It goes against the core purpose of everything the Bratva believe in. Everything we do is to secure the power and legacy of our family.
Efrem shrugs. “That’s what Hoza is saying.”
Ivan grunts.
He doesn’t believe all the stories about the Kazarians. He thinks it’s exaggerated at best, urban legend at worse. Italians are dramatic, and the Kazarians are so isolated these days, who can know what went on between Avo and his wife.
Ivan’s told me that before, and Efrem too. But Efrem keeps insisting, “It’s true!”
“Yeah?” Ivan says. “How the fuck would Hoza know? He wasn’t there. He’s crazy anyway—you know he thinks the moon landing was fake.”
“Well . . .” Efrem says.
“Jesus.” Ivan shakes his head. “Not you, too.”
“I’m just saying. Why did NASA have Stanley Kubrick on the payroll . . .”
“We’re here!” Sloane says, to head him off.
We’ve pulled up in front of Dago’s club.
The windows are too dirty to see through, and the neon sign blinks on and off erratically.
“Don’t touch any of the girls,” Ivan says as we enter.
It’s an order he didn’t have to give. The girls are all so skinny and miserable-looking that the strip club is the furthest thing from sexy. Track marks are visible on most of their arms.
Sloane stalks along next to Ivan, looking disgusted, and like she doesn’t want to touch anything, not even the grimy floor with the soles of her shoes.
I keep pace with the much slower Efrem. He’s walking stiffly, trying to conceal his limp.
I see Dago sitting at the bar, tallying up his liquor counts in a battered ledger. Dago is skinny, with a shaved head. He dresses like he’s twenty-two, and he often tells girls that’s how old he is, especially when he’s trying to pick up new recruits at bus stations and diners. But when you look closer at the lines around his eyes and his sallow skin, it’s obvious that he’s closer to forty.
A very spry forty.
The minute he lays eyes on us, he jumps up and vaults over the bar, sprinting toward the back exit.
It’s about all we need for a confession. Still, Sloane isn’t about to let him off that easy. She picks up the closest beer stein and hurls it at the back of his head. It hits him square in the skull with a clunking sound. Dago’s knees buckle and he pitches forward.
Ivan strolls over to him. He grabs a fistful of the back of Dago’s shirt, lifting him up with one hand. Ivan hauls him over to the closest booth and chucks him in so that Dago slams against the torn upholstery, his teeth rattling together.
“Ivan!” Dago stammers, holding up his hands. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—“
“Save it,” Ivan says roughly. “I already know you told Erdeli about the delivery at the dock. What I want to know is how you knew the location.”
“I would never—“ Dago starts, and Ivan strikes him across the face. The blow rocks his head back, momentarily stunning him. A little blood leaks out of his nose. Ivan wipes his hand on the leg of his pants, disgusted by having to touch Dago.
“Lie to me again,” Ivan says, “and I’ll gut you like a fish. This is your one chance to stay alive.”
“It was Gregor!” Dago shrieks at once. “His brother owns the dock. He told me—“
Ivan hits him again.
“I think he was telling the truth that time,” Sloane says dryly.
“I know,” Ivan says. “But he had it coming.”
He turns back to Dago.
“Open the safe under the floor in your office.”
“I don’t—“ Dago begins. He shuts up when he sees the look on Ivan’s face. “Fine,” he says miserably.
He hobbles into his office, pulling up the ugly Turkish rug that covers half the floor. Then he crouches down to spin the dial on his safe. Once the door pops open, Efrem squats down next to him, wincing. He removes the bundle of cash within and hands it back to Ivan.
Ivan shakes his head. “Give it to the girls,” he says. “Tell them to go back to wherever the fuck they came from.”
“Hey!” Dago protests. “I need them!”
Ivan wheels on him, eyes blazing. “No, you don’t. Because you’re not running a club anymore. This place belongs to me now. Not that it’s worth the fucking bricks that built it. You’re leaving St. Petersburg, too. If I see your face again, I’ll cut it off and make a coaster out of it.”
A coaster? Sloane mouths.
Ivan shrugs.
“Don’t let me see you again,” he says to Dago. “Starting now.”
Dago stares at him a moment, then bolts for the door once more. This time, Sloane lets him go.
“I thought we were going to kill him,” she says to Ivan in a disappointed tone.
“I don’t think we want to draw any extra attention right now,” he says. “But if you’d like to go after him . . . do it quietly.”
Sloane sighs. “Nah,” she says.
“We’ll have to punish Gregor. And probably his brother, too,” Ivan says.
“Send some of the others to do it,” Sloane says, linking her arm in his. “I’m hungry. Let’s go out for lunch.”
“You guys hungry?” Ivan says to Efrem and me.
I am, but from the sounds of it, Sloane was hoping for more of a romantic lunch date. So I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “I’ll go track down Gregor.”
“I’m gonna go back to the house for a bit,” Efrem says. His face is pale and there are droplets of sweat in his beard. Coming along on our little adventure has worn him out.
“Drop them off on your way,” I say to Efrem. “I’ll walk. I need the exercise.”
Efrem nods.
I head outside, grateful for the sunshine and fresh air after the nasty reek of stale smoke and spilled liquor in Dago’s club.
Leaving that run-down street, I head north toward Nevsky Prospekt, where there’s a better selection of cafes and restaurants. I want to eat outside.
I peer into the window of each place I pass, looking at the people inside and the food on their plates, trying to decide what I’m in the mood to eat.
Then I see something that stops me dead in my tracks.
A girl, head bent down so I can only see the shiny black hair loose around her shoulders and her thick, dark bangs.
The shape of her shoulders, and the slim, delicate hands on the tabletop are already familiar to me.
It’s Lara, I know it.
For a moment I think she’s writing in a notebook, but then I decide from the long, multi-directional strokes of her pencil that she’s actually sketching.
I want to see what she’s drawing.
I hesitate on the sidewalk, trying to decide if there’s any danger in going inside the cafe.
I shouldn’t let her see me. That would be stupid. A pointless risk.
On the other hand, I don’t think she saw my face that night at the police station. I had my hat pulled down, and then I covered my face with the bandana. People have shit memories—even if she heard me talk, she probably wouldn’t know my voice.
Everyone thinks they have a good memory, just like everyone thinks they’re a good driver. The truth is that eyewitnesses distort all sorts of details. Especially in high-stress situations.