She didn’t.
He tore out of the driveway.
VLAD
VLAD FOLLOWED ALEKSEI’S business partner, Jack, to a room in the back of Troika. The tile was covered over with a muddy carpet runner, and the hallway led out to a loading dock.
Jack had his five-year-old daughter, Becca, with him. She climbed into his lap while he booted up the computer and opened the security files. Becca wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and snuggled against his chest, a picture of innocent trust.
Vlad couldn’t help being reminded of Inna as a little girl, sweet like this one. He could picture her so clearly at this age, remembering the day Saul Hersh had escorted him back to Artur’s house after Vlad had nearly robbed a convenience store with some of Ivan’s thugs. She had burst out the front door and scrambled down the steps of her home, her pigtails flying. “Where were you? The bad men took you. Did they hurt you?” Bad men. That’s what she had called Ivan and his crew, seeing the world around her with surprising clarity. She had flung herself into his arms without any reservation, clearly not fearing that he had lost the battle of good and evil, and then when he had caught her and swung her up into the air, she had pressed a wet kiss on his cheek and clung tightly to his neck. “How do you know I’m not bad too?” Vlad had asked, unsure himself and ashamed—for having attempted the robbery, for having been caught, for causing trouble for Artur, who had taken him in. Inna had cupped her little hands around his cheeks and stared hard at him as if reading his soul. “Because I know.”
“That poor, poor girl,” Jack said. “I just don’t understand how something like this could have happened here.”
“Let’s take a look at the security feed, and maybe we’ll have our answer.” Vlad certainly hoped so. Solving this mystery—about Inna, about the undercover cop—had become a personal obsession, one that had everything to do with why he was back in Brighton Beach working his way up in Artur’s organization.
In his flight from Brighton Beach twenty years ago, Vlad had defected to the other side, desperate to claim a place as one of the good guys, pursuing a career in law enforcement, joining the FBI. His grand plan had been to escape his father’s legacy of violence and protect the innocent.
That hadn’t worked out so well.
In his line of work, truly good people had been few and far between, even at the Bureau. Serving faceless, distant masses who might possibly suffer the vague consequences of victimless crimes like drug dealing or prostitution had paid his bills, but it hadn’t fed his soul.
Vlad hadn’t saved or protected anyone—not directly, anyway. Following his few highly successful busts, the wheels of justice moved so slowly and with so many ruts and obstacles in the road that the whole machine veered off course. Technicalities. Loopholes. Appeals. Immunity. In his experience, official justice could take a long detour from right and wrong.
Truly, he understood why Saul Hersh had framed Ivan to get his bastard of a father off the streets. Vlad credited the detective with saving Nadia’s life, if not his own. Ivan might well have beaten them both to death in between playing King of the Jungle in New York’s vicious world of organized crime.
Sometimes taking the law into your own hands was the surest way to real justice—and the quickest way to the wrong side of the law. Vlad’s own shoot-first-fuck-the-paperwork approach hadn’t sat well with his supervisors.
Maybe it was no surprise he was now back where he had started, seeking his father’s place as the biggest mafia motherfucker, the arbiter of justice, the one who ultimately got to decide whose eye would be taken in exchange for whose.
Along the way, he would extract a few eyeballs for Inna. But whose?
“What happened, Daddy?” Becca asked.
“A bad thing happened to Inna,” Jack said.
“What? What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
Vlad silently applauded him for sparing his daughter the details of a darkness she was too young to understand.
Children should have a chance to be children.
Whether Jack was a good father or not, Vlad well knew a person could be a different man in family than in business. His own father had been a barbarian in every facet of his life, but Artur Koslovsky was exceedingly devoted to and gentle with his own daughter. How much did Inna know about what her dear Papa did for a living? Did she look at her father and see a good man or a bad man, and did the distinction even matter to her anymore? Maybe she was more central to Artur’s mafia dealings than Vlad had initially allowed himself to think.
