Page 91 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

31

Dima

The Crimson Eagle Bar

I drop into a stool at the corner of the bar.

The place is Albanian through and through. Albanian flags hanging from the rafters. Albanian soccer on the television.

A few patrons, white-haired old Albanian men with stooped backs and lined faces, argue in their native tongue. The younger ones speak English loudly and look around to make sure the other drinkers are noticing how alpha they are.

The man to my right belongs to the latter group. He glowers in every direction and yells at the game on the TV. Like he wants every guy in the bar to see how big and scary and fucking tough he is.

He doesn’t scare me in the slightest.

Men who want you to know they’re violent are never worth worrying about. It’s the ones who don’t give a shit what you think that you need to look out for.

The information that Gennady’s spy gathered was scant. Erik Arnaud was mixed up with the Albanians in some shape or form and the trail pointed here. He didn’t know much more than that.

But it led him to this bar, and here, he learned something about Arya. Something that spooked him. Sent him running for the goddamn hills.

I don’t like operating off such shitty intel. But it’s all I have.

The door to the bar swings open. Raucous laughter comes with it. And then a crowd of men burst in. As soon as the other patrons see who it is, they put their gazes right back in their laps.

That’s all the clue I need to realize: these are the men I’m looking for.

I angle towards them slightly. Trying to assess. To scan. To find my target.

But before I can get a good look, one of the men staggers towards the bar. He clobbers into it right next to me and bellows in my ear, “Hajde majmun!”

He’s yelling for the bartender. I don’t have to speak much Albanian to understand that his manners are lacking.

He glances down at me. His eyes are bloodshot and pinwheeling drunkenly in their sockets. “The fuck you lookin’ at?” he slurs.

I don’t bother answering. Just lean away from him and turn aside, trying to ignore the noxious fumes spewing from his mouth.

“Oi!” the man says, jabbing me in the shoulder with one fat finger. “I’m talkin’ t’ya.”

I sigh. Grimacing, I turn to face him. “That’s a fucking pity.”

His eyes whirl wildly for a moment as he processes the insult. When it clicks into place, he frowns.

I have to resist the urge to laugh. He’s the ugliest goddamn Albanian I’ve ever seen in my life. Fat cheek droop downwards. The last wisps of his thinning hair waft in the air conditioning. His shirt is a patchwork mess of stains and rips.

“What’d’ya say to me?” he mumbles. He’s swaying on his feet. Clinging to the bar like a sailor on a rocky ship.

“What Isaidwas, ‘That’s a fucking pity,’” I enunciate clearly. “What Imeantwas, you smell like you just got face-fucked by a sewage pipe and you need another drink like I need a hole in the head.”

He’s slow to process that one, too. I sit patiently and wait.

“Take your time,” I reassure him. “That was a lot of long words at once, I know.”

He totters back and forth. His frown sours even further. Beady eyes knot together beneath bushy eyebrows. Then he opens his mouth and I sigh again. My hands are twitching with energy, ready to block a blow or knock his ugly face in if need be.

I’m raring for a fight. My thinking is that, if I take this repulsive bastard out back and beat him to within an inch of his life, he might spill some useful information.

It seems like it’s all going to work out perfectly.

---