Page 9 of Vitaly

I’m sure every mother has said that. But mine? She meant it. Except not just in her head, in the walls. In invisible drones that followed my brothers and me around as school children, monitoring us breaking our toys or climbing the neighbors’ fences. My mother saw all. As a little girl, I wondered how it could be possible, how she could truly see everything.

Now as I walk down one of the most dangerous streets in Las Vegas at a quarter to midnight, my ears picking up every little sound, my neck hairs buzzing at the slightest shift behind me, it’s obvious. It wasn’t sight that revealed all. It was intuition. She was a mama bear, and we were her cubs. Her ears were always sensitive, her neck always buzzing.

Tonight, the envelope I’ll be securing at the Fun House is my cub. And I am its mama.

I’m not letting Nikita down.

I’m not lettingmyselfdown.

Shuffling sounds from an alley as I pass, and I instinctively flick the blade tucked inside my sleeve halfway into my palm, never looking that way. I don’t slow my gait, and I don’t let myshoulders hang. If somebody tries to mug me tonight, they’re the ones who should be afraid.

When I reach the dark stairs of the Fun House, I give a quick survey of the street, spotting only a few crackheads up the road paying no attention to me. I descend to the unmarked door. After five kicks of my foot, a metal slot lifts to reveal the bushy eyebrows of a man, his irises peeking through the opening.

“We don’t want any Girl Scout cookies,” he chides in a gravelly voice like he’s never gone a day without a cigarette since he was ten.

I raise my chin, clasping my hands behind my back and shimmying the blade up my sleeve. “I’m here on behalf of Nikita Petrov. I believe you have something of his.”

The man cackles, and I’m lucky there’s a door between us because his lungs don’t agree with the laugh. He hacks through a fit of coughs before finally getting his breathing under control.

“Petrov sent a bitch to do the pickup? Get the fuck out of here.”

My lips purse, but I’m not surprised by this. I came prepared.

I move my hair over my shoulder and turn to reveal the tattoo behind my ear. It’s simple. A serpent with Petrov etched into its belly. But it’s powerful. It shows my devotion to my Pakhan, and to some, perhaps it’s a symbol of ownership. Either way, if I belong to Nikita, emotionally or physically, I am not to be fucked with by the likes of a low-level babysitter such as this man.

“Make your call if you must, but I have a schedule to keep,” I say. “You don’t want to keep the Pakhan waiting.”

It’s a lie, of course. Nikita is probably laughing at me, in his bed with another woman, pondering how I’ll ever get home. He doesn’t give a shit about this money. He cares more about watching me fail. About putting me in my place.

Bushy Eyebrows grunts before letting the metal slot slam shut. Three locks disengage before the door creaks open, and I step inside.

The place is a dump, as expected. Nothing but dirty white tile that leads down a hall to what must be the “fun” part of Fun House. Tacky beaded curtains hang over the entrance to block my view but do nothing to mute the occasional thump or distant moan.

Thank fuck. ThankfuckI was born an Alekseev. My family name means little here. In fact, Nikita seems to enjoy spitting on it more than anything else.

But in Russia, before Vitaly Petrov ruined my family, it meant something. And in this moment more than ever, I’m grateful for that. Because if I’d been made an actual whore…

“Here,” Eyebrows grunts from his little desk by the door.

I unclasp my hands to take the envelope from him. When I open it, he scoffs.

“It’s all there.”

I glance up from the cash bulging the manilla envelope.

He rolls his eyes. “I might short you, but I wouldn’t short the Pakhan. We’re all good. You can go.”

I take a moment to consider him before closing the envelope and tucking it into my inside jacket pocket. Eyebrows stares pointedly at the purse hanging off my shoulder but doesn’t voice the question.

As if I would ever be stupid enough to carry Nikita’s money in apurse. In Naked City. At midnight.

I throw my hair over my shoulders to let it rain down my back then walk out the door with my pulse slightly higher than when I went in.

Step one was a success. Now I just have to get to the warehouse to drop the cash off. No one in their right mind inside the Bratva would ever help me prove Nikita wrong, so thatmeans I really do have to take the bus then walk another two miles, but… Once I’m out of Naked City, the rest should be cake.

Though several blocks from the bus stop, I walk down the sidewalk with a confident gait, not once taking my eyes off my destination. From my periphery, I catch the eyes of the alley cats and a random guy strutting by himself on the other side of the street.

A few cars pass, and when the third slows, I jerk my knife from my sleeve.

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