6. Giselle
GISELLE
It’s night when I arrive at Brighton Beach.
It’s a neighborhood of Cyrillic, Baltic amber, and shirtless old men sunbathing during snowstorms.
Faberge sits between a bodega that sells loose cigarettes and a hybrid restaurant/night club.
Russo will throw a fit when he hears that I’m doing this alone. Everything about this is against protocol. But ever since we got back from Manhattan, protocol was the last thing on my mind.
The front desk swims in an aquarium of light.
Humidity laced with the sour-sweet perfume of wet skin and spilled vodka chokes the air.
A line of men in tracksuits waits for towels.
Their rheumy eyes turn towards me in an attempt to figure out what I’m selling.
If I’m one of theirs or someone to be wary of.
One of them grunts and turns to the other. Quiet chuckles ring out in the wet air, and I’m all but forgotten.
They look but don’t see.
Not like him .
I know his blue eyes see me even when he’s not looking.
I think of that photo, the one that perfectly captured me. Seeing myself the way he must see me. How he notices little details like the strands of hair brushing across my face. How he angled the camera to compose the photo with equal parts darkness and light.
It’s unsettling. It’s disturbing.
And a part of me desperately wants him to do it again.
Flashing my badge, I ask the boy at the front desk—fifteen, if that—for the manager. He makes a quick call and then points me down a marble corridor that’s seen more ass than the Coney Island boardwalk.
“Ivan Sergeyevich’s office is at the end of the hallway,” he says.
“I want his last name, not his patronymic.” I’ve dealt with enough Russians at this point to ask.
To address a Russian by his patronymic—the name of his father—is a sign of respect. I have no intention of respecting whoever I’m about to speak with. Not here.
The boy’s face breaks out into a humorless smile. “Tupolev.”
“ Spasibo, molodoi chelovek .” My pronunciation is off, but that’s not the point.
This is my way of telling him that I won’t be fooled.
My hand never leaves my sidearm as I descend, and I do my best to not inhale too much of the still, humid air.
Ivan Tupolev waits in the office, beady eyes practically gleaming in the light when I enter. In the corner above him is a security camera, one that I’m positive will always keep him out of the frame.
Convenient.
“Detective,” he drags my title like it’s a joke. And maybe for a man like him, it is. “Come. Sit.”
I don’t.
“How can I help you?” He folds his hands in front of him, and I can’t help notice the distinctive Bratva tattoos beneath the rings on his fingers and the eight-pointed compass on the back of his hand.
I bet if I ask him about those, he’ll just say that was a past life.
But both of us know better. You never leave the Bratva. Not after you’ve been inked.
“Councilman MacDougal,” I say in my well-rehearsed cop voice, the same one I still practice in the mirror, embarrassed even in my empty apartment with its thick walls.
But all that practice has made perfect.
Ivan’s smile is slow, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “Councilman was a good customer. Big tipper. You want his locker number? I can arrange.”
He’s baiting me. “ Was a good customer? So, you already know what happened to him.”
“I keep tabs on all of my best customers.” Ivan shrugs. “Good for business. But why ask, Detective?” He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “You think I killed him?”
“I think you know what he was doing here.”
“What our customers do here in Faberge is their business.” His beady eyes stop at my chest for a second too long as he pretends to read my name. “Detective.”
“And what about who they do it with?” I change tactics. “Is that their business too?”
He lifts a brow, and I’m glad to have finally caught him off-guard. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Why, Vanya?” I deliberately use his diminutive as an insult. “Are you afraid that if I search the place, I’ll find exactly what I’m implying?”
Ivan’s face darkens. “You got a warrant, Cunt- iano?”
Cute.
“Based on all the photos found at the good councilman’s murder scene, won’t be hard for me to pony one up.”
The threat lands and Ivan unfolds his hands. The heavy rings on his fingers clink against the desk as he leans forward on his fists.
“Like I said.” He licks his lips as he undresses me with his eyes. “What our customers do here is their business. No one cares if a politician wants to fuck girls who like to be fucked. This is America.”
Girls who like to be fucked . My skin prickles with rage. That’s what they all think, isn’t it? That the women they tear apart wanted it.
“I know the councilman accepted a lot of money from businesses here in Brighton Beach.” I press. “Which is odd, because his constituents are all in Manhattan.”
A flash of real calculation crosses Ivan’s eyes at that.
“Are political donations considered probable cause now?” he finally asks.
“When the recipient of those donations turns up dead, it’s a thread worth pulling at. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“The councilman always had a fondness for this part of the city. He grew up here after all, just off Avenue U.” He shakes his head, a pantomime of regret while his eyes continue to roam my body.
“He likes to remind himself of his roots every now and then. And who are we question him when he does that?”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t follow up here.”
Ivan’s eyes linger for a moment before they finally meet mine.
“And I wouldn’t be doing mine if I don’t ask why a Bronx detective is investigating a Manhattan murder by questioning someone in Brooklyn.
Seems like the councilman isn’t the only one who’s being accused of dipping his fingers where he shouldn’t be. ”
He’s stonewalling me, throwing up a smokescreen of innuendos and threats.
I want to bite right through it, reach across the desk and throttle him with my bare hands. But I don’t. His time will come.
“If you hear anything, you’ll be sure to let me know. Won’t you?”
“Of course, Detective.” He stands, all six-four of him. “Now let me walk you out. Dangerous for a cop I don’t know to be here alone at night. Especially one as pretty as you.”
I want to break his nose. “I can manage on my own.”
He steps around the desk, and closes the distance until he’s leering down the front of my uniform. He licks his lips again, and I can smell the stink on his breath.
