silent for a moment before Ricky turns to me.

"Sorry for the wait," he says, but his eyes are already moving past apologies, sizing me up. "Work." His world doesn’t pause for pleasantries. It moves, it shakes, it commands. And right now, it's commanding me to prove I'm more than just another guy in a suit.

"I understand." I nod. "Logan McKenna," I continue. "Here about the job. Frankie Loose Hands sent me."

"Ah, right." Ricky’s facial expression changes from stone-cold to semi-recognition. "Almost forgot about you with all the shit going on." He chuckles and his entire angry bear in a Tom Ford persona suddenly cracks and he’s just a regular guy. Like me.

"So, Logan McKenna," he asks without preamble or introducing himself, "why'd you ditch the blues and go for the suits?"

"Pays better," I shoot back, voice as tight as a tripwire. "Why are you asking anyway? Everyone knows why I left the force. Bust went south. It was best to go."

"Bet it's rough without the benefits, huh?"

I nod once, my reply curt. "It is what it is."

These guys don’t mess around. They do the background check on you and collect references before you show up. And Ricky’s well aware of my story. Hell, half the Vegas is aware I was a dirty cop.

"Frankie says you're solid. A real grave dude who don't play. And I usually trust Frankie’s judgment. But the boss man still wants to eyeball you."

"Fine by me."

Ricky deftly plucks a pink sticky note from the anarchy of paperwork on his desk. The pen in his hand is worn and frayed—its glory days far behind it.

Ricky scribbles something on that note, then comes up to me and slaps the paper into my hand.

As I look down, an address reveals itself on that tiny square in my palm.

"He's expecting you," Ricky says with a daily-wearied voice. "Today is great. Before he’s out of town."

"Thanks." The paper feels heavy in my hand, like the first move in a chess game I wasn't aware of playing. "Anything I need to know?" I ask just in case. These people who I work for now are a strange lot. They have whims far beyond the reach of the average person.

Ricky responds with a noncommittal gesture. "You're as good as hired—your references held up." His shrug suggests more indifference than reassurance. "So... keep the foot out of your mouth, yeah?"

"Understood."

"Best of luck."

"Appreciated."

With the conversation dust settled, I turn around and step out of the office, where the bouncer who brought me is still waiting to escort me back out.

I have to double-check the address on the note a few times as I drive to my destination and once more when I’m in front of the gate. I’m not certain what I expected when Ricky gave me the instructions, but it’s not finding myself in front of a fortress masquerading as a home in an upscale neighborhood on the fringe of the city.

The property looms ahead, like a tribute to ill-gotten gains, all sharp angles hidden behind an abundance of plants. There are at least a dozen external security cameras catching me with their unblinking eyes as I roll up to the gate. I press the call button and announce myself, my heart beating faster than I’d like it to. A long pause ensues and I drum my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, hoping this is not some kind of prank Ricky decided to play.

But no, it’s not.

The heavy wrought-iron gate finally slides open and I steer my Land Rover forward. Inside the yard, a man in a pair of dress pants and a white T-shirt waves me down and points out a spot where I can park my vehicle. All this is done without a single word uttered.

I kill the engine and fix my tie before climbing out of the vehicle. Looking sharp is a must when you’re applying for a new gig.

I can feel the presence of guards even before I see them—silhouettes draped in discretion, hidden across the perimeter. Somehow I imagine myself as another weapon in this private army as I walk up the driveway, muscles tensed for any sign of trouble. Because trouble follows these people everywhere, even in their own homes. I’ve witnessed it during my time on the force.

At the entrance to the house, another man dressed in a suit meets me. His nod is terse, a silent command that accepts no argument. I follow him through a labyrinth of corridors, noting the way he moves. There’s readiness beneath his polished exterior. I’m guessing he’s former military. Frankly, I’d be surprised if he’s not.

The room we enter is a tapestry of old-world wealth—rich carpets underfoot, heavy drapes that speak of dust and mysteries, and walls adorned with more fabric, patterns clashing in quiet rebellion against the sterility outside. In the center, a low coffee table is flanked by plush couches.

Two men are waiting—one clearly Vlad. He’s standing by the table, hands locked behind his back. He looks to be in his mid- thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit—don’t they like jeans in this household? The man’s face is a picture of inarguably Slavic features. Sharp angular edges and prominent cheekbones. Straight nose. Chin cleanly shaved. Short, dark brown hair stylishly parted to the side. Eyes serious, deeply set. He exudes a raw, untamed power that has nothing to do with his physicality and everything to do with the way he carries himself.

