5. Rafi
5
RAFI
L eo sits hunched over his desk, surrounded by a chaotic sea of tangled wires and half-empty coffee mugs. Every inch of wall space is covered by screens, and my mind struggles to keep up with the constant barrage of data flashing across them. His fingers move like lightning across the keyboard, his head flicking between screens packed with streams of numbers and distorted images. The kid’s a genius — a certified hacker extraordinaire — but his workspace looks like an explosion went off in an electronics store, leaving nothing but the aftermath.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. My ribs still ache from last night’s fight, but adrenaline has me upright. My mind is a loop, stuck on Maxine and the man sitting next to her.
Leo doesn’t glance up. “Good to see you too, Rafi. I’m fine, thank you. Hope you are, too.”
He doesn’t even glance in my direction as his fingers fly across two keyboards at once. If he bothered to look up, he’d see, beneath his obnoxiously tinted glasses, that I’m clearly not fine. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Leo is, apparently, blind. Certifiably blind. I’m not sure how much of his condition is real, but that’s the excuse he gives for those ridiculous glasses.
I know I look worse than I did yesterday, and when I come to stand beside him, he flicks his gaze in my direction, his fingers never slowing down from their tap tap tap as he extracts the information I need. But his head is angled my way, somewhat curiously, and for the first time, I have to wonder just how blind he actually is.
“Yeah, I’ve got something,” he finally answers.
He taps his ear piece and turns back to the two screens in front of him. The screens above him flicker to life, and they start a slow scroll of images of Russian men known to dabble in criminal activity.
“Tell me when you want me to stop.”
The screen continues to roll as he taps away, obviously working on other angles.
“So I guess you’re back in the ring, huh?”
I move my gaze away from the screen, my eyes flicking toward him. Now, how the fuck does he know that?
“I know that information is not safe for public consumption.” He tells me my secret is safe with him. “Eyes on the screen, Rafi; you don’t want to miss anything.”
I run a hand through my short hair, newly cropped close to the scalp, and turn reluctantly back to the screen. Sometimes I think Leo pretends to be blind to prolong my misery; he always finds a way to keep me here longer than required. I wait impatiently for another twelve minutes before I see the man I’m after on the screen.
“There!” I point, but obviously, Leo is blind, so he can’t see who I’m pointing to. Or so I think .
Leo continues to surprise me, though, as he turns, spinning his chair somewhat theatrically. I don’t even ask him how he knows which picture I’m referring to as he launches into a profile of the man I saw with Maxine last night. Asshole’s not blind; he’s just an asshole.
“Igor Aslanov. Russian Bratva. They call him ‘The Ghost’. Known associate of The Czar; real name Anton Aslanov, but everyone calls him The Czar. Igor’s brother. They specialize in… let’s call it ‘import and export’ of heavy grade arms.”
The air leaves my lungs like a gut punch. It’s him. The man who was with Maxine. I nod slowly, my stomach twisting. “That’s him.”Which leads me to my next question; how the fuck did Maxine Andrade end up in the company of the Russian mob?
Leo leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head, a cocky smirk on his face. This man. I feel like putting my fist through his face, really making him blind. “I don’t know where you think you saw him, but the man is more myth than legend. His people make sure he’s untouchable, and he’s not easy to find. Definitely doesn’t like an audience.”
“I saw him in a public setting; something must have drawn him out. Find a way to get to him, Leo.” My voice is hard. “Everyone has a weakness.”
“True, were it not for the fact that he is known as The Ghost. There’s got to be a reason for that.” Leo says, pulling up another file with another tap of his keyboard. “Thank me later.” Another tap tap. “His weakness might just be his niece, Tayana.”
I look up at the screen, at the image of the young woman whose face stares back at me. It’s not the best shot, but I can just make out the petite features of the brunette who could very well be my ticket to finding Maxine Andrade.
“Tayana Kamarov,” Leo breaks into my thoughts as he explains who the girl is. “Anton’s daughter. She’s… well, let’s just say she’s a wild card. I’ve heard she parties like a rock star and spends money like it’s on fire. And best of all…she’s right here in your own backyard.”
“Why the different surname?”
Leo shrugs, tells me it’s probably a safety measure.
“Where do I find her?”
Leo smirks, clicking to a grainy surveillance photo of a crowded club. At the center is a striking brunette in a silver dress, drink in hand, her expression one of bored detachment. “Obsidian. She’s there most nights. She’s the one surrounded by an army.”
“Thanks Leo, I owe you,” I say, squeezing his shoulder before I turn to walk away. His voice follows me out the door.
“Just try not to piss her off. Word is, she’s got her father’s temper.”
