Beneath the Light of the Moon (Hidden Within the Light Duet #1)

Chapter 1

Nightmares

Mikko

The Truth Behind Portland’s Night Scene

“Safe nights out on the town? A thing of the past apparently,” reports Steve, one of The Portland Social’s most dedicated journalists.

After some digging, we were appalled to discover Bubblegum, a notorious nightclub in downtown Portland, may not be as safe and carefree as the owners would have you believe.

From the trendy pink neon sign hanging above the entrance, Bubblegum entices visitors to slip inside for a night of dancing and drinking. But after multiple reports from partygoers, the club might be in a sticky situation. And not the kind found under your dance shoes.

One woman said the drinks were watered down while still gouging her bank account. Another stated the space was cramped and in need of a deep, deep cleaning. A man even told us someone had stolen his wallet right out of his back pocket while he was dancing.

While most of those mishaps may seem ordinary and a consequence of many night clubs, that’s not where these perils end.

A few evenings ago, someone anonymously confirmed the murmurings surrounding the apparent gambling dens located in the basement of the club.

Many lower levels of businesses hold boilers and mildewy storage space.

It seems Bubblegum is not one of those places.

We can’t help but wonder where this money is coming from and going off to?

Who would participate in such heinous activities?

And most importantly, why have the police not stepped in?

Great.

As his eyes skimmed over the article—which was written like a cheesy reality TV script—Mikko found the urge to drown himself in liquor creeping in. It was wrong, he knew, but it was so, so much easier that way. The bite would erase the acidic taste accumulating in his mouth.

His finger twitched involuntarily.

Instead, he picked up his cellphone from the corner of his work desk and called the only person he could at this early hour. The time displayed on his phone was a little after two in the morning, but he knew Cristiano would pick up.

Sure enough—

“Something better be on fire,” Cristiano answered on the third ring, “because I had just gotten my pillow fluffed right to fall asleep.”

Mikko snorted. “You and that damn pillow. You know when you start seriously dating, you’re going to have to hide that ratty thing.”

“Hush, let me worry about that,” muffled rustling could be heard in the background as his friend no doubt stuffed the pillow behind his head, “now, please tell me why you’ve interrupted my beauty sleep.”

“Didn’t know you had a set bedtime,” Mikko said, a sly grin on his face. He crossed a leg, his ankle resting leisurely on his knee waiting for his friend’s response.

“Well, I would, but crime never sleeps,” Cristiano countered, “so, neither can I.”

“Remind me to rectify that for you, yeah?”

“Of course, of course,” he said, “but remember, I only accept your ploys via—”

“Cash,” both men stated in unison.

“Ah, so you do pay attention,” Cristiano teased.

“I find you stop repeating yourself when I do.”

“Hey, I told you to go to the doctor’s to get your ears checked…I was starting to think they were clogged.” Mikko could almost hear the way his friend lifted his arms in faux surrender, his own smile widening. Cristiano always knew how to yank him back from the dangerous abyss in his head.

“I did,” Mikko replied, “and they said I’m fine.”

“A second opinion never hurt anyone—”

“Cristiano.”

That shut him up. “Yes?”

“Have you checked the books recently because it seems a certain someone has been missing their payments.”

A brief pause, then, “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, Ivan Morovich is spending his rent in other ways.”

“Oh, god,” Cristiano groaned, “I told him to knock that shit off or you’d be chewin’ his ass out. I see he didn’t listen. Seems like he needs his ears cleaned.”

Mikko would’ve laughed if not for the stupid article sucking all the fun out of his evening. “Not only did he not listen, but journalists have latched onto Bubblegum’s problems due to his negligence.”

“Don’t they have other people to harass besides us?”

“Apparently not.”

A dramatic sigh echoed through the phone’s speaker. “Send me the article,” Cristiano finally said.

“Get your glasses ready, the small text might give you a migraine.”

“I fear the content will do that all on its own, but thanks for the concern.”

