Page 15 of Only for Him
It’snight when I arrive at Brighton Beach.
It’s a neighborhood of Cyrillic, Baltic amber, and shirtless old men sunbathing during snowstorms.
Fabergesits between a bodega that sells loose cigarettes and a hybrid restaurant/night club.
Russo will throw a fit when he hears that I’m doing this alone. Everything about this is against protocol. But ever since we got back from Manhattan, protocol was the last thing on my mind.
The front desk swims in an aquarium of light. Humidity laced with the sour-sweet perfume of wet skin and spilled vodka chokes the air. A line of men in tracksuits waits for towels. Their rheumy eyes turn towards me in an attempt to figure out what I’m selling. If I’m one of theirs or someone to be wary of.
One of them grunts and turns to the other. Quiet chuckles ring out in the wet air, and I’m all but forgotten.
They look but don’t see.
Not likehim.
I know his blue eyes see me even when he’s not looking.
I think of that photo, the one that perfectly captured me. Seeing myself the way he must see me. How he notices little details like the strands of hair brushing across my face. How he angled the camera to compose the photo with equal parts darkness and light.
It’s unsettling. It’s disturbing.
And a part of me desperately wants him to do it again.
Flashing my badge, I ask the boy at the front desk—fifteen, if that—for the manager. He makes a quick call and then points me down a marble corridor that’s seen more ass than the Coney Island boardwalk.
“Ivan Sergeyevich’s office is at the end of the hallway,” he says.
“I want his last name, not his patronymic.” I’ve dealt with enough Russians at this point to ask.
To address a Russian by his patronymic—the name of his father—is a sign of respect. I have no intention of respecting whoever I’m about to speak with. Not here.
The boy’s face breaks out into a humorless smile. “Tupolev.”
“Spasibo, molodoi chelovek.” My pronunciation is off, but that’s not the point.
This is my way of telling him that I won’t be fooled.
My hand never leaves my sidearm as I descend, and I do my best to not inhale too much of the still, humid air.
Ivan Tupolev waits in the office, beady eyes practically gleaming in the light when I enter. In the corner above him is a security camera, one that I’m positive will always keep himoutof the frame.
Convenient.
“Detective,” he drags my title like it’s a joke. And maybe for a man like him, it is. “Come. Sit.”
I don’t.
“How can I help you?” He folds his hands in front of him, and I can’t help notice the distinctive Bratva tattoos beneath the rings on his fingers and the eight-pointed compass on the back of his hand.
I bet if I ask him about those, he’ll just say that was a past life.
But both of us know better. You never leave the Bratva. Not after you’ve been inked.
“Councilman MacDougal,” I say in my well-rehearsed cop voice, the same one I still practice in the mirror, embarrassed even in my empty apartment with its thick walls.
But all that practice has made perfect.
Ivan’s smile is slow, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “Councilman was a good customer. Big tipper. You want his locker number? I can arrange.”