Obsidian is all flashing lights and pounding bass, the kind of place where secrets drown in liquor and smoke. It’s not the kind of place I usually frequent, but then again, I’m not much for the club scene. No, that’s Sam and Mateo’s domain, so I pick them up on my way there, listening to them with some irritation as they tell me all about the exclusivity of the club and how they despise me because I’ve been holding out that I have tickets.
The bouncer barely glances at me as I step inside, the heat and noise hitting me like a wave. There is so much noise, and so many people. Beautiful people. It’s like the stars aligned and sent all the beautiful people here to mingle and co-exist amongst each other. It takes a moment to adjust, to scan the crowd for her.
My eyes skirt around the bustling club until they land on Tayana Kamarov standing at the bar, surrounded by a small entourage of men who look more like bodyguards than friends. Tonight, she’s wearing a gunmetal blue dress that clings to her like liquid gold, and her eyes twinkle with mischief as she throws her head back and laughs at something someone said.
“You boys go on and enjoy yourselves,” I tell Sam and Mateo, who give me an irritated look because I’m the good looking one and I just as good as ditched them. I don’t wait for them to move; instead, I weave through the crowd, moving toward my target. When I reach the bar, I signal the bartender, nodding toward her. “Whatever she’s drinking, put it on my tab.”
The bartender glances at her, then back at me, his expression unreadable. A moment later, he sets a fresh glass in front of her, pointing in my direction. Tayana turns, her calculated gaze sliding over me like a knife. She tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that’s almost unsettling.
“Thank you…for the drink,”she says, her voice a breathy rasp. “There really was no need.”
“It’s the polite thing to do,” I reply, leaning casually against the bar. “Rafi.”
She doesn’t offer her name, nor does she offer her hand. Instead, she picks up the glass, swirling the liquid inside before taking a sip. Her lips curve into a faint smile. “Out of all the girls here tonight, you walked right in and chose me. Why?” She is curious but intrigued, and I can see that her mind is razor sharp; she picked up on my movements even before I stepped toward the bar. It must be obvious to her that I sought her out.
“You seem like the kind of girl that likes to have a good time.”
Her lips curve, a smile that feels more like a dare than a greeting. They’re small, delicate, yet commanding, drawing the eye despite their subtlety. Her eyes, long and feline, tilt upward, set just a bit too far apart. It should throw her face off balance, but against her sharp cheekbones and the unapologetic confidence she exudes, it works. She’s not conventionally beautiful, but there’s something magnetic about her—a pull that makes it impossible to look away.
She tilts her head, studying me with an expression that’s equal parts intrigue and condescension. “You might be interested to know that your idea of a good time and mine are probably worlds apart.”
Before I can reply, she sets the glass down with a flick of her wrist. The movement is so smooth it seems rehearsed, the glass skimming the bar’s surface before sliding back toward me. It stops just short of my hand, and for a moment, I’m struck silent. The message is clear: have your drink back . Whatever game I think I’m playing, I’ve already lost this round.
“Thank you for the drink. But it tastes better when I pay for it myself.”
I nod, acknowledging her sentiment. She’s not going to make this easy on me.
Her stormy gray eyes flick to my bruised knuckles, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t look like the clubbing type,”she says, her tone laced with dry humor. “More like the fighting type.”
She doesn’t mention the swelling around my eye or the split in my lip. Maybe she’s too polite, or maybe she just doesn’t care. Her laugh follows, soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade. It’s not a laugh meant to put me at ease—it’s a challenge.
“So tell me, Rafi, ” she says, leaning in just enough to close the space between us. “What brings you to my little corner of the world?”
Her words land heavy, her tone claiming this place as hers, like I’m trespassing on sacred ground. And maybe I am. For a second, I forget my lines. The plan, the questions I’m supposed to ask, all dissolve under her gaze. My pulse quickens, loud enough to drown out the music.
“I’m just out looking for a good time,”I lie, forcing a casual shrug.
Her smile falters, just barely, a crack in her armor so brief I almost miss it. She signals the bartender with a quick gesture, her attention shifting as a fresh drink appears in front of her. Picking it up, she leans closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Now, why am I finding it so hard to believe you?”
The question hangs between us, sharp and loaded. I scramble for a response, but she’s already pulling away, her movements smooth and deliberate. “Careful, stranger,” she warns, her eyes flicking back to mine, “or you’ll end up with more than just bruised knuckles.”
And just like that, she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd. A sea of bodies moves to close the space she leaves behind, men stepping into place like sentinels. They form a line, arms folded across broad chests, their stances daring me to follow.
I stand rooted to my spot near the bar, watching as she disappears deeper into the thrumming chaos of the club. Whatever I thought I’d walked into tonight, it’s clear now. I’m playing a game that she’s already mastered.