Page 46 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

So I do it.

When I press the bell, a melody that sounds vaguely like Mozart tinkles pleasantly from within. I can’t help a wry smirk. Yeah, this guy’s doorbell probably cost more than my mom’s entire apartment building, but what can you do? Such is life.

The next second, the massive door swings open—just a few inches—to reveal a suspicious eye.

I guess he looks like your stereotypical butler, kind of like the stooped, big-browed terror I used to lock in the fridge in the Lara Croft computer game I played at the library back in the day. Definitely not double-height, which is reassuring. His entire face is fighting against gravity and losing, a mass of wrinkles hanging down, all of which combines to help make him look severe with a capital S.

“Yes?” he asks in an infinitely weary tone. How appropriate.

“I …”

What the hell do I even say? Why didn’t I plan this out before?

Hello there, I know I look like the sketchy type of hobo you normally would send away and/or report to the police, but trust me, I’m different. I’m one of the non-drug-addicted, non-schizophrenic, non-violent, non-crazy, good-hearted, just-fell-on-rough-times homeless folk. So, would you kindly send Mr. Vaknin my regards and request his audience if he can spare a minute?

Big Brow Butler is still gazing at me. He was expecting a response several seconds ago.

“Mr. Vaknin is expecting me,” I decide on finally.

The butler’s hooded gaze sweeps from me to Chowder, who’s straining ahead, delighted at the prospect of contact with another human less grumpy than me. I can tell he is highly suspicious that a man like Mr. Vaknin would ever be waiting on a wretch like me.

“Please, if you could just tell him …” I trail off, disgusted with how shrill and desperate my own voice sounds.

I won’t say it. I won’t.

I have nowhere else to go.

But this old guy is showing no signs of budging, and if he doesn’t tell Gavril … well, what then? Do I just storm around, demand entry until Gavril notices there’s some wack job that he recognizes outside? What if he’s not home?

I really, really did not think this through.

“Who is it, Walter?” a voice says from further within. The butler has closed it to only a crack. That’s reasonable. If I were him, I wouldn’t let me in either.

The two of them exchange some indistinct words. Then I hear, “Well, we better let her in.”

The two doors swing open to reveal a familiar face. It takes me a few seconds to place him—Gavril’s bald assistant, the one with the expressive face.

He shakes my hand. “Ludmil.”

“Joy.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He breaks free of our handshake to waggle a finger to Chowder, who’s charging forward with jubilant obliviousness. He nods to the butler.

In one concise motion, the man picks up the dog, holding him away from his body as Chowder’s legs cycle with unhampered glee.

I don’t move. “Chowder goes where I go,” I state firmly.

Ludmil and the butler exchange a look. Ludmil nods. “Alright then. But you both need to be bathed.”

I can’t argue with that. The last time I had a decent shower was … well, better not to dwell on it.

Although after a few more steps, Ludmil pauses awkwardly. “I’ll be notifying Mr. Vaknin of your arrival while you get cleaned up. As for your dog, would you object to being cleaned separately?”

Instinctively, a ‘no’ coils in my head, then I brush it off. I’m being ridiculous. If Gavril’s entourage wanted to be assholes to Chowder and me, they would’ve given us the boot at the door. And it’s not like they’ll be overly tempted to dognap the fifteen-pound Scottish terrier who reeks of eau de sardine. Cute as I find him, Chowder ain’t winning the Westminster Dog Show anytime soon.

“Fine,” I finally say.

Immediately, Ludmil is all efficient bustle. “Excellent. Walter will help you with that.”

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