His own complicity galled him. He had set up his own sister. She had been waiting for him and Katya while he had followed Mikhail’s instructions to delay, delay, delay. She had sat alone at the bar, all dolled up to impress Katya’s friend, never suspecting that anything bad could happen to her at her own brother’s club.
“Cheer up,” Mikhail said. He tapped Aleksei with his foot. When Aleksei removed his hands, Mikhail took one and hauled Aleksei to his feet. “The drugs did their trick. Inna won’t remember anything. It’ll be like it never happened.”
Aleksei tried to take comfort in the words, to believe the happy ending Mikhail dangled in front of him. Inna wouldn’t suffer for her sacrifice; his father would solve the Georgian problem; and no one would ever know what a fraud Aleksei was—on every count.
If he stayed the course, the plan could still work. As long as no one discovered the setup or Aleksei’s involvement. As long as Artur decided to go to war.
But there were so many ways this plan could backfire.
“All Artur needs is a little prodding,” Mikhail assured him. He slapped Aleksei on the shoulder in a half-embrace.
“I’ve got this covered,” Mikhail said. “Just trust me. I need one more day. That’s all.”
“One more day,” Aleksei agreed, trying to sound like he had some control. Who was he kidding? Aleksei had no idea what he would do if the plan didn’t work.
MIKHAIL
WHEN ARTUR CHARGED Mikhail with guarding Inna for a few hours during the night, he undoubtedly expected him to sit outside in his parked car, stakeout style, and watch the building. Mikhail had other plans.
He nodded at the doorman, who recognized him as a fellow employee of Artur’s, and let him pass without question. His natural confidence surged. He had no worries about getting caught, not when he had already gotten away with so much worse.
Sneaking behind Artur’s back—to seduce Maya, to create the scene at Troika, to join Aleksei in the “other” Koslovsky business—had all been accomplished so easily. A secret visit to Inna was mere child’s play in comparison.
If anyone later asked, Mikhail would claim he had been doing his job: He thought he had seen someone suspicious lurking around the building and came inside to investigate and assure himself she was safe.
He hadn’t seen anyone, but the rest was true. He would ensure her safety—from the Georgians anyway.
Tonight Inna had been friendlier, looser than usual. She hadn’t ducked away from him or found an excuse to be on the other side of the room. Attuned to the signs, Mikhail knew Inna had taken yet another special pill, not her usual medication, but one from the prescription bottle that had been swapped for hers and planted in her medicine cabinet.
Taking the pill, Inna had now unwittingly offered him the fantasy he had been forced to provide another man, one who didn’t deserve her. Visiting her wasn’t part of the original plan, but he couldn’t resist.
He didn’t bother knocking on Inna’s door. He didn’t expect she’d be fit to answer.
He pulled the key from his pocket and let himself inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
He found Inna passed out on the sofa. She lay on her back, eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling, her hair an uncombed, matted tangle. She didn’t come out of her trance when he snapped his fingers in front of her face. Good.
Growing up in a Russian orphanage, Mikhail’s pretty face had been his saving grace. No one had adopted him and rescued him from that cinder-block hellhole, but he had been a favorite among the wardens. Treats and favors had all been his in a simple exchange that he had learned to turn to his advantage until sexual manipulation was as natural for him as breathing.
Tonight would be different. He wouldn’t have to perform for her, wouldn’t have to consider her enjoyment or pretend his own, wouldn’t have to count out the steps in his head to reach his goal. Tonight was for him, for his pleasure.
He hadn’t recognized how desirable Inna was, hadn’t realized her potential, until he’d seen her the other night at Troika sitting in Zviad’s lap.
Now, despite the faded hospital scrubs that draped her body, he easily imagined how she would look on his arm in a skimpy dress like the one she had worn last night. Leggy and fashionably thin, she had turned her share of heads, including Zviad’s. Plenty of men would envy Mikhail for having her on his arm, never mind that she was the one that came with the Koslovsky fortune.
