As soon as I learned all this, I knew I had to take the investigation into my own hands. My brother honors our parents’ memory by focusing on Dad’s research, but I do it differently. I do it by trying to hunt down their murderers, and if it drives my brother crazy, so be it. I’m not a little girl anymore. In fact, as of today, I’m officially an adult—though I haven’t felt like a child for a long time.
Determined to get back into my earlier birthday-enjoyment groove, I go to the movies. The one I choose is a romantic comedy, and I enjoy it immensely for the fiction that it is. Those writers make these things so light and fluffy, it’s like a fairy tale. In real life—at least in my real life—people are self-destructive, violent liars who will cheat and steal if they can get away with it. Outside of the mob, they put on a fa?ade of civility, but as a Reader, I know what hides behind their polite smiles. In the mob, they don’t even try to hide it. The criminals are more honest, in a way. Then again, the depravity of some of the things I Read in Victor’s club and other similar places is mind-boggling. I sometimes can’t sleep for weeks after getting one of those ‘snuff Reads’—
I shake my head. Man, I need to get back some positivity.
To do that, I grab some ice cream before leaving the movie theater. Nothing is more positive than ice cream.
Afterwards, I decide against getting dinner. Instead, I go into the theater bathroom to change into my killer dress, and while I’m at it, I put on some makeup and a pair of high heels. It’s time to have some fun and go clubbing. Why the hell not? It’s my fucking birthday.
*
“Are you Russian?” is what I think the guy tries to say to me over the pounding music of the dance club.
“Da,” I yell, nodding to the beat.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he says in Russian. Or I assume that’s what he says because I catch the Russian word for drink over the noise, and he also puts his hand to his mouth in that universal drinking gesture. Not to mention, he points at the bar.
I look the guy over. Tall, broad-shouldered, he looks like the kind of guy I would’ve liked if I’d remained normal. Since I’m trying to be normal tonight, I let him buy me a Grey Goose with Red Bull, my party-all-night drink.
I love these Russian-owned clubs, even if sometimes the owners are in the mob. The vodka selection is always topnotch, the DJs are great at mixing the tracks, the music they mix is more to my taste, and the bartenders never ask for ID. I have a fake one, of course, but I prefer not to be asked. What’s more, here they never give you that I-know-that-ID-is-fake-but-hey-now-I’m-off-the-hook-little-girl look.
As I sip my drink, the guy introduces himself and gives me some compliments, but I only hear bits and pieces. Finally, I have to lean in and yell into his ear, “I can barely hear you!”
“Would you like to dance?” He leans down, yelling into my ear, and I can finally hear him.
“Absolutely.” I’m about to add his name, but realize that I can’t remember it. Talk about embarrassing. I can’t ask him now. Of course, I can always Split and check his wallet for an ID, so maybe later I’ll do that.
He’s a great dancer, with a sense of rhythm that I haven’t been lucky enough to run into before. And speaking of lucky, I’ve lucked out in that he’s also just the right amount of grabby. Although, after a song or two, with the buzz from the drink starting to hit my brain, I decide that he’s not grabby enough. I take his hands and stick them on my butt. He, smart guy that he is, gets the point, and from here on out, there’s a lot more touching. He even goes for some ear-nibbling, which I approve of.
We dance like that for at least ten songs. My legs begin to ache, and my head is spinning. I feel great. I feel as if . . . well, as if it’s my fucking birthday.
Another few songs, and I’m grinding against him. He clearly likes it—that or there’s a flashlight in his pocket that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks me eventually.
“Sure.” I give him one last grind—in case there’s any misunderstanding as to where this night is headed. “Let’s go to your place.”
He’s holding my hand as we start making our way through the crowd, and then, suddenly, he stops.
He’s staring at the chest of a gargantuan bouncer.
“Leave,” the bouncer growls. He must have sixty pounds’ worth of lungs alone; I can hear him clearly over all the noise. “She stays.”
“What’s the problem?” the guy asks.
“You didn’t hear me?” The bouncer starts rolling up his sleeves—never a good sign. In a Russian nightclub, could be a deadly sign.
“It’s all right,” I yell at my guy. “I know this man.”
“You’re with him?” His lips become a thin line. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with someone?”
I shrug, taking his anger as a compliment. I’d love to tell him the truth, but whatever this shit with the bouncer is about, there’s no reason to bring a civilian into it. Especially a guy who showed me a good time.
The guy walks away, shaking his head.
“Upstairs,” the bouncer barks. “This way.” He leads me up the stairs and points to a closed door with a tinted glass window in it. There’s no way I can see what’s waiting for me inside.
Damn. I shouldn’t have left the gun in my car. Oh well, I think, and open the door.
“Hello,” Victor says when the bouncer opens the door for me. “We need to talk.”
Of all the clubs owned by shady people, I clearly chose the worst one.
And then I realize there’s someone else in the room.
A man I didn’t expect to see, let alone this soon.
Shkillet, his face black and blue with the injuries I inflicted, gives me a look that says, “You’re dead now, bitch.”
Chapter 5
“You have questionable taste in comrades, Victor.” I’m not going to let either of them think they’ve thrown me. Never let them see you sweat—it’s a motto I live by.
Shkillet’s face reddens, and he reaches for his boot, but stops. “She’s trying to disrespect you,” he whispers to Victor, loudly enough that I can hear.
“When I want your opinion, Shkillet, I will provide it.” Victor rises from his chair as Shkillet’s red face turns white. “As for you, my lovely friend—” Victor inclines his head toward me, “—there’s a very good reason why he’s here.”
“And that would be what? You need your toilets licked clean?” I stare at Shkillet, not backing down from the threat I see in his eyes.
“You whore.” Shkillet’s fingers twitch, likely itching to get to that knife. I know; I’ve felt that same hatred myself. Thankfully, he elects to spit on the ground instead of trying to skewer me.
“Spit on my floor again, and you’ll be licking it off, Shkillet, understand? Also don’t speak again until I say you can.” If looks actually could kill, Victor’s would’ve already murdered Shkillet ten times over. “Do I make myself clear?”
Shkillet nods, and I can tell it’s killing him to do so.
Victor glares at him. “Say it.”
Shkillet exhales. “I’ll wait for you to ask me to speak, Victor.” It sounds as if the words are being pulled from him.
“Now.” Victor tugs his sleeves down. “As I was saying, there is a reason he’s here, and it’s because an accusation has been made.”
“An accusation?” I try not to sound challenging—a task I, admittedly, have trouble with on occasion.
“Our comrade here told me some disturbing things about you.” Victor leans against a table, arms crossed. “He claims that you work with the cops as a snitch, or worse, that you’re a cop yourself.”
“What?” I didn’t expect that, and I don’t have any clever, or even dumb, comebacks for him. “What are you talking about?”
“He said you’d deny it.” Victor picks up a shot glass that’s been standing on his desk and downs the contents in one gulp. “But his story is rather persuasive, so I figured we should talk.”