Page 142 of The Wild Charge

“Hey.” He grabbed his crotch again. “I’m real reliable in all the ways it counts.”

“Stop talking about your dick.” She swatted at him – but it was half-hearted, and she was already going back to the dresser for her badge. “The Esposito crew runs a whole block in Hell’s Kitchen. Bodega, laundromat, restaurant. I think there’s a sex toy shop, too.” She’d found her notebook and was already scribbling.

“Yeah, they do,” Pongo said. “But here’s something else Kozlov knows: Gino Esposito’s cousin – and the investor who helped him get off the ground in Hell’s Kitchen – is Sal Moretti.”

~*~

Anatoly Kobliska didn’t believe in second chances because the man who’d raised him didn’t believe in them. He was twelve when his mother hooked up with Andrei Kozlov, Pakhan of the Kozlov Bratva. An inevitable sort of collision between a working girl with a pill addiction and a wealthy, powerful, dangerous man who could feed her addiction and drape her in diamonds and furs. Beautiful, but brittle as fine crystal, his mother hadn’t lasted two years running with the bratva before she OD’d. Fatherless, with no family connections, Toly had been nothing but a burden left behind…but a burden with sharp eyes, a closed mouth, and a ready nod when his Pakhan asked something of him.

“I don’t believe in second chances,”Andrei had told him, solemn as always, cleaning a knife beside the fireplace.“You will betray me only once, and then I’ll gut you.”

Toly had worked hard, had proved himself useful and loyal; had become a shadow who could slip in and out without detection – same as he slipped knives in and out of people. He was young and scrawny, but he was scrappy. He drank too much vodka at the behest of his brothers in arms, went to the strip clubs and sex dens; rolled up his sleeves at fifteen and took the bratva’s ink beneath his skin. At seventeen, he was named to the Obshchak, one of Andrei’s valuable enforcers.

Then he was sent to America, to serve Andrei’s little cousin, Oleg. It had felt like a punishment, and proved to be one.

He didn’t believe in second chances…and yet, here he was.

He felt ancient, at twenty-five. Had seen too much, done too much. He slept a little easier, though, these days – if startling upright with a drawn knife in his hand the last time Mav shook him gently awake could be counted aseasier. His most egregious tattoos had been inked over and turned into new designs. Two, he’d kept, though: one was the little dagger on the back of his neck that marked him as Obshchak. He was still that, though he served a new master. He wore his hair to his shoulders to cover it, and the collar of his cut hid it when he put his hair back.

He wasn’t wearing his cut tonight, though, only soft colors: a faded Lean Dog hoodie with its hood pulled up to shade his eyes. He had a Glock in a shoulder holster, hidden beneath the bulky fabric, and an array of knives inside his waistband, down his boots, and up his sleeves. His wallet chain jangled, faintly, as he approached Mama’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. The sound drew the attention of the thick-necked man standing a few paces down from the door, leaning against the brick façade and smoking a cigarette, casual, as if he was simply enjoying the night air.

The restaurant had its closed sign showing in the glass door, but the windows revealed low light and diners chatting over wine and candlelight; eventually, they’d be ushered out into the night, and they’d think nothing of the big man smoking. Maybe some of the more astute among them would peg him for what he was: muscle.

When Toly was just a few strides from the door, and walking with purpose, the cigarette landed in the gutter and the man turned to block the way – an easy feat given his width. “Restaurant’s closed.”

“I have a message for your boss,” Toly said, and watched the man’s hand fly to his waist, toward a hidden gun. His English was good these days, he’d become totally fluent, but he hadn’t been able to dial back his accent. It marked him out immediately. “A written message,” he continued, and reached for it slowly in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, careful to crackle the paper so the guard wouldn’t think he was pulling a weapon. “From my boss.”

The man studied the proffered envelope a long moment before he snatched it up. “Wait here.” He went inside with one last, aggressive look over his shoulder to make sure Toly stayed put.

By the time the guard returned, a gaggle of tweakers across the street were eyeing up Toly like they were wondering how easy he’d be to rob.Try it, he thought, but then the guard was snapping to get his attention, standing in the open door, and saying, “Follow me.” The sour look on his face said he didn’t like this idea and was only following orders. Toly shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and followed.

The interior of the restaurant was cozy in a shabby, unpretentious sort of way. Vinyl tablecloths, taper candles melted into the tops of wine bottles at each table; black-painted walls and lots of framed photos; soft fairy lights overhead and low music, Sinatra crooning below the murmur of voices and cutlery. The heady scent of tomato sauce lay thick in the air.

The guard led him back through the kitchen, where the staff were in the process of cleaning up and shutting down. Most of them did a double-take when Toly passed, but he ignored them. Through the kitchen, they reached a private office, one cluttered with boxes and paperwork. A man sat behind a desk, glass of red wine at his elbow, massaging his temples as if he had a headache. The guard motioned to the chair across from it, then left, closing the door with a loud thump.

Toly moved a box aside and settled into the chair, adrift in the ass-impression of the many, many larger men who’d sat here before him.

Across from him, Gino Esposito lifted his head and fixed him with a flat, fish stare. “What are the Lean Dogs doing coming to me with tip-offs?” he asked, nudging the note that lay open on his desk.

Pulse picking up only slightly, because he’d been in tighter situations, Toly pushed up his right sleeve and turned his arm over to show the small, ornate K tattooed just below the crook of his elbow. It was red edged with black, and marked him Kozlov. Judging by the way Gino cursed and pressed back into his chair, he understood its meaning just fine.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, reaching for his top desk drawer – and presumably a gun. “Get outta my–”

“Wait.” Toly tapped the noose inked beside it. “See? They want me dead.”

Each night in the shower, when he soaped down his arm, he glanced at the ink he’d kept, thought of the dagger on the back of his neck, and wondered why he’d taken such a risk. If the bratva ever got hold of him, and found that ink, they’d carve him to pieces. They were small, but that wouldn’t matter. He’d marked himself a traitor to Kozlov, on purpose. It came in handy, in moments like these, as Gino eyed him warily, but was too great a danger in the long run.

Maybe he was a masochist.

“As you can see,” he went on, “it’s in my best interest that the Kozlovs don’t get any stronger. My president agrees. If you set a trap for the bratva, then that’s one less competitor for the both of us in the market.”

Toly wasn’t one for long rambles or wheedling or flattery. He said his piece, then pushed his sleeve back down and waited, hands on his thighs, face schooled to its usual, placid grumpiness. He thought Gino was a man who would appreciate that.

He was. After a moment, he scratched his chin in a considering way. “The enemy of my enemy, eh?”

“Yes.”

Gino nodded, then motioned to the door in clear dismissal. “I’ll think about it. Thanks for the heads up, Russian Dog.”

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