Artur’s request for Mikhail to play bodyguard opened a new move on the chessboard. The lovely Inna was vulnerable now, in need of a hero.
Inna had always been skittish around Mikhail, seemingly repelled by the seductive charms he depended on to get his way. His fault. She had been away at college when he joined Artur’s organization. He had made his move on her as soon as she came home, hoping to use her to cement his place in the closest thing to family he had ever known. Too eager, he hadn’t watched her closely enough and hadn’t paid sufficient attention to see what a puzzle she presented.
He had grossly misjudged her, imagining a college graduate would be more experienced and open to suggestion. He had cornered her in the office and whispered naughty suggestions that would have made other women, even virginal or prudish ones, weak in the knees.
Inna wasn’t like other women. Instead, she had actively avoided him ever since, not giving him the chance to redeem himself and try again.
That was about to change. He had her number now.
Events would force her to stick close to him. She would undoubtedly feel grateful to the man who protected her from further harm and fall easily into his arms.
When he had thought he had Artur’s loyalty, Mikhail had convinced himself Inna didn’t matter to his goals. He had been content to leave her alone as long as he was secure in his place and got his due. Now that Artur had made the unforgivable mistake of relegating him to the sidelines, Mikhail planned to claim Artur’s little princess.
If he could lay claim to Artur’s greatest prize, the others would all be ripe for the taking. Getting a share was no longer enough, not when there was no loyalty and no family for him. Mikhail wanted everything he thought Artur had and possibly more. One way or another he would have it, all of it. Then he would crown himself king of Brighton Beach.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to start romancing Inna and put his newest plan in motion. Tonight, there was no reason to waste the effort on impressing her—or forego the opportunity that presented itself.
“Inna, princess, let me put you to bed.” He scooped her into his arms. Her head flopped heavily over his arm. He navigated the hall and doorway to the bedroom with care not to bump her head into the wall or door frame.
Inna’s bedroom was stark and modern, a platform bed and squared teak wood furniture, not what he would have expected from a designer who specialized in embellished interiors that harkened back to the Tsar’s Winter Palace.
Mikhail didn’t favor the simplicity of the design she’d chosen for herself. When they had a place together, he would insist she make it ornate, fit for a king and his queen.
Inna was entranced, sleepy and pliable, her expression vacant, maybe slightly pleasured. He slid off the green scrubs she’d worn home from the hospital and then straddled her and sat her up to remove her shirt. She wore the same lacy red bra she’d had on last night, the one that matched her thong and hinted at the naughty, naughty plans she might have made for her evening with Katya’s lawyer friend.
“Slut,” Mikhail said with a playful yank of her dark hair. Soon she’d be making those plans for him.
She turned her head and blinked at his forearm.
“Will you dream of me, Inna?” he asked as he bent to kiss her neck and worked his way down to her small, pert breasts. She lay still, not reacting at all when he suckled and then bit her nipple. He pinched the peak of the other between his fingers and twisted, hard enough to make most women gasp with pain, but Inna was far away in dreamland.
His erection pressed painfully a
gainst his zipper, and he ached for release as he nipped and squeezed at her, careful not to make a mark.
He couldn’t leave any sign or clue that would send her running back to the police for another round of forensics. That still left him quite a few options. His blood pumped with excitement. He reveled in the unlimited power he wielded over her.
He could do anything to her, and she’d never remember. No one would ever know. And tomorrow he would convincingly play her hero.
VICTOR
VICTOR DROVE SLOWLY to Secretnaya Banya. There he would meet Gennady, the newest in a long line of Directorate emissaries.
In the old days, these meetings had never worried him. He had worked in the KGB alongside the Directorate’s leadership, but there was a new regime now. The old guard, the ones Victor had slaved to impress or mollify or blackmail, had moved on, leaving Victor with a worthless account of debts and favors owed that could never be collected and a new set of Machiavellian bosses whose desired end wasn’t power for the Motherland but profit, profit, profit.
