The man mutters Albanian curses under his breath as he reverses out of the lot and drives down the alley. His eyes are darting all around and the car is moving jerkily.
We pull up in front of the bar. The back door is wrenched open and Taras slumps into the rear seat, his eyes closed. He reeks of vodka.
I duck lower and tighten my grip on the gun.
“f*****g hell,” Taras scowls. “What a shitty night. Take me home.”
The driver takes off wordlessly, merging into traffic and navigating the city streets. A few times, he glances down at me and the car jerks slightly. As if he’s surprised each time at the sight of me and the gun.
“Have you been drinking, too?” Taras mumbles. “Drive the f*****g car straight.”
“Sorry,” the driver says, his voice clipped.
I wave the gun, reminding him what’s a
