Vadim
It’s eleven fifty-eight when I walk into Zatmeniye.
The bar is open, and there are sports on the TVs.
The music is thankfully nowhere to be heard.
I head through the main floor, ignoring the nods from staff and the low murmur of the early crowd.
Day drinkers, businessmen avoiding their offices, men who think a private booth makes them important. None of them matter.
We reach the office floor, and I nod to the two guards outside my door.
I enter my office and drop my car keys on the desk, take off my jacket, and hang it over the chair.
Bogdan stays by the door.
“You can sit down, you know.”
He remains standing.
“Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”
I’ve barely sat down when there is a knock at the door. I nod to Bogdan, who opens it.
It’s the shady-looking cunt from last night.
“You got my money?” I ask.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His jacket looks worse than it did last night. So does his face.
He holds a thick envelope in both hands.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“Put it down.”
He crosses to my desk and sets the envelope in front of me. Bogdan stays between him and the exit.
I open the envelope.
I run my thumb along the edges, then hand it to Bogdan. He takes it to the machine on the sideboard without needing instructions.
The man watches each note disappear through it. His eyes keep moving between Bogdan and me.
Bogdan finishes checking the money, counts it once, then turns his head towards me.
“All good?”
One short nod.
I pull out a notebook and pick up the pen, doing this old-skool.
“Name.”
“Marco Bellini.”
“That’s the name you want?”
“Yes.”
“Date of birth.”
“Thirty-one, September, 2001.”
I blink and pause. “September has thirty days, you fucking moron. And you honestly expect anyone to believe you are in your mid-twenties?”
“Thirtieth then,” he snaps. “And who the fuck cares? Can we move on?”
“Fine. Your funeral. Place of birth.”
“Bari.”
“Anything else you want to add?”
“No. How long?”
“My guy will have it done in a couple of hours.”
He nods and backs out. “I’ll be back.”
“I look forward to it.”
He glowers at me, but I don’t give a fuck. I tear the page from the notebook and hand it to Bogdan. “Go down to the lab and give that to Maks.”
He nods once and then leaves. I sit back in my chair and flick through the CCTV cams inside and then switch to the outside.
I stop on the one of the front entrance when I see a woman hovering near the door like she’s deciding whether or not to come in.
Leaning forward, I stare at her. She’s in a long winter coat with the hood pulled up against the rain; the hem brushes against the tops of her boots.
Dark sunglasses and a black tote bag that looks heavy on her shoulder.
I zoom in on the camera feed. Her face stays hidden under the sunglasses and hood, but her body gives her away. She keeps looking down the street, waiting for someone, or making sure someone hasn’t followed her.
“Interesting,” I mutter.
I sit back again and watch her through the clear feed, wondering what, or who she’s waiting for.
She checks her phone and puts it back into her bag.
She takes one step towards the door, and then stops again.
She isn’t waiting for someone. She looks like she’s working up the courage to come inside.
I wait to see what she will do. I don’t alert anyone to let her in or talk to her.
I simply watch her actions. The way she chews her lip, checks her phone again, taps her foot, makes a decision to leave, only to come back.
“Who are you?” I murmur as she finally takes in a deep breath and moves forward to the entrance.
Mika steps in front of her, clearly suspicious, seeing as she has been loitering around for God knows how long. I don’t interfere.
Mika speaks to her for less than a minute.
I can’t hear it through the camera feed, but I can read enough from her body language.
She keeps her chin lifted despite the tension in every line of her.
She says something. Mika asks a question.
She reaches into her tote bag, and his hand drops to the weapon beneath his jacket.
She pulls out a book and shows him something.
He raises an eyebrow, and with a swift nod, he steps aside.
Interesting.
Bogdan returns moments later.
“Is Maks on it?”
He nods.
“There is a woman that Mika just let in. Bring her up.”
Bogdan leaves without a word.
I switch to the camera inside the club. The woman stands near the entrance, clutching the book against her chest while Mika speaks into his earpiece. Her head turns towards the stairs when Bogdan appears.
She takes one look at him and steps back.
Sensible.
Bogdan gestures towards the private staircase. She hesitates before following him. I close the feed and wait.