A few tense seconds passed while Mikko waited patiently for his friend to read through the same brain melting words he had moments before. An antique clock, one his mom loved, ticked away on the wall across from his desk.

“They’re really gonna use a gum joke in this damn article,” Cristiano finally said, disbelief evident in his tone. “If this man hadn’t already been warned, I’d find this shit funny, but now…”

“Yeah,” Mikko drawled, “the watered down drinks and stolen wallet are all typical, but the fact that someone spilled about the gambling? That tells me Ivan’s got a rat in his midst.”

“And we’re sadly pest control.”

“Since the police are mostly in our pockets, I’m not too concerned about them, but the fact the article practically states that has me slightly worried,” Mikko finally answered. “Looks like we need to pay Ivan a visit.”

“Indeed. When will you be back in town?”

Looking at the multiple tabs pulled up on his computer screen—blatantly ignoring the news article still lingering there—Mikko contemplated the best approach.

“Tomorrow,” Mikko said, “I have a meeting with some investors in the city in the afternoon.”’

“Oh, he finally returns from his brooding castle.”

“That’s not why I came out here—”

“Sure, whatever you say. Did you at least run through the halls in a princess gown?”

“—and it’s hardly a castle.” Mikko talked over Cristiano.

“The square footage says differently. You of all people should know that.”

Sighing, Mikko knew there was no changing his friend’s mind. “Friday night it is then.”

“Works for me.” The sound of Cristiano tapping on his phone, likely inputting the meeting in his calendar, filled the small moment of silence. “Although, that’s a busy night for the club. You sure you wanna go then?”

“We have no choice.”

“As you wish, boss.”

With a playful eye roll, he hung up as Cristiano’s laugh resonated in his home office.

Crazy bastard, he thought, uncrossing his legs before standing and walking toward the inky panes of glass framing the last vestiges of night.

Mikko had chosen this plot of land for its views and ability to frame every sunset. It amazed him how dusk fell into night’s embrace. A reverent turning of the sky as the colors darkened—soft pinks and lavenders giving way to fathomless indigo until finally…black nothingness.

Earlier, before the article and talking with Cristiano, his mind had been mostly at peace while he browsed through upcoming meeting agendas and multi-million dollar properties he managed or leased.

Romanov Real Estate was known for partnering with privately funded organizations predominantly focused in healthcare and technology.

WELL USA and Tech7 being some of the most notorious.

The properties he showed and managed ranged from industrial warehouses to empty plots of land with potential or posh high rise headquarters.

Government was another sector they dabbled in.

It was a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” mentality.

The work was tedious, his sharp eyes unable to miss any details lest it cost him a future contract.

Or in tonight’s case, a rowdy tenant that made him want to pull his hair out.

At this time of night, the day hung on him like a wet blanket, exhaustion marring the skin beneath his eyes.

While he might be good at what he did, it didn’t make it any easier.

Donning a charismatic persona could be draining.

It was a piece of him that only came out when he wanted something.

And with his lifestyle, there wasn’t much left for him to yearn for. Anything he’d ever wanted had been available to him at his fingertips—perhaps some things came with more blood, sweat, and bullets, but regardless, they came to him.

He had luxurious cars, a wardrobe boasting designer names, and a house he’d explicitly designed himself. Cristiano had called him a control freak—still did, actually—but his discipline had lent itself to his wealth.

Well, that, and his dead father’s restless spirit.

Despite the abhorrent man being gone for nearly six years, Mikko found himself unable to escape the lessons Alek Romanov had so tediously bestowed upon him. Running a business was more than it seemed, and Alek had made sure Mikko knew that at a young age.

“There’s no other life for us—for you moy syn,” Alek had gritted through crooked teeth, spittle threatening to land on Mikko’s young, tear stained face. “This is who we are, and the sooner you accept that, the better.”

Who we are.

It was an honorable thing to say, a supposed tender moment between father and son, but the blood staining Mikko’s hands at his father’s behest made sure those traumatic influences were never misconstrued.

