Chapter 7 Gennadiy
GENNADIY
July
I pushed the pedal to the floor. The turbocharger whined as it sucked in air, and then unleashed it in a melodious roar that shook the windows of the downtown stores around me.
The car surged forward, and a smile played across my lips.
My brother Radimir likes his big Mercedes, but I’ve always loved my BMW.
When we were teenagers in Moscow, living on scraps, I used to see the oligarchs driving past in their shining BMWs and dream of owning one.
Now I have one, and on a summer day like today, blasting down North Michigan Avenue while it’s still empty of traffic, there’s no better feeling in the world.
Except—I checked my rear-view mirror and my knuckles whitened on the steering wheel—I couldn’t relax and enjoy it because Alison was there, following me in an unmarked car.
Silky black hair secured in an efficient little bun at the back of her head, blouse tight over her small, high breasts.
She was wearing the blue blouse today, the one that matched her eyes.
I shook my head in irritation. She was better at this than any cop I’d ever known. She stuck to me like glue, even when I was up before dawn or rolling home in the early hours. She couldn’t be doing all this for a paltry government salary. What was driving her?
I sighed and turned into an underground parking garage.
A few moments later, I was strolling through Conroy Mall.
It’s just your standard shopping mall: clothes and home furnishings, piped music, and coffee shops.
..and weirdly, it’s one of my favorite places to go. I’ve never been able to figure out why.
I’d managed to lose Alison briefly as I left the parking garage, and for a brief, glorious moment, I thought I’d slipped away for good.
Then I saw her reflection in a cookware shop’s window, and my shoulders slumped in disappointment.
She must have gone to the security office and tracked me down on the cameras.
I glared at her in the glass as I pretended to adjust my collar, my eyes running down those long, graceful legs. Why does she never wear skirts?
I marched over to a coffee stand and bought a cup, killing time until my meeting with Radimir. Then I glanced over my shoulder and—
Alison wasn’t looking at me. She was staring off to the side. I blinked, my ego bruised. What was more important than me? Her whole job was watching me!
I followed Alison’s gaze. There was a gang of teenagers outside the make-up store, one slightly older boy of about fifteen, and a bunch of younger kids. The boy was leaning over, snarling at one of the girls and pointing towards the store. The girl looked like she was about to burst into tears.
I recognized the setup because it was the same in Moscow and in every other city in the world. An older kid using the younger ones as krysy, as rats. He forces them to shoplift and takes the profits, and if one of them gets caught, then he can just walk away.
I turned back to Alison. She was still watching the kids. I frowned, bemused. What does she care? Shoplifting wasn’t exactly an FBI-level crime.
I took a slow, careful step away. This was my chance, while she was distracted. I could get away and actually have five minutes of blessed privacy with my brother.
But then I stopped. I had to know what she was doing.
Alison marched over to the kid in charge and grabbed his shoulder.
He took a swing at her, and she swayed and hooked his leg, and he went face-first into the floor.
She pinioned him there with a knee on his back.
What the hell is she doing? Shaking them down, maybe?
I could imagine that with a drug dealer, but this kid probably wouldn’t have much money. Did the FBI pay that badly?
Then she showed him her badge and started speaking into his ear, quiet and very, very serious.
I felt my jaw drop. Is she...GIVING HIM A TALK?! Like some cop in a wholesome Christmas family movie? The kid was nodding frantically. And now she was talking to the girl, probably telling her something like he won’t bother you again, and the girl was nodding gratefully and scurrying away…
I stared at her in amazement. All the cops I knew in Moscow were on the take. Even in the US, I’d always presumed most of them were corrupt, or at least just out for themselves. But apparently, I was being hunted by—the words tasted strange—an honest cop.
Alison got to her feet and saw me watching. She looked surprised that I was still standing there.
I gazed at her, shell-shocked. I still hated her: she was still one of them, one of the enemy, and she was still trying to tear down my whole world.
But I’d always presumed that deep down, we were the same, just on opposite sides of a war.
I’d never considered she might be...good.
I braced, waiting for the attraction to flicker and die, now that I knew her character.
Except that isn’t what happened at all. The attraction fucking exploded like I’d just dumped a gallon of gasoline onto the fire. Every muscle tensed. My cock rose. I actually took an involuntary step towards her. I wanted her more than ever.
