Page 14 of Brooklyn Bratva

As Russian as the menu was, it was the Ukranians I came to see.

The girl at the front got me a table without any of the sycophantic fuss that would have been made if this was in any other part of New York. I appreciated the straightforward service.

I’d eaten with Becca, but I could always eat more and I ordered an array of Zakuski – little dishes – along with a bottle of vodka. In Moscow, people drank vodka to get drunk and only to get drunk, or to prove how much they could handle. It was nothing more than easily acquired gut rot. But here, they mixed it into cocktails and infused it with fruits and tried to make out as if it was a speciality rather than the closest thing to pure ethanol that wouldn’t kill you.

Tatiana’s hadn’t gone in that direction. The waitress plonked down a slim, tall bottle onto my table along with a sturdy tumbler and I cracked the top and poured myself out a hefty measure.

Across the other side of the restaurant, I could see Grigori’s henchmen glaring at me. Coming here was stepping into one of their favoured haunts. Coming here was throwing my weight around. But it made sense. They couldn’t start thinking that I was going to let them get away with hooking onto more of the business ventures we’d taken such pains to establish.

It might not have been bringing in millions, but the rackets that went on in my area were key to funding the larger projects our syndicate ran. From Brighton Beach it ran up all the way to the top of the pyramid. Without me to keep it flowing, and other men like me in other outposts just like this, the pyramid would be much smaller.

I raised my glass in a silent toast across the room, and the pair shook their heads.

I downed the ice cold liquid in one go and poured another glass.

The waitress set down an array of small plates, covering the table in front of me, and one of the women who’d been at the table with the Ukranians strolled, excessively slowly, across the room towards me.

Her breasts were pushed up towards her neck, and the neckline of her top was low enough that the lace of her bra was visible. The deep red fabric stretched taut across the artificially rounded swells of them and I could have filed my tax return in the valley of her cleavage. I had no doubt I’d feel the hardened silicone lumps of the implants if I squeezed them, but I had no desire to. She was indistinguishable to me from any other whore. Paid or not, that’s what she was.

“You having a good night, Detective Kovalenko? I could make it better for you.”

The thought disgusted me. Women like her hung around men they deemed powerful. Men like the ones in Menshikov’s crew were small fry. Maybe she was trying to size up, or maybe she was doing them favors, aiming to cozy up to me and feed information back. I didn’t care which it was. She wasn’t getting anywhere with me.

“No thanks.”

She perched on the edge of the table, and her tongue traced over the bright red swell of her pouting lower lip. “You look so lonely, all on your own. A man like you should have all the company he wants.”

She leaned in closer, the sides of her arms pushing her breasts closer together. I let her draw my eyes down for another look, and a frown pulled onto my face. Compared to Becca she was a harpy.

I could see the wrinkles beneath her makeup, the bags under her eyes, and her flawless face was too plasticated to come close to looking real. All she thought she had was her body, but the way she acted like she could manipulate me with it turned me off completely.

No doubt she worked hard for her image, but it did nothing for me. She didn’t even have the intelligence to wear real perfume rather than the knock-off stuff Mehmet concocted in his brother’s lock up, and the stale flowery scent hung in the air around her.

A day ago I wouldn’t have been so disgusted, but Becca made me see how entrenched in grime I’d let myself become. This world I lived and worked in wasn’t the one I wanted for myself.

“You’re wasting your time sweetheart, Go back to your boyfriend. Tell him I’m not going to bite.”

I picked my glass up again, and knocked back another shot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her foot bounce in the air, but her frustration didn’t come out in any other way. Her smile didn’t crack. If anything it widened, and she gave an overly slow shrug.

“Whatever you say. When you change your mind, you call me.” Without hesitation, she pulled a business card out of the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans and set it down on the table. Her high shine red nail pinned it down and she didn’t pull away until I looked her in the eye. “Katja. I really think I could help you out.”

---