Page 17 of Den of Thieves

“Yes sir,” the young man hastily made his way to the door.

“And Alvin, inform me of any and all who cross Aksana’s threshold. A bit of meddling does the body good.” Alvin jerked his head and hurried off to do as the boss said.

“The things we do for those we love… Solynchnka would be proud,” he mused, stroking his chin.

5. “Who Doesn’t Like Champagne, Gin, and Lemons?”

—KARINA KOVALYOVA

Karina tossed her keys at the valet and strolled through the entrance of The Armory with the grace and confidence of someone completely in their element. She nodded to the men brave enough to make eye contact with her on the way to the bar on the far side of the lobby.

The Armory had become her outlet for frustration and her solace away from the mounting pressures of Moscow society.

She remembered her first time walking down the dark wood halls of the men’s only club—sans Aksana and Karina, per Vladimir’s orders—that smelled of rich leather, whiskey, and gun shells. She was out of her depths and afraid for her life.

Practicing her shot and honing her knife skills helped Karina heal. She would tell anyone that listened that shooting a semiautomatic weapon with two monkey tails attached was way more therapeutic than her visits to Saba. Not that she could bear to fire the eccentric ved’ma or deny her unique talents.

She sat at the bar and ordered her drink of the season before calling her MIA sister and getting her voicemail.

“AK I mean it. I will not wait for you any longer. You better be here by the time I finish my French 75.” She hung up with a sigh.

She was beyond annoyed with her sister’s continued tardiness that has now evolved into flat out flakiness on their plans. It was unusual for her and quickly becoming old.

“Ah, Mrs. Kovalyova,” a voice sounded behind her.

Karina smiled, turning around. “Mr. Sochi! I told you to call me Karina.”

“And I told you to call me Sasha. Mr. Sochi is my father, and not a nice man.”

“Then it seems we are at an impasse.” Karina’s smile disappeared and the two of them stared at each other with blank expressions, silently willing the other to yield. Finally, they both erupted into fits of laughter.

Sasha Sochi’s family was incredibly wealthy. They even had a famous ski resort town named after them. Karina genuinely liked Sasha. The older man was steadily approaching sixty and didn’t look a day over forty-five. He was six feet tall with jet black hair and blue eyes that were so pale; they were almost white. Despite never leaving Russia, he had a permanent tan on his muscular build. He was also hilarious and really came out of his shell after a few drinks.

The Armory was a family business passed down through generations.

“Raymon, another round of whatever Karina is having.”

“I never fancied you for a French 75 kind of guy.” Karina smiled as he sat down next to her, only to jump up in outrage at her statement.

“Ignore that request, Ramon. I’ll have my usual.”

Who doesn’t like champagne, gin, and lemons? She thought to herself.

Ramon smiled, setting down his Stoli Gibson on the rocks with three pearled onions. He never intended to make anything else.

Sasha peered at Karina with suspicion. “I thought you were American?”

“I am.” She laughed. “What’s wrong with a French 75?”

“What isn’t?” Sasha scoffed. “Rant about the French.”

Karina tried to hide her smile at his reddening cheeks. Sasha’s tyrannical tirade rivaled Vladimir’s.

“Do all Russian’s hate the French?”

Sasha twisted his mouth to the side. “I suppose you can say all Russians are xenophobic.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s been ingrained to us for so long it’s a part of our DNA. But we are changing. My sweet wife was a quarter Parisian, although you could never tell by looking at her.”

Karina wondered how someone could tell what a quarter Parisian was, but kept her mouth shut. She was grateful for Sasha’s company. He was in good spirits today. A rare sight after the death of his wife for twenty-five years. Then a thought occurred to her.

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