Page 2 of Brutal Secrets

Break up, break down, break out.

This is what I’ll say when I step into the spotlight. My voice will soar over the heads in the crowd. It’s my anthem. My call for help. My battle cry. I’ll throw my arms wide, reaching into the darkness as I let the sound pour out of me. Though I don’t know who’s out there, I’ll sing to the one person who might need to hear those words as they sit in the shadows beyond the reach of the spotlight’s glare. I’ll sing to tell them they aren’t trapped. I’ll sing to tell them I understand. That we can do this together.

Chapter Two

Antonov’s money is on display tonight. He’s a nickel baron, pulling ore out of the Siberian ice that should have gone into people’s pensions and using it to spray around Moscow on pointless evenings like this. This party is to celebrate the opening of his vodka business.

So far tonight, we’ve had a comedian from Channel One making jokes about foreigners, a dance show featuring twelve teenagers wearing nothing but G-strings, and now we’ll be treated to the latest one-hit wonder from the US. I don’t know why Antonov does it. He spends a lot of time ragging on America. According to him, it’s the great Satan. They’ve wounded our pride, and we need to arm ourselves against them. But then he can’t wait to see who’s topping the charts so he can pick them up in his private jet and cart them onto the stage of BoHo Rooms.

He wears a cravat. What kind of fool wears a cravat?

The kind of fool who gets into bed with my boss, Yevgeny Guelman, the man they call the Night Governor. Right now, he stands behind Antonov like a waiter, balancing a tray of shot glasses and an icy bottle of vodka from the Antonov distillery as if there’s nothing he’d rather do than pour you a drink and hang on your every word until he knows all your secrets. And then?

Well, then, once you’ve let him get that close, he either owns you or he kills you. Or he gets one of us to kill you. I hate that part of the job, but Sasha gets a perverse thrill out of it.

Antonov spins a bottle of vodka around as two girls in sequined G-strings hang off his shoulders. He grins at them stupidly and doesn’t spare a glance for the bald man balancing a tray behind him.

It always amazes me how people see what they want to see when they look at the man who governs Moscow’s darkness: the clubs, the girls, the smuggling rackets. I suppose that’s how he got to where he is—the ability to fade into the shadows. He’s never more dangerous than when some rich man thinks they’ve got him under control. He’s good at playing the role of a dog brought to heel and happy to be ordered around.

Antonov grins like the rich fool he is and pulls one of the giggling dancers against his side as my boss stands behind him with a face of stone, not reacting to the grinning billionaire or the half-naked girls. I’ve learned a lot about stillness and reading a room from him, but I’m not half as powerful.

I don’t think Antonov will survive to the end of the month. This is one Russian billionaire who might be of more use dead than alive as far as the Night Governor is concerned.

One of the dancers sidles up to me on the bench and tries to stroke my leg with her sparkling heel. “Move over, honey,” she says. “My friend wants to get close to you too.”

The blond pulls her long hair over her shoulder, giving me a good look at her breasts as she peeks at me from under her lashes. Does she think this is attractive? She’s drunk and I can smell the fumes as she teeters against me, putting her hand on my shoulder and stroking it down my arm.

“Did I say you could touch me?” I ask, prompting her to inch away from me, but not far enough.

I swat at her like a mosquito and focus on the rich man waving his personal brand of vodka at a crowd of strippers, as well as the shadow who looms at his back. For such a large man, Guelman is remarkably able to fade into the background. It’s a kind of power, but one I don’t have with my face. It irritates me how women always want to fuck me. Like I don’t have anything better to do.

One of the girls moves away, but her friend starts simpering and leaning down so that her nipples poke toward my face, obscuring my view of the stage and the guests moving through the dark tables. Most importantly, she’s blocking my view of the exits. I can’t bear sitting anywhere if I can’t see how to get out. Do these fools think I haven’t seen breasts before?

I bend down and pull out the knife that I tucked under the red bench seating. The curved blade and black handle embossed with mother-of-pearl stars is of much less use than the flick knife in my boot, but it was a present from my best friend Sasha and it looks threatening. He and I pull these out for show because they’re only good for teenage girls and other irritants. Both knives are too blunt to kill anyone, which is why we like them. You wouldn’t want to slip and accidentally hit a passing artery.

The knife goes with the scar that slashes down the side of my left cheek—a souvenir from my time at the orphanage. Sasha got to the guy before he could do more than draw a line from my eye to my mouth. At times like this, I’m grateful for it, especially when the scar and my thunderous expression finally have the desired effect on the two teenagers. But to make sure they’ve gotten the hint, I point the tip of the blade at the tall blond.

“Take your little friend and give a man some space.” I gesture with the knife, watching it catch the stage lights as they start to flicker.

The blond pouts.

“Move it,” I say, speaking louder as the room darkens. I need to see my way out and let my eyes adjust before the act starts. That’s what I’m here to do. To be the Night Governor’s eyes and ears and make sure everything goes to plan. Not that I know what his plans are. He doesn’t share his ideas with the hired muscle.

As the girls shuffle away, I view the straight shot to two exits and find nothing unfamiliar. I search the darkness for Sasha, but I can’t spot my best friend. He might have a clearer idea of what’s going on between Guelman and Antonov. He usually does.

My heartbeat slows, and I relax into the corner, my eyes scanning the room as the stage lights illuminate a woman wearing a cloud of gold beads. Her cowboy boots shimmer under the lights. Gold streaks her long, wavy hair as well. She looks like a Russian icon with her olive skin and a cloud of golden-and-bronze curls framing her face. She bows her head as I take her in, and then she throws her arm out, pointing at me as she begins to sing.

“Break up, break down, breakout!” Her voice rings over the heads of the mingling Moscow nightlife. Most of them probably aren’t listening, but I can’t tear my eyes away as she sings about taking the walls down brick by brick until you can climb over the rubble.

She reaches into the darkness, and it feels like she’s singing directly to me. I don’t know what about her holds my complete attention. With her upward slanted eyes, sharp cheekbones, and that cloud of hair spun with gold, she isn’t conventionally pretty, but something about her deep voice pulls at me.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the red velvet and let her voice caress me. I shouldn’t allow myself to take this moment when I’m working, but I let myself breathe as her voice drops low like a suggestion, and I imagine building a world with just the power of the notes she sings.

I open my eyes as the last notes ring in the silence before the low hum of chatter begins again. Antonov is still goofing around like a court jester, and my boss is still standing behind him, probably waiting to slit his throat.

Satisfied that I didn’t miss anything important, I let my eyes stray back to the angel on the stage. As she brings the microphone to her lips and stands silently for a moment, I see one hand move to the corner of her eye to catch something and wipe it away. A tear? And then she gives a bright smile, and her husky voice eases through the murmur of the crowd.

“Spasiba, Moskva! Ya tibia llublu,” she says.

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