Victor’s power and influence had seemingly diminished overnight, leaving him with responsibility and no leverage. A dangerous position.
Secretnaya Banya was a secret club opened to the elite of the New York Russian community by special invitation only. For a hefty sum, members of the banya enjoyed traditional Russian baths, gourmet food, and privacy in a rarified environment that spoke to them both of their Russian roots and their fabulous success.
Yet the club was not a venue for displaying success to others. The building had a grimy, brick facade that gave no hint of the luxury inside. Visitors were stripped of all of the trappings of their position. All belongings, including cell phones, were left in the locker room. While at the club, everyone wore Turkish robes that had been specially designed with wide sleeves and no pockets, a uniform that made them all equal. Sort of.
Upon arriving in the United States, Gennady had immediately received an invitation. Victor never had.
Victor had loudly and openly complained about the “oversight.” No doubt Gennady sought to rub Victor’s nose in the slight. The Directorate operatives specialized in psychological warfare, even against each other.
Gennady waited in the lounge when Victor arrived. A man at ease, he sat in a leather armchair, reading a newspaper and indulging in buttered crackers with Beluga caviar. Victor assessed him, looking for weaknesses or signs of vice, finding nothing obvious—no bloodshot eyes or yellow-stained fingers or even extra weight around the middle. The man, in his early forties, if that, was a picture of robust good health and classic Russian handsomeness with his blue eyes and a full head of wavy blond hair.
“You’re late.” Gennady folded the newspaper and placed it on the side table. His eyes, a light blue, were unfriendly. Likely Gennady was keeping a tally sheet of all of Victor’s and Artur’s deficiencies, which he intended to bring back to Moscow to help his own advancement.
“Where’s Artur?” he demanded.
“Eezvenete.” Victor was carefully polite. “There were pressing matters.”
“I see.” Gennady rose. He was taller than Victor, and he stood close as if using his height to intimidate him. “What is more pressing than meeting me?”
The question was rhetorical. The man’s sense of superiority grated on Victor. Gennady seemed to think that since he was delivering orders, he was actually giving them. He forgot he was only a messenger.
Tempting as it was to remind the upstart of his true position, Victor pressed his lips together and remained silent. He treated Gennady with extreme caution.
Gennady had a key advantage. Stationed in Moscow, he had direct influence with his superiors, while Victor had none.
Still, Victor had his rank, and it was higher than Gennady’s. He had his years of experience. He had Artur with his incredible charisma and penchant for strategy, both of which kept the money flowing.
What he didn’t have right now were his favored tools of the trade. Victor had been forced to leave everything—his recording devices and his pills—in the locker room.
Now, he had no way to gain an advantage.
“Davai.” Gennady turned away and led Victor down a hallway to the Russian baths. Victor, no stranger to a visit to the banya, pulled his robe closer around him. Soon they would leave their robes behind, too.
The anteroom to the banya was empty. The area looked like a spa, with green glass tiles and simple carved wooden benches. Gennady disrobed without hesitation and hung his robe from the hook near the bench before removing his slippers.
Victor tried to hide his own hesitation, his sense of disadvantage. He was more than a decade older than Gennady, and he certainly didn’t have the man’s muscular physique.
The banya was deserted. There was no one to witness or comment on the differences between the two men, but Victor felt as if an arena full of spectators bore witness to his humiliation.
Gennady smiled slightly, as if he felt Victor gawking. He strode wordlessly to the wood and glass door of the bath and went inside. “Victor, chto takoe? Don’t you like the banya?” he called over his shoulder.
Through the glass of the door, Victor watched as Gennady picked up the venik, a green pile of birch branches lying on the wooden bench inside the hot room. Gennady wielded the collection of branches, hitting different parts of his body with smooth and rhythmic swings, as if he were engaged in martial arts training.
Everything the man did, whether or not by design, showcased his vitality and physical power.
Victor felt his own power slipping through his fingers. He didn’t know how to hold on.