“I insist,” he says.
On the way out, I count five cameras, three back exits, two blondes in towels, and a man in the hallway who never meets my eyes but tracks my every move.
Ivan holds the door open for me with one hand, but when I step through into the night, his other hand clamps down onto my shoulder. Rough fingers dig just hard enough to hurt, and his thumb strokes the back of my neck.
And that’s when I see my car sitting lower than usual on the street.
Someone slashed the tires!
“Looks like you’ll have to walk home, Detective,” he whispers, mouth close to my ear. “I told you it’s dangerous for a pretty cop like you to be here alone at night.”
He releases my shoulder and delivers a smack to my ass hard enough to sting as he shoves me into the night. Before I can react, the door slams in my face, and I hear the lock engage.
I stand there as the cold wind off the ocean cuts through my uniform. Serena’s earrings seem to slice into my lobe like a warning. And on the other side of the door, Ivan must be laughing at how easily he humiliated me.
The friction of Ivan’s hand still burns on my ass when I pull out my phone to call an Uber. And as if to top off an already shitty day, my phone flickers and dies the moment I bring it out.
Just great.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket, grit my teeth, and walk for the nearest subway station.
The street is empty, but not quiet. There’s a tremor beneath every shadow, a vibration that might be the ocean or the city’s digestive system at work. The elevated tracks over the highway roar in steady intervals.
And I feel it again.
The sensation I’m being watched.
I check the darkness behind me once, twice, and three times for good measure. Each time I do, my hand brushes the grip of my gun. Someone is following me. I catch the glimpse of a shadow melting into the night.
But whether it’s those blue eyes that have haunted me since last night or something else, I can’t tell. So, I keep my hand on my gun.
There’s no use lying about it.
I’m scared.
Scared enough to speedwalk to the subway station. Speedwalking makes everyone look stupid, myself included. Looking stupid makes me feel pathetic and small and I hate whoever is behind me that’s making me feel this way.
But Ivan’s words echo in my ear as I walk. It’s dangerous for a pretty cop like you to be here alone at night . And I can’t forget the way his grubby fingers dug into my flesh, the way his leery eyes gazed down my uniform, or the way he licked his lips as he raped me with his eyes.
Anger soaks into my flesh, and everything goes tense. It has nowhere else to go, nowhere to release, and it keeps winding up inside me until everything stretches to a breaking limit that never comes.
The Q train platform is a mortuary slab. An old man slumps on the bench, reading a worn-out newspaper soundlessly. Mysterious liquids bleed from the base of the black trash can chained to one of the light posts.
I tell myself that if anyone wanted to kill me, they’d have better luck on the street than here. But the feeling of being watched—being followed—doesn’t leave.
I stand at the center of the platform, body loose but alert. Up here, the wind is colder, and it’s something of a relief. The lights overhead flicker. A train that isn’t mine goes by, and no one gets on or off.
But something else changes.
And somehow I know.
He’s here.
A massive man stands in the shadow near the stairwell on the opposite platform, hands in his pockets, feet wide and casual. He’s dressed for anonymity—black hoodie, black pants—but the angle of his chin is arrogant, like he’s waiting for the world to come to him.
At first, I can’t see his face. The lights strobe in a rhythm that hides and reveals, and I get only flashes: the sharp hinge of his jaw, the blade of a nose, a curl of hair falling across his forehead.
Then he shifts, just a fraction, and the hood slips back.
Our eyes meet.
Blue .
The cobalt of a bruise blooming beneath skin. The man from the gala. The one I’ve been thinking about, dreaming about, and feeling nonstop.
I freeze, exposed by the brightness of the platform, every cell screaming at me to either run or shoot. But he doesn’t move, and his stillness commands me to mirror him.
So, I do.
He stands there, head tilted, as if he’s testing my resolve.
My aimless rage arrows towards him. How dare he murder in my name? I don’t care if it’s what I wanted. My job is to protect life, not take it. To take men like him and put them to be judged before the law. Not be judge, jury, and executioner all at once.
But above all else…
How dare he follow me, like he has some right to me? Like he has a right to see me whenever he wants, just because he wants?
My hand goes to the gun, thumb flicking the snap off the holster. I have nothing on him, but I know he’s the murderer I’m looking for.
He sees what I’m doing, but he just smiles.
My heart practically stops at it.
It’s a smile meant just for me, and I feel warmth blooming in my chest, my arms, the backs of my knees until it chases away the chill of the air.
The anger drains away, and leaves something else uncoiling in my stomach.
No fear. Not curiosity.
A feeling that’s reserved only for him.
A feeling that I’m reserved only for him.
I’m so locked on those eyes that I don’t hear the train until it’s almost on top of me.
The train roars into the station amidst a wave of wind and shrieking brakes.
My stalker is obscured by the blur of the cars.
I step forward, desperate to keep him in my sight.
And for what? So that I might look at him for just a few seconds more?
So that I might let him look at me for a few seconds more?
I don’t know which one is more fucked up, if I’m being honest.
The train squeals to a stop, and the doors hiss open.
I should be able to still see him through the windows lining the car.
But I can’t.
I think—no, I hope—that maybe he’s just moved. The prerecorded voice reminding passengers to stand clear of the closing doors fades to a whisper behind my prickling skin. But his hungry gaze commands me to search for him, like it’s a thick and raw thread pulling us closer and closer.
When the train finally pulls away, I see that the opposite platform is empty.
Like he never existed.
But the feeling of his eyes on me remains, and doesn’t fade until my train rumbles out of Brooklyn.