Maykl
Gleb relieves me of my door duties at ten. He’s a seventy-year-old bratva brother with failing lungs, but he’s hard as nails. No less dangerous than any of us. Perhaps more so because he’s old-school. He came to us this year from a cell in New Jersey.
He and another bratva brother, Dmitri, work under me as doormen, and I have another half-dozen brigadiers I utilize for building security as needed.
I tell him I’ll be away for the afternoon, but he should call my cell or notify those in the penthouse if anything happens.
Then I go upstairs to find Kira. When I come in, she’s on her back with her toes tucked under the sofa, doing crunches.
“Don’t stop,” I say when she immediately stops and rolls to her side. “You look beautiful.”
“Doing sit-ups?” she scoffs.
“Da.” I nod and push away from the door. “I like your warrior side. Female strength is captivating.”
She crawls to her feet. “You’re crazy,” she mutters, but I note the tinge of pink that crawls up her neck. I suspect she likes to be revered for something other than that perfect face.
“Are you ready to go to the funeral home?”
“Uh, yes. But Anya is still at the morgue. I didn’t make any arrangements yet.”
I nod. “I already contracted with a mortuary. They are on their way to get her now.”
She goes still, her lovely chin tilting up. “Thank you.” The words are soft with awe like no one has ever been kind to her.
I know how that feels.
It makes me even more determined to come to her aid.
“Come. Let’s go.” I pick up her woolen coat and hold it out for her to slide her arms in.
It’s a gentlemanly action, and I’m no gentleman. I don’t even know how this instinct in me arose, yet it feels so natural to honor her this way.
She slides her arms in the sleeves and knots the tie around her waist. I put on a black leather jacket and take her hand in mine to lead her to the elevators.
We take it down to the parking garage, Kira nervously fiddling with the handrail in the elevator as we ride. I lead her to my Ford Bronco and open the passenger side door for her.
Outside, snow has begun to fall in thick, wet flakes that melt when they hit the windshield. The streets are a mess, but I navigate through them, familiar with downtown and the best routes to take.
“Why are you doing this for me?” she cuts through the silence.
I shrug. “I know what it’s like to be alone in a strange place.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You came here alone?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t it. Coming here wasn’t so hard. Not even learning a new language.”
“When, then?”
I don’t know what makes me say it. I have this urge to show her that I understand the misery her sister endured, I guess. Even if I didn’t suffer like her.
“When I joined the brotherhood. It was…supposed to set me free. But it only further enslaved me to a life of violence.”
Now I have her full attention. “Why did you join?”
I shrug. “I was young. My mother abandoned me. Left with me with my abusive father. The bratva put a gun in my hand and told me I could free myself.”
Kira’s head bows and her gaze drops to her hands. “A common story, I’m sure. The promise of a better life. Power and money and freedom from abuse.” She looks over again. “Were you free from abuse?”
I snort. My body is covered in scars from the violence doled out by my brothers and enemies of the brotherhood, alike.
She looks back through the snowy windshield. “Of course not.”
We arrive at the funeral home, and I park the Bronco. Kira hops out, and we walk in.
“Ms. Koslova?” The woman at the front desk greets us when we walk in.
Kira looks surprised. “Yes.”
“Follow me,” the receptionist says, ushering us down a hallway. “The director will be right in to go over the arrangements with you.”
She leaves us alone in a room with a large table in the center and backlit glass shelves along two walls displaying all the various options for the dead.
Kira’s upper lip curls in distaste as she walks around, looking at the presentation. “You can make gemstones out of a person’s ashes? Ew.”
“Kira, don’t choose based on cost. I’m going to cover the expenses.”
“Why?” She almost sounds angry.
“Because I want to. The bratva ruined her life. Paying for her funeral seems like the least we can do.”
“Did…” she works to swallow. “Did you know her, Maykl?”
“I knew many women like her,” I say in a tired voice.
She nods and turns away, blinking back tears as she picks up a book showing the various casket options and flips through it.
“Do you want to bury her here?” I ask. When she gives me a blank look, I clarify. “In America?”
“Oh.” It’s like she hadn’t considered what a burial would mean. “No.” She shakes her head, agitation making her shoulders creep up toward her ears.
“You want the body transported home?”
“No.” She appears sickened by the idea. “I guess I want…her ashes.”
“So thinking of cremation?” The funeral director enters the room. She’s a young woman in a staid, navy-blue suit with an appropriately somber expression.
“Yes.”
“Have a seat. I can go over the options and fill out the necessary paperwork.”
Ninety minutes later, the arrangements are made. Despite my offer to cover any expense, Kira went with the most basic options. The hundred-dollar cardboard container for the ashes. No service. No remembrances. The entire cost was twelve hundred dollars, which I paid for in cash. Plus another five thousand to get it turned around by tomorrow instead of the two weeks she originally quoted us.