He untied the plush robe and quickly placed it beside Gennady’s. He looked straight ahead, refusing to let his gaze wander toward his gray chest hair and liver spots or the rolls of fat hugging his chest and abdomen. Inside he felt the weight of his years.
He was past his prime, no longer a competitor or a peer, merely an old man to be handled and ordered around.
He opened the door to the sauna, and the heat hit him full in the face and throat, along with a growing fear that he wouldn’t be allowed to retire with dignity.
“Your shipment arrived last week, and you haven’t yet sold the merchandise,” Gennady said. “I hope you haven’t decided to back out.”
“No, of course not.”
“Good.”
Victor felt slightly nauseous in the hot room with sweat pouring down his face. His knees buckled, and he landed heavily on the bench. If the heat and humidity of the sauna hadn’t made Victor break out into a sweat, Gennady’s question would have.
There was no rebellion, no backing out, or changing your mind. Once you were a part of the Directorate, there was only one way out. Victor had no intention of following that path—or of letting Artur take that road to perdition.
“You should know there’s a problem,” Victor said.
“A problem?” Gennady lay the bundle of branches on the bench and sat down beside him. He gave Victor his full attention. “What problem?”
“Artur’s daughter was raped last night.”
“What does that have to do with business?”
“The Georgians are involved. Their man raped her and was murdered.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Gennady said. No emotion inflected his words. Cold-hearted bastard. Victor would have admired him were he not such a threat.
“Artur wants to punish them. They hurt his daughter. He wants to call off the deal. He’s talking about going to war.”
“Unacceptable,” Gennady said. “The risk is too great. You can’t let him do anything that will call attention to us or jeopardize the deal.”
“That’s what I told him,” Victor said.
“Tell him again. Make sure he understands. It’s your job to control him, Victor. Don’t tell me you can’t handle your job anymore. I’d hate to have to terminate you.”
Victor could taste the bitter edge of his own panic. For years, he had hoarded information and power. Now,
his life’s work could turn to dust overnight because personal revenge was more important to Artur than business.
Victor was not about to let Artur’s selfish decisions leave him in the cold. Decades ago, if he had left the decisions to his friend, Artur would be living in the American suburbs with Sofia and a pack of brats and no imagination or riches, and Victor would be … nowhere. Maybe rotting in Moscow in a dead end job and rubbing his worthless rubles together—if he had managed to keep his position now that his sponsors had moved on.
Then as now, Victor couldn’t afford to lose Artur, his most valuable asset.
The secret to controlling Artur was to play into his favored myth of himself as a tortured hero. Artur clung staunchly to the fiction that beneath everything he was a good man, a good father.
A truly good man wouldn’t descend to the depths of corruption Artur had—for any reason. He wouldn’t go along, head down, performing greater and greater feats to appease his tormentors.
This latest venture was no mere white-collar crime. Initially, Artur had balked at the newest assignment from the Directorate. Yet with the proper pressure, he had brilliantly masterminded the newest deal.
At some point, a good man would turn on them, refuse, or try to escape. In a quarter century, Artur had done none of these things. He had even stayed with Maya, whose father, Semyon, was their last remaining link to power in Moscow.
Gennady exited the hot enclosure and plunged into the icy pool beyond the doors. Victor followed. The cold made him gasp and sputter.
Victor had no intention of getting trapped in a prison worse than the one he lived in now. Maybe Maya had done him a favor tonight. While Artur slept peacefully, Victor would take matters into his own hands. Artur made the right choice when he imagined he had none. Victor was a master at narrowing Artur’s choices for him.
This time, as before, Inna was the key.
VLAD
“HE’S OVER THERE!” The suppressed pop, pop, pop of a fired handgun punctuated the words. With each shot, the silencer lost its power. The gunshots grew louder. The bullets sparked as they flew from the gun muzzle, briefly lighting the alleyway with a strobelike effect.
Kings of Brighton Beach Bundle Page 13