16. Vanya
16
VANYA
S t. Petersburg is still overrun.
With cell service returned in the wake of the attack, the people are nervous, but the chaos has settled down. My informants and the few remaining Volk in the city tell me the enemy has set up shop in the ports, but generally left the citizens alone.
For now.
But no one has heard anything from the council. My calls and texts go unanswered. And with Fyodor’s news, his revelation along with Matvey’s dying words…
There seems to be only one path before us.
Moscow is our best bet to get any news, either from allied Bratva or the black-market underground. Not to mention a city where I am owed many favors.
A few hours on the train from Ushaki Station, and we are there.
By nightfall we have a destination.
Spy craft has always been a part of Russian history. Especially among the military and veterans. So it is a small task to locate one of my grandfather’s old comrades from the KGB. He will decipher the chip in the ring and keep quiet about it.
“So that’s it? We just contact some old guy in a pub and then wait?”
“ Da . Do you not have networks of spies and informants in New York? You are not very good mob if you do not.”
“Hey! I didn’t say that.”
“No, you just insult my network of contacts and agents like yours is better.”
Ciro presses his lips together, making that face he makes when he wants to argue but knows better. He is finally learning.
And I am vindicated when I receive a message the next morning.
Unfortunately, it is short. But it is to the point.
A location. A code. And a short message of where to leave “live cargo” for sale.
“Sounds like human trafficking,” Ciro mutters as we make our way to a private airfield on the outskirts of Moscow.
“Sounds like we are going to Marrakesh.”
* * *
“This place is shit.”
“This place is free and we needed somewhere to sleep. And to be fair, my contact here in Morocco isn’t exactly my biggest fan. Turns out when you don’t pay your guys for a couple of years they get pissy.”
“He saw reason to get back in your good graces.”
“Yes. His balls saw reason. Do you have to squeeze every bad guy’s sack so hard?”
“Only ones who disrespect me and my man,” I sniff and Ciro’s eyes widen at my threatening expression.
“How do you manage to make my balls retreat in fear, yet make my dick so hard?”
“Because this .” I turn slowly, showing off my dress and how good my ass looks in it.
“Oh. You’re absolutely right.”
I had better stop before we tear each other’s clothes off again…
We have important things to do here.
“We will look ridiculous leaving this hovel dressed like this,” I snicker, peeking out through the tattered curtains.
“I feel like the digs are par for the course after that tin can martini shaker of a flight you had us on. Janky ride, ratty amenities.”
“Hey, Osel owed me a favor. He has plane. No questions asked and avoids authorities. It was fine.”
“My spleen is on the wrong side now. And doesn’t Osel mean ‘donkey?’”
“His name is joke, but yes.”
“Because he smuggles things like a pack mule?”
“Oh. I never thought of that. Everyone just calls him that because of his teeth and ears.”
“Clever.” Ciro snorts, repacking our duffel bag. I do love a man who can pack light.
We set our gear in silence for a few moments, waiting for the sun to go down.
As soon as dusk fades, we head out, keeping to the shadows until we reach a wide avenue, bustling with activity. Flagging down a cabby, we give him an address near our target.
We must be cautious about who knows where we are heading.
“Hopefully your contact did not spread word around that you are alive and in town.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. The last time I was here was years ago. There’s no way anyone remembers.”
Ten minutes later, we are standing outside of a row of hole-in-the-wall casinos, black market stalls. The part of town where back-alley deals take place in the open.
“You were saying?” I mutter, pointing at a poster as we navigate the tight crowd. Ciro’s face is printed on the doorway of almost every locale with what I can only assume means either “wanted” or “banned” in bold red lettering on the top.
“Oof. Good thing it was during my ‘ironic glasses and frosted tips’ era.”
“Ah, yes. You were big douche, da ?”
“Huge.”
“The scar on your face helps.” I remark, squeezing his arm through the elegant white coat he donned for the occasion.
“We do not speak of it!” he hisses, shuffling on.
I admire his ass for a moment before catching up. Giving him credit, he has excellent taste. Somehow he even picked my dress out, size and all.