I didn’t pay out of guilt. It’s not that I feel directly responsible in any way for the woman’s demise. But I make good money working for Ravil. I have a very large nest egg. The money is nothing to me, and if I can help Kira move through her grief with more ease, I want to do it.
Especially when Kira gives me a soft “thank you, Maykl” when we get in the car.
I reach for her hand and squeeze it. When she looks over at me with those ice-blue eyes, there’s a vulnerability behind them that makes my chest squeeze. Gone is the warrior, and the woman in her place looks lost.
Kira
It takes me most of the afternoon to recover my footing from the outing to the funeral home. My grief has always been coated in anger. It fuels my strength. Made me join the politsiya. Not that I had delusions the police would fix the crime and corruption in my city. I just didn’t want to feel weak. I wanted to be able to handle myself. To carry a weapon and wield a little more power than the average citizen.
Something about having Maykl’s solid form beside me, feeling like someone had my back for the first time in so many years, made the grief feel more like…grief. Something painful and sticky I couldn’t shake.
Maykl took me to lunch after the funeral home then back to the building. His pakhan wasn’t available to see me today, so he left me in his apartment while he went back to work an evening shift.
I shower. Work out again in Maykl’s living room. Now, I check in with Stepanov.
“Koslova.” He answers immediately. “I heard two of the bugs are already online.”
“Yes, sir. I placed one in each elevator. Tonight, I will deactivate the security cams and place the others throughout the building. Tomorrow I will see their pakhan.”
“Excellent work. Tell me about the security system.”
I hesitate. Why is my boss so intensely interested in this mission? It’s more interest than he ever showed on my cases back home. “Did you decide to fly out here, sir?”
“Yes. I’m en route now.”
That takes my breath. “You are?”
“I’ll be there by midnight. The FBI are asking for a full description of the layout of the building including exits and entrances, as well as details about the security and HVAC system. They expect trouble when they go in to make arrests and wish to be prepared.”
I lean my head against the window overlooking the lake. The idea of a show-down here in this building makes my stomach knot. If that happens, people will die. Many people on both sides.
I shouldn’t care, but Maykl could be killed. He’s right at their front door. Their gatekeeper. He’d be the first line of defense.
After the generosity he showed me today, betraying his kindness and hospitality doesn’t feel like a win. But I didn’t come here to make friends. I came to get my nephew and take down the bratva.
Using Maykl is the path to that end goal.
That thought doesn’t quiet the discomfort fizzing up my neck, though.
I switch my brain back to business, though. “The locks are all electronic, activated with keycards. There’s a keypad at the front door. I believe the code is 87847. I can verify that for certain tonight.” I memorized it when I watched Maykl lock up the night I arrived. He’d shielded the screen from my view, but I watched the movements of his finger and, using a mental map of the keypad, guessed at the sequence. “There are cameras above the outside entrance and in every hallway and elevator, but not in the apartments themselves. At least, not that I’ve seen.”
“And you know how to disable the security feed?”
“I know how.” My last case involved a breach of a system like this. The expert we consulted with had explained to me exactly how it was done. “Any word about Mika?”
“Not yet, but it’s only been a day. They’re working on it. Don’t worry. They have the resources necessary to locate the boy. How is your friend?”
I hesitate. Is Stepanov jealous?
No, that’s ridiculous. He’s just looking for a full report.
“I appear to have won his trust.”
“Good work.”
I end the call and, restless, head downstairs. Perhaps I can explore the building before it’s dark. Pretending to be turned around for the cameras watching, I take the wrong turn off the elevator and come to what appears to be a retail space.
A sign reading “Kremlin Clay” hangs over the doorway. I try the knob, and it opens.
Inside a young woman dressed in short plaid flannel shorts despite it being winter straddles a spinning pottery wheel. Her wet hands lovingly guide a lump of clay into a bowl shape.
Her dark hair hangs in two long braids. Short bangs frame her eyes. She tosses an easy smile my way. “Hi.”
This scene is such a far cry from anything I would ever find in a bratva stronghold back in Moscow that I stop and stare, transfixed.
“Are you lost?” she asks. She speaks English but with an accent that isn’t American. I don’t know English well enough to identify it. I also don’t think it’s her native language.
“Oh. Um, yes. I mean, I saw the sign and wondered what was inside.”
The young woman keeps molding the clay, pulling the lip of the bowl higher and wider. “You’re Russian. Who do you know here?”
“Maykl.” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the front desk. “I’m staying with him.”
“Are you?” She stops the wheel, and the pile of clay collapses in a disappointing heap. I almost gasp at the loss. “He didn’t mention it.” She gets up from the wheel. She wears a smock over some kind of adorable rounded-collar fitted blouse. She’s sexy in that ingenue way.