Alek had been a selfish man, ensuring his son had no other choice but to move in the direction he was told.

No matter what.

Mikko’s left hand twinged, an old and familiar ache blossoming there as he thought about the documents and necessary notes for tomorrow’s meeting with WELL USA and a new potential client who sold sneakers.

A swath of land had come available near the riverfront, and it was prime real estate.

It might be small, but with some tweaking and design, his soon-to-be clients would reap decadent rewards. When in doubt, always build up.

And Mikko, well, he profited both in the eyes of his government—God rest his tax paying soul—and under the table. One thing Alek had been correct on was when you pretend for long enough, become who they want you to be for long enough, then people stop asking questions.

It appeared businesses were the same way.

Outwardly, Mikko and his “family owned” business were prestigious, offering the best experience along the upper west coast, but look closer and organized crime would rear its ugly head. Real estate and development were the perfect cover ups for money laundering.

“Necessary evils,” or whatever his father had convinced himself of to let him sleep at night.

It was a shame Mikko had begun soothing himself with the same bullshit devotions when the nightmares persisted. While his Russian ancestors were turning over in their frosted graves oceans away at his rejection of religion, he wasn’t below an occasional prayer.

Whoever said the past stayed dead had never experienced a short life with his father.

With tired eyes, Mikko loosened his tie and unbuttoned his cuffs before rolling them up.

The glittering decanter across his sleek home office tempted him, the clear liquid inside the only solution yielding near immediate results, but he resisted.

While he may be a questionable man, he tried to refrain from getting drunk on the job… most of the time.

Would tonight be one of those nights?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His mother’s clock was always there to remind him time was passing him by whether he wanted it to or not.

His eyes watered from lack of blinking. Mikko scrubbed his face, shutting out the walls of his office momentarily.

Cristiano had called his taste cold and calculating, lifeless, but Mikko disagreed.

Every piece had a place, a reason for being there.

When the rest of his life was in disarray and veering off the tracks, he could count on his sanctuary being neat and clean.

Wood grain was imprinted into the concrete, the formwork from when the house had been built a couple years ago a faded memory.

Every element of the room had been accounted for, every niche serving a purpose.

Mikko used those voids to display small art pieces he’d collected and to store books—the titles ranging anywhere from real estate how-tos to self-help books.

The latter were courteous of Cristiano, and therefore, untouched by Mikko.

The insufferable bastard liked to think he had jokes, Mikko thought, a sardonic smile almost breaking through the weariness of his fatigue.

Plush rugs lined the concrete floor, the moody rust hue of them softening the utilitarian feel of his office.

Leather and wood furniture were arranged artfully throughout, encouraging conversation.

Though, if Mikko was being honest, no one ever stayed here long enough to engage in such activities with him.

From his vantage point, foam capped waves sloshed against one another below, the depth of them unfathomable as nighttime rendered them into something closer to a void than a body of water.

Expensive trinkets lined his desk, pens and paper there for his thoughts and scribbles.

A lone plant occupied the corner of his desk—the only one he could keep alive.

A small snake plant, a specimen he couldn’t kill even if he tried.

And he had, his long stints away from his oceanside house promised droughts for the plant, yet it still thrived.

If he was honest with himself, this office had the bones of a creative, albeit a stifled one. It was a physical representation of his life; the beauty of art captivated him, but that piece of him had long since died. Now the only way for him to cope was through his blatant acts of control.

Like father, like son.

The vodka-filled crystal decanter was no different. A piece within the larger picture of his life. His fingers itched for it, his tongue watered for the smooth burn that was sure to erase the buzzing growing in his head.

No, no, no—

His eyes flicked over to the self-help books on his shelf.

Maybe he should read those instead, hoping to God that they’d save him.

But before he could stop himself, his feet had carried him over to the decanter, the liquid sloshing into a clear cut tumbler.

Without even taking a sip, his nerves had already settled.