And the wall.
And the annoyed little brother.
There’s not a hole in the last one... well, not one I caused, but he’s still a casualty to my disability.
Not that I’m disabled, because fuck you, I’m not. I like to think we’re only really limited by our lack of creativity, and I can get pretty creative.
“So what do you know about the Russians?” I ask Seven, pulling out my battered tin for a joint, lighting it as I wait for his reaction. He hesitates, eyeing me warily, which is never a good sign, having him afraid to share. Seven’s got knowledge, being as once upon a time, in a land far, far away (Staten Island), the man wore a different kind of uniform than his customary black get-up.
Seven was a cop.
He found himself on the wrong side of the law, serving time in Rikers for selling secrets to the devil. And prison, you see, it doesn’t rehabilitate men like him. It just turns them into men like me... hardened beyond reasoning.
“The Bratva?” he asks, like he needs clarification.
“Whatever they’re calling themselves over here,” I say, exhaling, smoke surrounding me. “I sure don’t mean the KGB.”
“Actually, a lot of the guys are ex-KGB,” Seven says. “Soviet collapsed, they had a certain skill set, so they moved to the private sector.”
“I appreciate the history lesson, Seven, but I don’t really give a shit. I want to know what you know about the Russians around here.”
He exhales loudly. “They work out of Brighton Beach. Unlike the Cosa Nostra, which has weakened—”
“You’re welcome for that,” I say, taking another hit, holding it in my lungs as he continues.
“—the Russians keep getting stronger. Smuggling. Diamonds. Black market-level stuff. Insurance fraud. Healthcare fraud. Credit card fraud. These days, their biggest payday is probably trafficking.”
“Drugs? Guns?”
“People.”
Human trafficking.
“Prostitution? Or deeper?”
“Prostitution, certainly, but it goes about as deep as it can possibly go. We heard rumors, back when I was on the force, that they were kidnapping girls and selling them off to the highest bidder.”
“Rumors, huh? Not really a fan of speculation, Seven. I heard a rumor once that I was trying to murder my own best friend, but that was complete bullshit.”
“I’d say the odds of this being false are slim. The Russians, they run that club—Limerence. I’ve never gone, the wife would kill me, but the guys, you know they go, and they talk. The women there?” He lets out a low whistle. “A lot of them probably wouldn’t be doing the things they do if they had other options.”
I finish smoking in silence, thinking that over, putting together the pieces of the puzzle that are starting to make up Scarlet. Mind your own business. I know. I fucking know. But she’s becoming my business. I’m making her my business, whether you like it or not.
“Well, then, Seven, I suppose that means a field trip is in order,” I say, slapping him on the back before tossing the remnants of the joint down, stomping on it. “Gotta check it out, separate fact from fiction.”
“Limerence?”
“Yeah, you need to get a permission slip signed by the wife or are we good?”
He doesn’t look like we’re good.
He’s looking a little green, actually.
Guess he doesn’t like my plan, huh?
“Do you think that’s a good idea, boss?”
“A good idea? Not likely. But that’s never stopped me before, has it?”
“No,” he says, “it hasn’t.”
Limerence.
It doesn’t look like much of anything from the outside, a nondescript dark building with the name written in red cursive on a sign above a tinted glass door. Red cursive. No flashing lights or neon signs. No promises of tits inside. No bullshit description like ‘gentlemen’s club’. It’s open to the public, sure, but they’ve got a specific clientele. The wealthy. The depraved. The kind that’ll pay a lot of damn money for a taste of their darkest fantasy.
No matter how dark, I’m hearing.
Enough cash, no questions asked...
Security stands guard at the entrance, dressed in black, wearing earpieces like they’re Secret Service. I have no doubt they have a direct line to whoever’s running things.
I stop on the sidewalk in front of the place, gaze scanning the Limerence sign in the darkness, softly illuminated from beneath. My guys, they filter past, moving around me, waltzing inside without missing a beat. Security doesn’t pay them any attention, too busy staring at me. Seven lingers behind, standing along the curb. My shadow, as always. He’s too damn scared of the missus to dare come any closer.
“You can wait out here,” I say, looking back at him, “unless you’re in the mood for a lap dance?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”
Figures.
I approach the building. Security eyes me warily, but no one says a word as I go in. Everything around me is golden with a red glow, the lighting dim and music soft, and slow, and surprisingly doesn’t make my head want to explode. Men pack the club, gathered at small tables, lounging in deep leather chairs as women dance around them. It’s tame out here. PG-13. Barely a hand job in a cesspool of insatiable fucking. Looking for anything more than the flash of a set of nipples and your ass better be shelling out enough cash to be escorted to a different room for a different experience.
My guys congregate in the far corner, away from others, attention already being showered on them. A pretty little brunette sits on Three’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck as she whispers who-knows-what in his ear, tits all up in his face, teasing him. Five is chatting up a brunette waitress, while the others are already long gone, probably in the back.
Took all of thirty seconds.
I slide into a chair at their table, slouching, folding my hands together against my chest. I’m not interested in partaking so much as observing, but damn if I couldn’t use a drink.
“Rum,” I say loudly, interrupting Five’s conversation with the waitress. “A whole bottle would be nice, but I’ll settle for the biggest glass you’ve got in this place. Straight up, no bullshit... the rougher, the better.”
Three mumbles some cliché that’s what she said joke, which makes the brunette throw her head back and cackle.
I wonder how much he pays her to pretend he’s funny.
The waitress stalks off, over to the bar, and returns with a glass of clear liquid, handing it straight to me before diving back into her conversation.
The glass is barely four fingers tall, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Or more like patrons shouldn’t kill waitresses.
Same difference.
I take a swig from the glass, grimacing, before interrupting them again. “This isn’t rum.”
The waitress looks at me. “What?”
“It’s vodka,” I say, setting the glass on the table, some of the liquor sloshing out as I shove it her way. “I asked for rum.”
“Are you sure?” She picks up the glass. “I mean, it’s clear.”
“So is water, but that doesn’t mean it’s what I fucking asked for, is it?”
“Uh, no, I guess not.”
“Rum. R-U-M. Say it with me. Rum.”
“Rum,” she says quietly, her voice trembling as her eyes widen a second before she averts them, looking at the floor. She seems pretty damn terrified all of a sudden as she scurries away, her reaction confusing until my men glance over, looking at me.
No, looking behind me...
“A man who knows what he likes and accepts nothing less,” a strong voice says, the words twinned with a deep Russian accent. “Cannot fault a man for that, can we?”
“No,” I say, “sure can’t.”
He walks around the table, past us, strolling over to the bar. Kassian Aristov. He slides in beside the waitress just as the bartender hands her a new glass. Before she can walk away, Aristov’s arm slips around her slim waist, securing her at his side, one hand on her hip as the other snatches the glass out of her grasp. Bringing it to his lips, he drinks every last drop, setting the glass down on the bar as he leans over, whispering something to her.