The second man—no, boy—is probably in his early twenties. He’s lounging on the couch, preoccupied with his phone, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He’s wearing loose black cargo pants with pockets, a pair of white Converse, and a Radiohead T-shirt. The kid's face is set in a scowl that could sour milk.

" Spasibo, Ivan ," says the older one, and the man who guided me nods, his exit quick and silent.

"Mr. McKenna," the older man’s attention shifts to my person and he greets me. "Thanks for coming by." His light Russian accent wraps around my name like a pair of steel hands ready to squeeze the life out of me. It's definitely Vlad, unmistakable in his controlled demeanor.

"Sure. Thanks for having me," I say, carefully memorizing my surroundings.

"I've heard you're the silent type," the man supplies. "Good. We appreciate discretion here."

"Discretion keeps you breathing," I reply, voice stripped down to the bare essentials.

Vlad chuckles—a crack in his stoic facade revealing the hint of an emotion behind it. "Indeed. Which brings us to why you're here. I’m sure you know who I am."

"Yes, Mr. Solovey."

Something a lot like a smile appears on the man’s lips. "Just call me Vlad. Mr. Solovey was my father." He clears his throat. "May he rest in peace."

"Understood."

"So, back to the reason why I’m looking for a bodyguard with your skill set." He pauses as if to give me a second to prepare. "My brother, Alexander—he needs protection."

The job offer—or at least I think that’s what it is—hangs between us, as loaded as the quiet that follows.

Slowly, I shift my gaze to the kid, Alexander, who pauses whatever he’s doing on his phone and stares daggers at me, his expression telling me he'd rather be somewhere else right now.

"Protection from what?" I ask Vlad, though part of me already knows the answer will be as insubstantial as smoke. Plus, I shouldn’t have asked this. I usually don’t, but something sets off my danger senses.

"From threats you don't need details about," Vlad answers smoothly. "Just know that your job is to ensure he is not harmed."

More silence stretches taut across the room, like a silk thread waiting to snap. Alexander leans back against the couch, resting his phone in his lap and crossing his arms on his chest. I take him in—the sweep of blond hair styled with calculated carelessness, the sculptural line of his jaw, full pouty lips, a small beauty mark on his left cheek, and those eyes. So green. And not just any green, but the vivid, turbulent hue of the sea before a storm. They hold the sort of anger that could ignite wildfires, yet beneath it lurks something else… Sadness perhaps, deep and uncharted.

There’s a brushwork of shadows and light playing across his features. His posture is all angles, just like Vlad’s, but he’s leaner and I’d say seemingly more fragile, with a whole lot of youthful defiance. He’s cornered and too proud to show his true self.

"Alexander has had an... unfortunate incident," Vlad's voice rolls through the space, thick with understatement.

I'm no stranger to euphemisms. I expect something shocking to come out of Vlad's mouth.

"Attempt on his life," he clarifies without missing a beat, as if discussing the weather rather than an assassination.

"Who's after him?" I probe, needing to gauge the size of the trouble I’m stepping into.

Vlad's gaze hardens, a signal that I've tread into territory marked private. "As I have mentioned earlier, politics is not your concern. All you need to know is that they are after my brother to get to me, so keeping him safe while I am not around is your priority."

I nod, filing away the non-answer. Babysitting it is then. "Got it," I say curtly.

Lethargic disdain underscores his every move when Alexander shuffles on the couch and finally speaks. "Brilliant," he sneers. The word is sarcasm incarnate. "Because some hired muscle is going to stop a bloody hitman."

I’m slightly surprised by his crisp British accent. He doesn’t sound anything like his older brother. His words are clipped in places and drawn out in others. It's all heady with sophistication, pooling around us with tangible hostility.

"Let's not, Sasha," Vlad grits out.

Alexander—Sasha—rolls his eyes.

I do my best not to react to this clearly juvenile gesture, but the blond-haired creature that is Vlad’s younger brother makes it very difficult for some reason.

"Care to wager, brother?" Alexander supplies with a chuckle. His voice is acid dipped in honey. "How long before this one scurries off?" He doesn’t look at me when he says it as if I’m not here.

I've seen cynicism before, worn it myself like second skin, but Alexander Solovey wields it like a blade meant to draw blood. His arms are still crossed, body language screaming insubordination, a fortress with walls too high and thick.

" Hvatit, Sasha ," Vlad spits out sharply.

The meaning–foreign and harsh–is lost on me.

"This prat won’t last two weeks." Sasha scoffs with a predatory smile. "Bet you hundred quid, big bro, huh?" Before he turns to look at Vlad, his eyes pause—very briefly—on me as if sizing me up.