And even more shocking, we blend right in. Dotting the scenery of the criminal rabble are other finely dressed moguls, socialites. Apparently, this is the place to taste the forbidden, even for the elite.
Following my GPS locator, we veer out of the flow of the crowd, down a dim alleyway. Hallways and alleys split off, a veritable maze that someone could easily get lost in. Likely to meet a cruel and vicious death at the hands of local thieves and murderers.
We have an edge.
Ciro’s generous contact slipped a small detail about the place we are looking for. The black light flashlight illuminates the symbols at each turn, guiding us to a doorway, guarded by a couple of gorillas in black suits.
I almost make a Ciro-comment about stereotypes. Our eyes meet and I bite my lip when he sees we share the same thought.
“I really am rubbing off on you.”
“Not out here. Let’s wait until we get inside?” I smirk, putting on my persona as we approach the stone-faced bouncers. My hips sway, my lips pout.
“Keep that up and the front of my pants will match my jacket,” he mutters.
One of the men raises his hand.
Ciro high-fives it.
Bad start. The other guard’s eyes widen until Ciro flashes cash and a smile, leaning in just before one of them pummels him and whispers the code we deciphered from the ring, “ Afus n ucengu. ”
A local dialect, apparently.
Immediately they resume their post, tapping on the steel door and looking ahead as if nothing happened. My kind of men. They know their job.
Stairs lead down into a bustling underground casino.
It’s overwhelming, a bit stifling. But it is luxurious, decorated with finery and sparkling crystal and gold at every turn. The guests are no less gaudy.
Tables of cards, craps, any game imaginable, fill each room, assigned to its game. Each holds entertainment as well. Small stages with performers, mostly half-naked women dancing, bending.
“She is beautiful,” I comment, nudging Shakal. The dancer in question bends back, her eyes focused on Ciro.
“Very,” he remarks offhanded, but his hand slides down my side, caressing my hip as he smiles. “But she’s not looking at me.”
“Hm. She is not my type.” I shrug, leading him on through the maze of color and sound.
“You have a type?”
“This is mystery you may never know…”
Ciro blinks a few times, his head tilting to the side in consideration.
“Shakal.”
“Huh?”
“You are drooling.”
“Well yeah. Look at this spread! All you can play, all you can drink. All you can eat…” He glances to a row of servers swaying by, each of them carrying a tray full of pills, powders, smokables.
“What is it you call it?”
“Buffet.”
“Perhaps later. For now, we focus.”
“And blend in,” his eyebrows wag as he offers me his arm and heads toward a table. “Keep an eye out for anyone being escorted to a VIP area or something.”
“I know my job, jackass. You focus on not making scene.”
“Pssh. I would never.”
Until several minutes later.
“Come on, baby!” Ciro bellows, laughing uproariously and enjoying himself way too much. “We could dispense with the formalities, chums. Just give me your money and we’ll call it a day.”
Every man at the table glares at Ciro and his ridiculous British accent. So much for lying low.
“Must be my good luck charm…” Shakal looks up at me lovingly.
“If I help you win, you owe me a new yacht,” I pout, dipping a bit lower over his chair and flaunting my cleavage. The tempers at the table cool down, distracted by my boobs.
Men are so predictable.
And frankly, my boobs are spectacular.
“If I win, I’ll buy you a fleet, gorgeous.” He grins like idiot.
I pretend to giggle, to swoon.
Ugh.
All the while scanning the crowds for what we need. There!
A cluster of dour looking men, all in dark suits, head toward one of the back hallways. Most of them scan the gatherings, clearly bodyguards. The two in the center are aloof, oblivious. Rich.
Tapping my lover twice on the shoulder, I signal that it is time to move. He should fold. Cash out.
“Call,” he croons.
Dammit.
Once again, the chips slide toward Ciro. With a haughty laugh and an innocent shrug, he rises. Every one of the opponents rises with him, looks of violence on their faces.
“Deal them in for a thousand each, and buy these gentlemen a lap dance on me.” Ciro turns, leaving the table without a backward glance.
Well played.
They resume, some of the men cheering his praise. An attendant rushes to the table, gathering the rest of our earnings and tallying them up. Efficient. Honest.
