Ravil gives him work–at a very generous wage–to help them out. He's not just pakhan to the bratva. He considers himself a sort of tribal leader to everyone in the building.
"The studio is just past the elevators on your left." Leo invites in a young couple.
I'm in a suit, my tattoos mostly covered, other than those that crawl up my neck. I try to keep the customary menace and suspicion from showing on my face, while still monitoring their every move.
It's my job to assess danger at this entry point. I'm the gatekeeper. The guy who keeps out all threats to our occupants, especially to our pakhan.
Security cameras are on, recording everything. The stairwell doors lock from the outside. No one can take an elevator without a keycard. I see everyone who goes in or out of the restrooms.
Nikolai, Oleg, and Adrian are inside the studio, armed and extremely dangerous.
Still, this level of intrusion into what is normally an impenetrable fortress has me on edge.
Nikolai and Chelle saunter out to the lobby of the building holding glasses of champagne. I notice Nikolai's drink appears untouched. He may appear casual, but he's on duty like I am.
Chelle sets a small plate of hors d'oeuvres on the counter for me. "Nikolai said no alcohol for you, but I brought you some snacks."
I clear my throat trying not to look too grateful because Nikolai, who is normally laid-back, gets irrationally jealous of his fiancée. "Thank you."
"How many have come through?" Nikolai asks, knowing I will have an exact tally in my head.
"Forty-nine in, twenty-two out," I report.
Chelle looks disappointed. She's a publicist with the top publicity firm in the city, and she arranged a social media blitz to advertise tonight's open house. "Well, there's still another hour."
Personally, I think there are plenty in attendance. More than I like having to keep track of.
"There's hardly anything left in there to buy," Nikolai consoles, his hand possessively at Chelle's back.
Though they've been together a few months, I'm not used to this domesticated version of Nikolai. Nor of any of my brothers who are now paired with a woman.
Ravil's break with the bratva code of forbidding marriage and relationships seems more dangerous than anything else he's done.
Seeing my brothers paired up, seeing them in love, leaves me cold. I've already seen how irrational the women make them. How the females cloud their judgment and affect their decision-making.
Most of all, it creates some kind of scratchy void deep inside me. A prompting to wonder what it would be like for me to claim a woman. To have someone soft and beautiful warming my bed.
Not that I don't bring a woman home on occasion. I get my basic sexual needs met. But finding a partner–that's something different.
The mere idea of it creates unease in me. A noisy clamoring of danger.
I'm sure it's related to some basic primal wound of having my mother abandon me at a very young age. Who could blame her? My father was a monster.
But I've never known why she didn't take me with her.
Chelle walks over to praise Leo and asks him how he's doing while Nikolai leans against the counter and eats one of the toothpicks loaded with fancy olives from my plate.
"You hate this, don't you?" Nikolai asks me as Maxim and Sasha join us.
"Every second," I confirm.
"So do I." Maxim's watchful gaze sweeps the newcomers. He, of all of us, hates outsiders in the building most. His wife, Sasha, is the daughter of Igor Antonov, the now-deceased Moscow pakhan, who arranged her marriage to Maxim before his death last year. She inherited his interest in oil wells worth over sixty million dollars, which put her in the crosshairs of every mudak who dreams of taking her black gold from her. Igor chose Maxim to be her husband, deeming him the best able to protect her.
Maxim will probably spend the rest of his life anticipating threats to her safety.
"But we do these things to make life as normal as it can be for the women. As much as I'd prefer to keep them locked in the penthouse and never let out."
Sasha chuckles and wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. "Such gallantry."
Maxim's lips curve. "I try."
Chelle returns to Nikolai's side, and the two couples head back into the pottery studio. As I watch them retreat, I try to ignore the niggle of jealousy that fills me every time I see one of my happily-married brothers with his wife.
Kira
The crack house is exactly what the name suggested. It's in a decrepit neighborhood. A side of America I didn't know existed. Streets are littered with garbage. Ramshackle buildings are covered with graffiti. The front windows are boarded up at the address Officer Green gave me. I climb the steps, which are littered with cigarette butts, trash, and a couple of hypodermic needles. I bang on the door. When no one answers, I try the handle. It opens.
There are people inside. It smells of stale smoke and rank bodies. There are several dirty mattresses littering the floor, and trash covers every other inch of it. Someone sits up on the couch. A woman, I think. Her matted hair falls in her face. She's nothing but skin and bones like Anya, her eyes hollowed out and dark.
"Who the fuck are you?" She reveals rotted, stained teeth when she speaks.
"My name is Kira Koslova."
"Another Russian." The woman lurches to her feet, staggering when she arrives. She ignores me, searching the floor for something.
"Did you know my sister? Anya?"
"You got a cigarette?"
"No. Did you know Anya?"
She shoots me a disgusted look. "Yeah, I knew her. She's dead."
"I know. I came from Russia when the police called."
"So? What do you want?"
"I'm looking for her son, Mika. Is he here?"
The woman stops searching the floor and swivels. "She didn't have a son."
My hands clench into fists. A white-hot rage floods my chest, heats my face. It's irrational, but potent just the same. "She did," I snarl. "He'd be fifteen now. Her son."