Page 29 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Sasha smirked and said in his thick accent, “Looks like Svetlana’s taking a liking to you.”
Milo came up from snorting a line, pinching the end of his nose. “Serious question. Why is every Svetlana either a stripper or a hooker?” He looked around the table, expression earnest. “Is that name Russian for “slut” or something?”
Sasha turned his mirrored lenses on Milo, his tone flat. “Careful. My sister’s name is Svetlana.”
Milo blinked. “Oh shit, not this Svetlana, right?” He jabbed a thumb toward the girl in Daniel’s lap, grinning like it was a joke worth making. “That’d be wild.”
The mood at the table became frostier than a Siberian winter.
Daniel reached out a hand and smacked the back of Milo’s head, just as he was lowering it back to the lines of coke. His head hit the table with a meaty thud, shattering the glass tray. “Ow, fuck, man!” he said, trying to dust off the blow and shards of crystal embedded in his forehead.
“Sorry,” Daniel said to the table at large. “That’s his off button.”
Sasha’s face remained inscrutable, thanks to those ugly-ass glasses. But apparently, the whole deal wasn’t about to go south because of Milo’s mouth, because he said, ‘You have our product?’
Daniel reached down with one arm, lifted the duffle off the floor, and placed it on the table. “Five keys.Certificada.”
Sasha opened the duffle and pulled out one brick of heroin. It was wrapped in white plastic and stamped with a black hand print and the number thirteen.
Svetlana was doing her utmost to get his attention. She ran a hand down his chest and across his stomach, close enough to the waistband of his jeans to make a tremor start in his knees. When that still didn’t work, she placed the same hand on his cheek, tilted his face towards her and kissed him.
He kissed her back, using that brief interval of time to work out how he was going to handle this situation. Specifically, how he was going to handle it if she didn’t stop in her relentless pursuit to get into his pants.
Something hard pressed flat against the small of his back. Daniel didn’t need to look to know it was a pistol, with a short barrel and a thick grip.
Svetlana.
He didn’t know where she’d hidden the weapon, given her lack of…pockets. But the answer was, of course, obvious. When she’d sauntered up to their table a moment ago, not a single man at it had been looking at her hands.
She pulled away from the kiss, eyes flicking upward.
Daniel followed her gaze—to Borya, who was still on the mezzanine. Watching. His face unreadable. Borya’s eyes went to his brother below him, then back to Daniel. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Daniel closed his eyes. He experienced a sinking sensation, like his soul was dropping out of his body.
Borya had just sent him a message. And Daniel was powerless to do anything but follow it.
Sasha had been busy conferring with his comrade in muttered Russian. He reached down and placed a large leather satchel on the table. “Two hundred and forty k,” he said to Daniel. “As agreed.”
Daniel wrapped his fingers around the gun behind him. “Apparently, the price has gone up,” he said calmly, leveling his gaze at Sasha.
Sasha raised his eyebrows in confusion. That expression—half confusion, half arrogance—was the last thing his face ever did.
Daniel fired once. The shot cracked like lightning. Sasha’s skull disintegrated, splattering the room with brain and bone.
A millisecond before that happened, Svetlana threw herself under the table. That action alone made her the smartest one at that table, because everyone else at it got sprayed in Sasha’s brain matter.
Daniel didn’t realize he was on his feet until he felt the ground shift and he had to grip the table to stay upright. There was a roaring in his ears; it was his own blood blasting through his head. The sour tang of copper and spilled champagne filled the air.
In the immediate aftermath, there was total silence. Then it abruptly gave way to screaming, feminine and high-pitched. Daniel thought it was coming from one of the girls—maybe Svetlana under the table—but then he realized it was coming from Milo. He was crouched on the floor, covered in Sasha’s blood and brain matter. “What the fuck, man?” he squealed.
Daniel didn’t answer, just strode to the stairs, wiping the grip of the pistol on his shirt before tossing it aside. Ears still ringing, he took the steps three at a time, not slowing his stride till he got to Borya’s glass walled office on the upper floor.
The older Russian was standing behind his desk, waiting for him. His face was a mask of calm, like he regularly watched the execution of his family members. Which, apparently, he did.
“Gracias,” he said, in an even thicker accent than his brother’s.
Daniel was still panting. “What the fuck was that all about?”