She goes to the sink and washes the clay from her hands. I use the opportunity to tuck a bug under one of the cabinets that line the wall.
“I’m Kat. Adrian’s girl.”
I stare blankly.
“Adrian and Maykl are friends. How do you know him?”
I’m tempted to lie but know that would bite me in the ass. “Oh. Um, we met recently. My sister died, and he’s helping me with the arrangements.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Kat walks over and extends her hand.
“I’m Kira,” I offer, realizing I hadn’t reciprocated the introduction.
“Are you and Maykl…” She lifts her brows.
“Yes,” I say but only because I’m playing a role here. Normally, I would deny I had intimacy with any other human.
“Well, it’s great to meet you. Welcome to the Kremlin.” Her smile is infectious. She’s captivating. Nothing about her resembles the kind of women who consort with bratva members in Moscow. Nothing screams drug user. Or sex slave or anyone tortured, used, or owned by the bratva.
On the contrary, there’s a vibrancy about her that I’ve never seen before. It’s…stunning. It suffocates me. Like I lived my entire life without realizing that kind of vibrancy was possible. And now that I know, I don’t want to crawl back into my own bleak existence.
I sort of hate this beautiful young woman as much as I want to drink in her vitality.
Once again, this anomaly in a bratva-controlled building throws me off my game. Shows me just how little I know about the enemy I’ve come to infiltrate.
“Are you interested in pottery?”
“I…yes,” I say, even though I’ve never given pottery even a passing thought. It’s so far away from my life. “I was fascinated watching you. Please don’t let me interrupt. I mean, I know I already have.”
Kat laughs lightly. “Do you want to try it?”
“Me? No,” I say quickly. I don’t like to do things I’m not good at.
“Come on.” Kat’s smile is warm. “I think you do. It’s fun.”
She opens a drawer and pulls out a clean smock, which she hands to me. I pull it on over my head and tie the strings in the back, even as my brain protests this insane idea of me trying to make a pot.
Kat leads me back to the wheel. “Have a seat.” She hands me the lump of clay that crumpled when she stopped. “Get your fingers wet and make this into a ball.”
I dip my fingers in the cup of muddy water and mash the clay. It’s more satisfying than I would have expected. Responsive. Easy to mold.
She points at the foot pedal. “You start the wheel down there, and you can control the speed.”
“Start slowly,” she laughs when I gun it. “Okay, now place the clay right in the center, but keep your hands around it.”
She continues to talk me through pressing my thumbs down in the center to part the clay. It wobbles off-center and flops into a blob, and I stop with an embarrassed laugh.
“It takes time,” Kat assures me. “No one gets it at first. Hours at the wheel is the only way to learn. Give it another try.”
I try a few more times. It’s easy to see how it could be addictive.
“You’re not Russian?” I make conversation. “I heard only Russians live here.”
“I’m from Ukraine. Almost everyone here is Russian, but there are a few exceptions.” She flashes a smile at me. “For love.”
“Is love allowed in the bratva?” I’m not sure if I’m allowed to mention the brotherhood, but I won’t learn anything if I don’t push in.
“Not usually.” Kat leans a hip against the counters as I get up to wash the clay off my hands. “When a pakhan falls in love, he must change the rules for everyone, no?”
I digest this nugget of information. I still don’t even know the pakhan’s name, but hearing that a ruthless leader has a heart seems out of character. I’m not one to believe in love stories or happily-ever-afters, but it seems love truly can pierce even the blackest of souls.
“So, his girlfriend is not Russian?”
“His wife. No, she’s American. There are two other American women here. And me.”
“Is it safe?” I find myself asking, even though I’m pushing my luck.
Kat doesn’t seem to take offense. “Oh yes. We’re very safe. Maykl guards the door, and Dima monitors everything remotely. And it’s all very civilized. Nothing illegal ever happens here.”
She seems so sure.
Maykl opens the door and steps in.
My body reacts immediately to his presence. His large, imposing form affects me chemically. Everything heats and melts. Relaxes and grows excited at the same time.
“There you are. You cannot roam the building unattended, little warrior.”
I immediately go to his side, and he settles a hand on my hip. It’s an easy, comfortable gesture. A light claiming. I want to both reject it and lean into it at the same time.
“I’m sorry. I took a wrong turn off the elevator, and then when I saw Kat at the wheel, I was transfixed.” Only a partial lie.
He tucks me closer to his side. “It is amazing to see the clay transform in just a few seconds, isn’t it?”
Something that resembles pain starts up in my chest. I don’t know what it’s about. Something related to this man and what he does to me. Finding he can talk about ordinary, artistic things like clay art. That he appreciates such things. That he’s not just the violence and crime depicted on his skin.
But I shake it off. Feelings like that are dangerous.
Tonight, I will betray Maykl. Wishing for a different outcome will only make it harder.