A well-run den. Whoever is in charge knows how to cater to their clientele.
“You know, you could have just let them win one round.”
“Hand. And no. That sort of weakness is unacceptable.” He puts on that terrible Russian accent again. Mocking. “But seriously, winning like a jackass will make me more forgettable than being mysterious or nonchalant. Especially since we stand out like a sore thumb, otherwise. This way, I am just a thrill-seeking, foolish debutant.”
“You mean target for when we leave.”
“Risks of the mission.”
“Hm,” I sniff, “Or perhaps you just cannot abide losing.”
“Oh, I’ve lost before. To be fair, it was to Ero. No one beats Ero. He’s too good at bluffing. Mostly because he never bluffs.”
“Your statement makes no sense.”
“My twin brother made no sense. But he was the only person who could ever beat me.”
We zigzag through the press, vanishing in ambiguity by watching the entertainment on each stage, room to room. By the time we reach the back of the building, no one is paying us a bit of attention.
Just to be safe, I grab Shakal, pressing into him.
“Frisky, are we?” His hands are firebrands on my body, drawing me close. Our lips connect, teasing. My hand drifts down, cupping the growing bulge in his pants.
No longer pretending to be getting handsy, we push through the door. To anyone watching, we are just two lovers looking for a quick tryst.
The game continues as we explore the back rooms of the casino.
Kissing, biting, slipping my hand down his pants. He tickles the crease at the top of my thighs, toying with my ass cheeks. Before long, we are both on fire.
Shoving into a storage closet, I nearly tear his pants open, sliding the stunning length of his cock out into my hand. Jerking him off roughly, I do not hesitate, rucking up my skirt and shoving him back against a shelf.
“You are my kind of insane,” he gasps, claiming my lips and slipping a finger down my crack, into my slick opening.
“It is your fault. You are too distracting.”
“Then we’d better take care of the problem.”
“Yes…” I moan as he turns me around, tugging my back against his chest and slipping his thick shaft between my legs, brushing along my folds. “We must be quick…we need to find secret entrance…”
Locking an arm around me, he spins, pinning me to the wall. My palms and my cheek plant against the cool stone. It’s a sweet relief on my blushing face.
“Found it,” Ciro breathes into my ear, plunging into me. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming in ecstasy. My hand clamps over my mouth as he thrusts again.
“You’re so deep…”
“You’re so wet,” he moans softly.
“Just for you…”
No more words are spoken. He simply grips my hair, pulling back to bite my neck. Shivers of delicious bliss and gentle pain send explosions through my brain. Heat fills my core.
He fills me so sweetly.
“Fuck me,” I beg, knowing I will come undone soon.
What can I say?
Danger makes me horny.
Ciro plows me from behind, filling me, stretching my inner walls to the limit. Each powerful stroke driving closer.
I am a second from reaching down when his fingers find my apex, spreading back the hood of my sex. Lightning strikes. Thunder roars.
Electric pulses careen down my limbs, up my spine and across my skin like static shocks. Biting down on my lip, my throat tightens against the scream I want to let out. Holding it in only adds to the tension in the pleasure, imploding into my center as Ciro erupts within me, gritting his teeth to keep from singing with me.
We pant in the dark, the tight space, his head resting against mine. Sweat and sex fill my nostrils, an intoxicating blend of us.
Until we hear a scuffle outside in the hall.
Fixing our clothing, we wait by the door, hearing footsteps pause, then continue. Trying not to laugh, we slip out into the hall, crossing silently behind the two guards to the opposite entryway.
Weaving through a few more doors, it is pure luck that has Ciro gripping my arm as he peers around the corner. “Van.”
The symbol in red painted on the wall at the end of a long, spotless hallway.
Scanning the lamplit surface, I am about to give up when my fingers pass over a groove.
“Shakal, the ring.”
“Sorry, the best man isn’t here yet. He lost it at the bachelor party inside a hooker. You know. Dirty comedy style.”
“If you hadn’t just melted my mind with amazing sex, I would choke you.”
“Are you trying to get me hard again, cause…” He passes me the signet ring.