Vlad ignores Alexander’s attempt to rattle him and says, "I have pressing matters to attend to, Mr. McKenna." He glances at his watch as if time itself owes him obedience. "You are hired. Ivan will discuss the logistics with you—payment, schedules."

"Understood," I reply, every muscle tight, ready for the challenge Vlad’s brother presents.

"Good." Vlad tips his chin, then motions for me to follow him out, completely dismissing his brother.

The last thing I catch before the heavy door shuts behind me is Alexander’s posh British voice muttering, "Fucking daft prick."

The spoiled rich kid is still in denial about getting me as his sitter. Oh well.

We’ll see about that two-week bet he made pretty much with himself.

The night is a blanket, heavy and suffocating, as I step into the hollow silence of my apartment after spending the entire evening running a whole lot of errands. The place feels like a mausoleum for a life I once knew, an eerie reminiscence harboring feelings of desolation and longing for better times when my existence meant something more than just being someone's brawn.

With an impatient jerk, I yank at my tie to uncoil it from around my neck. Then I shrug out of the trappings of professionalism. Jacket first, followed by the shirt, tossed into the washer.

I'm indecisive for a moment before grabbing a beer from the fridge.

My new gig starts tomorrow and I want to be fresh and ready in the morning when I square off with the little shit I’m to protect.

After spending precious minutes wearing down my living room carpet and pacing aimlessly, torn between self-regard and temptation, I finally give up and allow that single salvation beer that won't cause any significant harm.

I’m on my couch, taking my second swig, when my phone rings. The shrill cleaves through the quiet of my apartment. The intrusion is sudden, unwanted. Connie’s name flashes at me from the screen as I glance at it.

I don’t want to talk to her. It’s strange—being friends these days. Still, I answer.

"Logan?" Her voice is a warm flicker in the dark, too bright for my mood. "Hope it’s not too late."

"Hey, Connie. No, I just got home."

"How’s your mom doing?"

I need a second to conjure a response that won’t have Connie worrying and running over with casseroles and other offerings of goodwill from her and Curtis. "Surgery went well. We decided to do another round of chemo to be on the safe side."

"You need anything?"

"No, we’re good."

"I can stop by her place. I’m sure she could use some help around the house."

"No, don’t worry. She’s still in the hospital. And I already hired someone to be with her when I’m not around."

"Are you sure?"

"I’m sure, Connie. But thank you for the offer. I’ll keep you in mind."

"Okay." She clears her throat. "Did you get the invitation?"

"Yes."

"Are you coming?" Her tone is hopeful, but laced with an edge of something else—trepidation, maybe.

"When have I ever gone to these things?" I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m not certain I’m doing a good job. I’m tired. Being in one room with Solovey brothers turned out to be more exhausting than I thought. I just want to be myself tonight—a lonely, angry-at-life man in his thirties who’s hiding among the shades of gray.

"It’s a big number. Fifteen years, Logan," Connie says.

"I don't know if I'd be... welcome."

"Of course, you would be," she insists, but it feels like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

"Even with Curtis there?" I probe, feeling the old scars pulse with remembered pain.

"Especially with Curtis there. He'd want you there, Logan. Despite everything." Her words hang between us, an echo of the past I can’t quite escape. Past she knows very little about. Past I don’t want her to dig into.

"Wasn’t a small thing, Connie," I tell her softly. "Probably best I sit this one out."

Connie sighs, a gentle sound that threads through the line. "You know if he could have done something—"

"There wasn’t anything he or anyone else could have done to fix it," I cut her off, sharper than I mean to. I don’t want to rehash what happened five years ago, but the memories flare, hot and unbidden, a fire I can never fully extinguish.

"Logan—"

"Sorry, Connie. It's just..." I let the sentence die, unfinished, like so many things between me and Curtis.

"Please think about it," she pleads.

"Sure, I will," I say, though the promise feels like stones in my throat.

We say our goodbyes and I'm left alone with the oppressive silence of my apartment once more. My only company are the ghosts that linger in the corners.

The beer is back in my hand and the TV flickers to life, an MMA fight in full swing—muscle and sinew straining, fists carving arcs through the air. It's violence distilled, raw, and unapologetic. The fighters move like they're dancing with death. Each blow is a reminder that every moment could be their last in that ring. I should feel something—excitement, adrenaline, anything—but there's only numbness. A void where emotions used to surge like tides.

Soon the match blurs before my eyes and sleep creeps in. The sound of the crowd’s distant roar fades into nothing. And as I drift off, my last thought is about tomorrow, about the green-eyed kid with the foul mouth I’m to guard against the dangers of Vlad’s world.