Her whole buttoned-down appearance made it even hotter.
My vision telescoped in to the exact point, just in front of her bun, where I’d have to sink my fingers into her hair to rake the hair clips out of it and let her hair fall free.
I could see tiny slivers of tan skin between the buttons of her blouse, together with scraps of her white bra, and I could imagine exactly how her stomach would feel, warm against my fingers, as I slid my hands up and ripped that blouse open so I could cup her breasts…
Her goodness was a magnet. All I could think about was plunging deep, burying myself in her, filling her with bad. I’d fuck the good right out of her.
I felt my face heat. Chyort! Apparently, I had a thing for good girls.
Alison frowned at me, and I realized I wasn’t doing my usual scowl. I didn’t know what I was doing. I gave her a glare and turned away, stalking over to the food court and taking a seat.
She took a table in the corner, and I couldn’t help but look again.
For a second, I was back in my office, caging her in my chair with my arms. Let me educate you, Agent Brooks.
Except now, it had a whole new dimension.
I imagined her over my knee, naked, moaning and squirming, breasts rubbing against my legs, long hair tossing as my hand rose and fell on her ass, teaching her a lesson—
My view was suddenly blocked by a broad, muscled chest and an expensive waistcoat being tugged straight. I looked up into Radimir’s cold blue eyes. “We have our own nightclub. Fourteen bars. Membership at three different private clubs. Why do you always insist on meeting here?”
I coughed, embarrassed, and forced all thoughts of Alison away. Then I smiled at him. “Because it annoys you, brother. How’s Bronwyn?” He’d gotten married earlier that year.
Radimir grinned. He never used to smile. “Good,” he said with feeling. “Very good. I never thought being married would be so…” He shook his head, unable to find the words. “I’m going to surprise her. While she’s away this weekend, I’m going to build her bookshelves.”
“Bookshelves?”
“Bookshelves.” He spread his arms wide. “Big white ones. Floor to ceiling. The whole wall.”
I frowned. “I thought women wanted shoes.”
Radimir shook his head smugly. “Bookshelves.”
I shook my head in wonder. I couldn’t imagine ever being so besotted with a woman. “It’s good to see you happy, brother. Next thing, you’ll be making me an uncle.”
Radimir held my gaze, suddenly serious. My eyes bulged, and I nearly spat out my coffee. Was he actually thinking about it? Him, a father?
“Let’s talk business,” said Radimir, quickly changing the subject. We both leaned in. “The Irish…” he began.
I sighed, then glanced at Alison over Radimir’s shoulder. She was too far away to hear us over the noise of the food court, and we were speaking in Russian. “I still think this is a mistake. I don’t trust them.”
Radimir put his elbows on the table and cupped one big, tattooed fist with his other hand. “They’re the only ones who can do what we need. Finn is reliable.”
A few months ago, we defeated the Nazarov brothers and took over their territory and all their operations.
That left us with a problem: the Nazarovs handled most of Chicago’s drug trade.
We didn’t have the resources to take it over, but we didn’t want to leave a power vacuum, either.
The only option was to partner with another gang.
Radimir had chosen The Irish Mafia, led by Finn O’Donnell
I scowled. “I don’t like them.”
Radimir nodded. “I know. But you’ll do the deal? For me?”
I sighed. “Of course, brother.” I don’t always agree with him, but he’s still my Pakhan.
We discussed the details, talking in code just to be sure: bricks of heroin were sandstone, cocaine was marble.
I pulled out my pen and made notes in the little notebook I carry in my jacket.
I don’t trust computers or smartphones. I take paper notes, and at the end of each day, I burn the pages. I glared at Alison. Try hacking that.
Radimir blinked at me. “Everything okay?”
I snapped my gaze back to him and nodded. I still hadn’t told him about Alison. He had enough to deal with, heading the family. Plus, if he found out I had an FBI agent on my tail, he might want to kill her.
I frowned. Why did that thought make something twist uneasily, deep in my gut? I wanted to fuck her, but I didn’t care what happened to her...right?
Killing her would draw too much attention, I decided. Yes. That was it.
Radimir leaned forward. “I’m worried about you.”
I shook my head and sipped my coffee. “I’m fine.”