Page 92 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Until he says something I don’t expect.

“I know you,” the man burps.

I freeze.Fuck.

I’ve grown out my beard and my hair in the six weeks I’ve been stranded in Chicago. I barely recognize myself.

But somehow, this drunk moron found something he recognizes.

That’s not good.

That’s not good at all.

“No,” I say, “you don’t.” I turn away in a hurry and face the back of the bar again.

But the man’s eyes stay locked on the side of my face. He only looks away when the bartender comes over and slaps a beer down in front of him. Then, after one more searing glance, he stumbles over to the corner where his buddies are all lounging.

I hear them start to jabber in rapid-fire Albanian. And my adrenaline ticks up a notch.

I can’t afford to lose this lead, however thin it may be. But I can’t afford to let a bar full of mob-connected Albanians figure out who I am, either.

I just need to duck out of sight for a few minutes. Let the heat die down. Then I can come back in and find a different victim.

The bathroom is down a long hallway that takes a sharp right turn behind the kitchen. I go in and breathe. Running cold water from the tap, I splash some on my face.

“Get your fucking shit together,” I growl at my reflection.

The man in the mirror looking back at me is grim. Haunted. My cheeks are gaunt, my eyes deeper and darker than ever. But the fire that burns all the way at the bottom of them… that’s never left me. It never will.

I piss and wash my hands. Straighten up. Get ready to go back out there.

One of the other men in the group looked like he might be a talker. A thin, ratty-looking little shit. If I can just find a way to isolate him—

The bathroom door bangs open. I look up and see my ugly drunken friend.

“I know where I know you from,” he snarls.

I shake my head. “Fuck off, man.”

“Romanoff.”

I freeze again. Just for a split second. A fraction of an instant.

But it’s enough.

Enough to give me away.

“That’s what I thought,” the man says, snapping his fingers and smiling like he’s solved a puzzle. He doesn’t seem nearly so wasted anymore. “You’re Dima Romanoff.”

This is bad news…

For him.

“What are you doing in an Albanian bar in Chicago?” he wheezes with a laugh on the edge of his voice. “Don’t you have enough troubles back home?”

He laughs again. Slaps his knee like it’s all a big fucking joke.

He doesn’t know everything. But he knows enough to cause problems.

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