Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
LUKA
In the days leading up to the Dragusha-Razvan meet, a few rooms at the Milaga are rented by men who look like tourists. One wears head-to-toe athleisure with clean white shoes, and another has an “I Heart NY” cap, but their eyes give them away. A man knows his kind.
Scouts from Aleksio. Maybe Razvan, if he has scouts. Doubtful.
The afternoon of the meeting, Orton and I sit at the coffee bar on the far side of the lobby, shooting the shit with a barista, who will make any kind of coffee you can dream up—and who will look the other way when Orton puts in a splash of raki.
We’re doing more than keeping an eye on things; sitting out here is a way of being transparent. Aleksio Dragusha and Razvan Bektashi are coming to our house, after all, so it’s up to us to demonstrate a certain amount of visibility if not vulnerability.
Albanian clan manners.
Aleksio’s probably been here for a while, but we would never recognize him. After all those years on the run, the man knows a thing or two about lying low .
The meeting is to start at two in the lavish third-floor meeting suite—very private and plenty of ways to get in unseen—a favorite for smaller, under-the-radar events like this.
We’ve named this one the New Horizons group, and anybody who goes to the desk to ask where the New Horizons group is meeting is given the key card.
One hour.
Another man comes in with the look of the Chicago mob. He scans the lobby while he waits for them to process his card. He sees us but he doesn’t show he sees us.
A woman working on a laptop across the lobby has Storm worried. Business suit, sleek blonde bun. After his last sweep-through, he texted me that she didn’t feel right. West chimed in from the other side of the lobby:
Agree. Too on-the-nose biz traveler. Cop?
People are on edge because we don’t want Razvan to spook, and this woman feels wrong.
Orton and I are quietly discussing whether to send West over to hit on her when we get a text from him. It’s just one word:
FUCK.
“What’s West upset about?” I mutter under my breath, risking a glance his way.
“What the fuck,” Orton suddenly says. I follow the line of his vision and see a pair of delivery people up at the reception desk, each holding a massive bouquet. But these are no ordinary bouquets; they’re large, cellophane-wrapped cookies.
And those cookies are in the shape of diamond rings.
In other words, circle cookies. Lots of them.
“Christ,” Orton says. “If Razvan sees that? He is gone.”
“No shit. A man like that? He’s careful and old-school. He’ll be in the wind. All these weddings,” I add, knowing it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.
The Athleisure guy is on his phone, whispering urgently. He gives us a dark look and beelines for the door.
“So he was a soldier,” I say.
Orton’s on his feet. “Let’s get outta here.”
“Easy there, cowboy.” I slide a few bills across the coffee bar and get up slowly.
As if on cue, Florian walks through the door, proceeds to the desk, and stops short, frozen in his tracks. He pulls out his phone and presses it to his ear, pretending to get a call, before he spins around and walks out.
We head out.
“Circular cookies and a possible cop in the lobby. What the fuck?”
Orton frowns. “Let’s reconvene elsewhere.” That’s code for linking up at the Trevor Street bar. He really is spooked.
“Gotcha,” I say.