What did Jack do, for that matter? He was Aleksei’s partner at the club, which could easily be a legitimate business—even if some of its accounting inhabited a gray area. He was also an outsider, an American, who had married a Russian. He wasn’t nearly as plugged in to the Brighton Beach community as his brother-in-law, Aleksei, was, and he wouldn’t be easily welcomed into any of the mafia circles.
Jack might have nothing to do with the criminal activities the Georgians claimed operated out of Troika. Or he could be complicit in the murder of the undercover cop and Inna’s rape. So could Aleksei.
The more Vlad analyzed the events and motives of the previous evening, the more convinced he was that someone at Troika had been involved.
But who and to what end?
Jack clicked the mouse and opened a file. He turned the monitor sideways so that he and Vlad could both see it on their opposite sides of the desk. Jack ran his fingers through his daughter’s tangled, curly hair. She smiled up at him adoringly.
“I watched the tapes earlier,” Jack said. “Inna came in at seven-thirty, had a drink at the bar and then danced with one guy. The police asked about him, but I don’t know who he is.”
Jack fast-forwarded through the video from the night before, slowing when Inna arrived in her vivid, red dress.
“She looks so pretty.” Becca pointed at the screen. “Doesn’t she look pretty?”
Vlad’s mouth went dry. Pretty didn’t begin to cover Inna’s appearance. For months, Vlad had unsuccessfully attempted to ignore her and focus on his goals. Still, Inna had managed to invade his thoughts, even in the drab garb she usually wore to work—too loose slacks and shirts, all in black, minimal makeup. The sensitive little girl who had crept past Vlad’s self-destructive anger and loneliness with her crayon doodles and cuddles and whispered stories had grown into a woman he desired more than any he had met, but couldn’t have.
Last night, she had dressed to impress. No camouflage. No hiding. She was dressed for seduction. Her tight red dress showcased her assets—her slim figure, the perfect round curve of her butt, and her long, long legs. She was a knockout. Katya’s friend, the blind date, was one lucky lawyer.
Vlad hated him more than a little.
Inna’s charms weren’t lost on the men at the bar. They watched her, the tender lamb among the wolves, with hungry eyes and sly calculation, and Vlad’s blood pulsed with the desire to do violence.
The video gave a panoramic view of the bar. At the far end, Vlad recognized two of the men, one stocky, one tall and lanky with hair hanging to his shoulders. His father’s men, the ones who had accosted him last night after he left the police station. Torpedo and Slim.
Vlad didn’t believe in coincidences. The men’s presence at Troika last night was more than a little suspicious. What did Ivan and his bratva have to do with last night’s events?
Inna took a drink straight from Svetlana, a gin and tonic. No chance the drink was drugged. Svetlana was the only one who handled it.
Inna sipped her drink slowly while glancing around the bar as if looking for someone. At one point, she checked her cell phone, frowned, and put down her drink as if preparing to leave.
As she crossed the club, a short man with curly hair and a large paunch intercepted her. There was no sound on the video, but he clearly seemed intent on detaining her. Somehow he coaxed her onto the dance floor.
Ivan’s men seemed to be c
oncentrating their attention in the other direction, watching the main entrance and the staircase to the upstairs party rooms, where Artur and Vlad would soon be meeting with the Georgians. Had they been waiting for Vlad?
“Maybe he drugged her?” Jack pointed to the screen where the man now held Inna tightly against him, one hand on her bottom and the other in the middle of her back as if he were holding her in place. He spun around with her, and the camera caught her vacant expression. She looked dazed.
“Looks like she was already gone when he pulled her onto the dance floor. He knew it, too,” Vlad said with a growl. He leaned forward, watching intently as the man maneuvered Inna past the bar to the back door, studying every feature of the man’s face, marking him for vengeance.
They disappeared from the feed. Vlad watched for a few more minutes. No one followed them out.
There were still too many missing pieces. How did Inna go from dancing with that man to getting horizontal with an undercover cop? Zviad hadn’t even appeared on the video. And who had drugged her?
