11
David sat on a black leather sofa, his feet propped up on a glass and chrome coffee table. He looked more relaxed than Andre expected him to, under the circumstances. Ivan Chilikov, or at least that was who Andre assumed it was, stood staring at what could only be described as bad modern art that probably cost more than a kidney transplant, with a glass of red wine in his hand. His short blond hair and blue eyes gave away his Russian heritage. Andre had heard stories about Chilikov’s Russian father who’d moved to Bulgaria after leaving the then-KGB. He left a bloody path behind him as he built up his illegal operations, using all his old KGB contacts. His son had continued in his father’s violent footsteps.
“What is this s**t?” Chilikov said at the painting.
“It came with the house,”
