Page 67 of Savage Beauty

That’s it.That’s the connection I’m missing. As a fellow cop, Freddie De Silva must have known Lawrence Webster and was able to arrange for him to be at the hotel that day. Freddie expected to get paid well in return for giving Tosca some distance. I wonder if he got that money yet? My intuition tells me no; Tosca was notoriously tardy with his payouts, and the fat fuck was dead before Igor’s plan had fully unfolded.

“Okay,bratan. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

I look up another number and redial.

“Put me through to Captain De Silva.”

A short pause and Freddy is on the line, breathing too loudly. “The fuck doyouwant?”

“I wanted to extend an invitation to our gala tonight.” I pause, but Freddie is silent, and I wonder how much he knows already. “I’m gonna be formally announced as the new Kislev pakhan, and I don’t want there to be any bad blood. Seems unnecessary, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Freddy replies hesitantly. “Are the Toscas invited?”

The fucker is bluffing. He knows Tosca is dead—I can hear it in his voice—but he doesn’t understand what is actually happening.

“Of course,” I say. “I don’t know whether they’ll all turn up, but—”

“Cut the shit,” Freddie snaps. “You know Sal was killed, probably by you. I don’t know what’s happening here, but it’s nothin’ to do with me.”

Freddy sounds like every other scumbag does when they’re running scared. This loser will collapse like a house of cards as soon as I breathe on him, but I need to do that in person.

“I didn’t do anything to Sal, but we can discuss that now, at my home. Consider yourself summoned, but come alone.”

Dead air. For a minute, it looks like Freddy might refuse, but then I hear him exhale. “Fine,” he says. “But you have some explaining to do.”

I hang up with a grin.On the contrary, my idiot friend. You’ll give me what I need, or you’ll die.

After a moment’s contemplation, I call Vlad and leave a message.

“Vlad,brat. They’re swearing me in at midnight at the gala. If you don’t hear from me after that, I’m sorry. I tried.”

45

Ten hours later…

Josie

Igor’s estate used to belong to an old Hollywood star. She was known for her lavish soirees, hence this ostentatious ballroom.

Beautiful though it is, it has a kind of queasy, over-fed excess to it. On closer inspection, the luster is fading from the gold fittings, and the flock wallpaper is shabby. The Christmas tree in the center of the room is stunning, though; fifteen feet of snow-flocked greenery festooned with baubles and candy canes. A band plays festive classics in jazz style, and couples move one another around the floor.

The dress Igor insisted I wear is horrible. The cutaways on the sides are too revealing, and the split is too high in the thigh. It’s an unflattering bright pink, too brash and showgirl-style, and somehow the cheapest-looking thing I’ve ever seen, despite probably costing a fortune.

He tossed it at me along with some heeled sandals and told me to ‘make myself presentable.’ Just like Marc and every other piece of shit who reduced me to nothing more than a decoration. In all the years I was a call girl, I never looked sluttier than I do now.

I sit beside Igor, smiling benevolently as people come to talk to him. At least I have the illusion of freedom, if only for tonight.

All I want is Sasha. My heart aches to see him again, even if it’s only for a little while. My injured brow bone is masked by Tylenol and concealer, and I can only hope my smokey eye makeup hides the burgeoning bruise in the socket. Sasha can’t risk losing his temper.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for him, and Igor laughs at me. “He’ll be here, don’t worry,” he says. “If it weren’t for you, he’d have killed himself or fled by now. You’re the reason he’ll walk through that door.”

Sure enough, the revelers part, and there he is. In a maroon suit, silver tie, and mother-of-pearl cufflinks, Sasha looks devastating. I’m ashamed to be wearing this atrocity of a dress in his presence.

“Go to him,” Igor hisses. “Put on a good show, you hear me?”

Sasha sees me as I draw nearer and reaches for my hand. He pulls me close and sways me with the music, his lips beside my ear.

“Zolotse.” He puts his palm on the small of my back, stroking it gently. “I see your face. What the fuck did that bastard do to you?”

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