“We only have feed for the main dining room,” Jack said.
Vlad thought he detected a note of apology in the man’s voice.
“I found out today when the police requested the footage. I called the security company to make sure I wasn’t missing something. Apparently Aleksei saw fit to cut a few corners,” Jack said. “A mistake I’m planning to rectify.”
It wasn’t a mistake. No surveillance upstairs made for a high level of privacy, one clients like Artur would value highly. If they entered through the back of the club, there would be no record of their coming or going or who had joined them. Very discreet. Very convenient. Especially for clientele seeking drugs or prostitutes, assuming someone was dealing out of Troika as Dato had accused.
Whatever had happened had taken place off screen. Whoever had made the arrangements must have known about the spotty surveillance at Troika.
Becca yawned. Jack cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to get this one home.”
“I understand.” Vlad rose. He wanted to like Jack, but right now everyone connected to Troika was suspect in his mind. He was cynical enough to wonder whether Jack had brought the kid along to deflect suspicion. “Thanks for your help.”
“I hope they catch whoever did this,” Jack said with exactly the right touch of earnestness. He was either sincere or the most dangerous kind of liar.
Vlad merely nodded. He hoped he would get a chance to serve up his own brand of bloody justice before the authorities got involved. For Inna.
There wouldn’t be any vigilantism tonight. His next stop was Inna’s apartment, where he would spend his next several hours on security detail, safeguarding her against the angry Georgian crew. They hadn’t made a move in the almost twenty-four hours since their man—did they know he was an undercover cop?—was murdered, but they hadn’t backed down, either.
Vlad headed to the loading dock and the railed enclosure where the kitchen staff liked to smoke. Cigarette butts littered the cement. The area smelled of rotten produce and ash. The smells undoubtedly carried to the customer entrance several yards to his left. Yet the party arriving in fur and Armani hardly seemed to notice. They filed under the black awning and disappeared into the nightclub, leaving the back lot eerily quiet.
Vlad jumped lightly down to the parking lot and headed for the alley to his right, which led to the street. Inna’s apartment was only a few blocks away, and he hadn’t brought his sorry excuse for a car, a boxy gray 1990 Honda Accord that his landlady in Miami, Mrs. Rodriguez, had left him when she died.
The car’s engine wheezed whenever he pushed fifty miles an hour, but it only had twenty thousand miles. He would have preferred something sharp and sleek that promised speed at only a whisper, but he seldom had a need to drive around Brooklyn. Who was he going to impress anyway? He preferred to hoard his limited cash for the inevitable rainy day—should he be so lucky to survive until then.
Working for Artur was supposed to be lucrative. Artur had lured Vlad to leave Miami and join the operation in Brighton Beach with the promise of all sorts of profit-sharing and income. So far Artur supplied Vlad with only enough cash to fill his belly and keep a modest roof over his head. Another test among many. He knew better than to complain—for now.
When the time was right, he would demand his due. And more.
The nightclub might only be a few yards away, but the lot was empty of patrons now. Out of habit, Vlad kept his steps light and stuck to the shadows, ready for danger.
As he turned into the alleyway, the lights in the parking lot flickered and then went out. With the moon only a sliver in the sky, darkness engulfed the area.
On instinct, he reached for his Glock with his left hand. With his right, he felt along the wall of the building, using it as a guide through the alleyway.
“Good thinking, Dumbass. He can’t see us, but we can’t see him either.”
The voice was close, only a few feet away. There was nowhere to go for cover. No dumpster or car to hide behind.
He guessed there were at least two men, Dumbass and his buddy. He couldn’t see to be sure. The shadows from the two buildings flanking the narrow alley obscured everything in darkness. He blinked, willing his eyes to speed up their adjustment to the change and bring the dark into focus.
He slid his second gun from his holster and waited for his assailants to reveal themselves. Who were they? Georgians, looking for vengeance, or his father’s men, seeking to test him again like they had last night?
Either way, they attacked, they died. Vlad’s body tightened with the promise of a fight.