The gemstone fits into place. A click. Then the wall slides open.
“Okay, now I really am turned on. That’s top-notch spy shit.”
“Agreed. Now quit trying to make me laugh. I still have you inside me.” I bob my eyebrows as we head inside.
“What do you me—oooooh,” Ciro whispers, taking my hand as we descend into a brightly lit foyer. A butler waits below, his expression impassive. “Hi, Kensington, party of two. We have reservation.”
The man does not blink. He simply holds out his hand.
With a shrug, Ciro deposits way too much money. The bills vanish with a flick of the man’s wrists, his hand returning to its position.
“The ring, darling.”
“Our invitation, my apologies. Keep the tip.”
Slipping the ring into a case on the wall, the butler gestures, waving us through the archway. A voice echoes through the corridor, a rich baritone, a light accent. Distinguished. Refined.
The auditorium is low lit, likely to hide the identities of the audience facing the stage. To add to the intrigue, many of them wear masks, opulently decorated, others simple. What strikes me immediately, are the paddles in each of the guests’ hands.
An auction, then.
As my eyes adjust and we are shown to our seats, I take stock of the stage. The host, or auctioneer matches the voice perfectly. Middle-aged. Middle Eastern. A clean goatee and a ten-thousand-dollar suit, standing behind a podium.
Next to him, several stands hold silk covered objects.
But it is not these that catch my attention.
A woman stands in the spotlight, shaking slightly.
Ciro and I exchange glances. This is the right place. Or perhaps the very, very wrong place.
“Do I have another bid?”
One paddle raises to the right. Another to the left.
“Two million. That’s two-five.”
The stunning woman in the center of the stage stares out into beam of the spotlight, her expression neutral, almost bland. Likely a concubine. Raised for this.
It makes my blood boil.
But this is the way of the world. These are the harsh realities women must face. I myself narrowly avoided being sold in my youth. Just after Mama and Papa died.
The men who tried did not survive.
Ciro squeezes my hand as someone else bids, the auctioneer announcing the winner.
“Once, twice, sold to the gentleman.” He gestures and the winner stands, taking a sharp bow. Asian. Probably out of Hong Kong. Possibly Triad leadership.
In the brief bustle of leading the “prize” from the stage and informing the buyer of where to retrieve his purchase, Ciro leans in close.
“You look like you want to murder everyone in here. You alright?”
“Fine.” The acid in my tone and my eyes tells him enough. Shakal leans back but keeps his hand on mine.
Twenty minutes and several more outrageous items later, the auctioneer calls for a recess. Most of the patrons retire to the lobby for refreshments. Shakal makes a beeline for the host.
“What are you?—”
Pointless to try and stop him sometimes.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Ciro says in a very believable French accent, “My wife didn’t see anything that was quite to her liking tonight so far. I was curious if you had any other more… offres exotiques . More exquisite items, you know.”
A tight smile graces his smooth face. “The second half of the auction has much more to behold, I assure you. Surely something unique enough to please your enchanting bride.”
I smile demurely, letting him take my hand, kiss it.
Someday, I will cut those lips from his face.
“Indeed. One would be most gracious and appreciative to behold, or rather, preview said selections. T’es accord ?”
Of course Ciro actually speaks French. Ridiculous.
“I understand you completely, monsieur. Follow me.”
Tugging at his sleeve discreetly, I flash Shakal a warning look. We are in the depths of a building we do not know the way out of. Not wise to venture further.
Yet he is right when he twitches his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs. What else can we do? If Pyotr is here, or any sign that he was, we must get behind the curtain, so to speak.
Ciro’s expression turns suspicious as the man leads us back through open crates, lined with hay, packing materials, many foreign objects. Straight to a rear door.
Sirens go off in my head right as we clear the doorway and it slams shut behind us.
Of course this is a trap.
Ciro starts to rush forward, collapsing into a heap as he is struck in the head, the attacker stepping from the shadows. Three more join him, encircling us.
But my stomach sinks further when the well-dressed host turns, leveling us with a sneer.
“Welcome to Marrakesh, Miss Sokolov. We have been expecting you.”