MAYA
THE CAR RIDE home from Inna’s apartment was excruciating. Mikhail drove the Lincoln, while Maya and Artur sniped at each other in the backseat.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Artur said, as if he could order her around, as if she deserved his censure. She resented that he yet again cast her as the villain in their family drama.
Why? Because she had dared to say something against Princess Inna. To think, Inna was the child who was supposed to save her marriage.
Maya drew her fur-lined collar closed and rubbed her cheek against the soft mink. She had only ever wanted to be a good mother to Inna. But how? Her daughter was strange and alien to her, with thoughts and feelings so different from her own, so unpredictable.
Maya hardly felt she knew her daughter. Meanwhile, Artur was always there, hovering, intervening, questioning Maya’s methods and undermining her. Why would Inna ever turn to Maya when Artur always had approval shining in his eyes?
“You’re not listening!” Maya’s blood simmered with the intense heat of her own anger. Her skin felt prickly and tight, sun-burned from the inside. She hadn’t meant to start a fight with Katya or with Artur. But couldn’t they see? Inna wasn’t the only victim here.
The scandal had broken at Aleksei’s club. Undoubtedly, it would affect business. Worse, she could tell Artur held him responsible. The circumstances never mattered to her husband.
Inna had refused to listen to Maya’s maternal advice. Maya had warned her not to wear that skimpy red dress on her date. Inna had made her own choice and ignored her mother. Now she would live with the consequences. But why should Aleksei suffer in his father’s esteem?
“Aleksei wasn’t even there last night. But Inna was. She showed up in a dress made for scandal, and scandal’s exactly what she got.”
Artur, infuriating man, didn’t respond. He turned his head away from her and stared out the window. She would have preferred a fiery argument to his withdrawal. Then she might tell herself he still held some passion for her. She would be happy even with a fraction of what she held for him.
His silence ended their verbal sparring. What use was it to fight if he wouldn’t listen? The words wouldn’t make a difference, wouldn’t help Aleksei or change Inna’s fate, and would only widen the gap between them.
Artur had already made up his m
ind. The more she pushed, the more he pulled away, killing almost any chance of a passionate kiss-and-make-up. Or any closeness at all.
She well remembered Inna’s last crisis, the paranoia and hallucinations, the need for an intervention. She and Artur had never been as close as when they had come together to help their daughter. Yet now it seemed they were on opposing sides.
She settled into the corner of her plush seat and carefully considered her next words. “Did you stop to think maybe Inna’s behavior is a cry for help?”
Artur turned slowly to her, his hazel eyes sharp. “What do you mean?”
“She’s been under so much pressure lately.”
To Inna’s credit, she’d had great success this past year, using the Russian and European imports that were Artur’s specialty to decorate homes and businesses in the neighborhood. With her design sense and her surprising intuition for what her clients wanted, she had demonstrated a knack for feeding the community’s nostalgia for a better Russia than the one they had actually come from. “You know, with all of the work she has now and the attention she’s receiving. It takes a lot to maintain that degree of success. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe her constitution’s too delicate.”
Until recently, Inna hadn’t gone out with friends, didn’t date, kept to herself. She had hung back, stood in the shadows. Sometimes people had hardly noticed she was there. Truthfully, it could be a little creepy. Then last year, something had changed. She had finally shown signs of embracing the world around her. Her designs were growing more glamorous and gaining recognition, and last month, she had surprised them all by announcing she wished to start dating.
Artur had been so pleased. Maya only wished she could share in the sense of achievement. Inna refused to tell them what had caused her problems or finally alleviated them, leaving her own mother in the dark. Suspicious about Inna’s sudden transformation, Maya had resorted to her own detective work.
She had discovered that Inna was no longer seeing the psychiatrist Artur had handpicked for her, a doctor on his payroll, who had the right incentive to keep certain vital information quiet. Instead, Inna had found her own therapist, the unbending and independent-minded Dr. Shiffman.
Kings of Brighton Beach Bundle Page 10