A minute later, he opens my office door.
She enters first.
Up close, the disguise doesn’t hold up. The sunglasses are cheap. Her coat is damp from the rain, and several pins struggle to contain her brown hair. She carries herself carefully, but fear controls every step.
Bogdan closes the door behind her.
She looks at me, then at him.
“Take those off,” I say.
She faces me again. “Excuse me?”
“The sunglasses. Unless you plan to rob me.”
Her fingers tighten around the book she carries. Anna Karenina. A battered Russian edition with a torn spine.
“You don’t look concerned about being robbed.”
“I’m not. I’m concerned for you if you try.”
She removes the sunglasses. Grey-green eyes meet mine, wary but direct. Fear sits beneath the control she’s trying to maintain.
“Sit.”
She glances at Bogdan.
“He won’t bite,” I say. “Unless you cause trouble.”
Her eyes widen before she catches herself and takes the chair opposite me.
She places the book on her lap. Her hands stay pressed against the cover.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I was told you provide certain services.”
“Who told you?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can. You don’t want to.”
Her eyes narrow. “I need a passport.”
“What kind?”
“A real one.”
I stare at her until she shifts in the chair.
“All passports are real until someone proves otherwise,” I say. “What nationality?”
“Any that will get me out of England and into Russia via Turkey.”
It’s not often I’m taken aback, but she got me.
“You always lay out your plans to strangers?”
“Things are tricky right now. I don’t know the best way forward. I’m on a clock.”
“Name?”
She hesitates.
I open the notebook again. “If this question is difficult, the rest won’t go well.”
“Anna Morozova.”
“Try again.”
Her attention drops to the book.
“You looked at the cover and picked Anna,” I say. “Morozova is so fucking obvious that you might as well tattoo fake identity across your forehead.”
Colour rises in her cheeks. “I didn’t realise I needed to arrive with one prepared.”
“You need to arrive prepared for everything.”
“I’ve had a difficult night.”
“I don’t care.”
That lands hard. Good. Fear makes people careless, and careless clients bring police to my door.
She raises her chin. “Can you help me or not? I have money. Cash.”
“How much?”
“Four thousand.”
“Put it on the desk.”
She doesn’t move.
“You came here for illegal documents, but handing over the cash troubles you?”
“I want to know what I’m buying.”
“A new name. Supporting records. A passport that’ll survive routine checks. What you’re not buying is my patience.”
She grits her teeth. She opens the book and pulls several bundles of notes from a hollow cut through the pages.
I look at the ruined novel. “You butchered Tolstoy for a hiding place?”
“It came that way.”
I smile and recall my Aunt Irina has one just like it. Call me stupid, but it makes me less suspicious of this woman, not more.
She sets the cash on my desk but keeps one hand on it. A bruise circles her wrist, dark enough to have happened recently. Finger marks. Someone held her hard.
“Take your hand off my money.”
“It’s still mine.”
“Then take it and leave.”
For several seconds, she stares at me. She finally pulls back.
I count the bundles before passing them to Bogdan. He moves to the detector.
“When do you need it?” I ask.
“Today.”
“Everyone needs it today.”
“I’m in danger. I want to get out of the country before I’m gunned down in the street.”
Her desperation is intoxicating.
“Oh? Who did you piss off?”
“I’m not telling you that so you can run to him and tell him about this.”
“You think I know everyone in London?”
“I think you are Bratva and I’m risking a lot by coming here. But you were recommended. He wasn’t.”
“He would be?”
She glances over her shoulder at Bogdan and then back to me. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m not telling you. I’ve already said too much.”
“You kind of have. I know your travel plans. That was unwise.”
She inhales slowly. Her expression tightens, and she looks just past my shoulder at nothing. Bogdan finishes with the notes and gives the short nod that means the money is real.
“All good,” he says.
“Of course it is,” she mutters, mostly to herself.
I lean back and study her. She has a way of holding her spine straight even while her hands shake against the ruined book on her lap. I’ve seen fear before. Most people fold. She’s trying not to.
“How much trouble are you in?” I ask, wondering why I care. But there is something about those eyes, those lips. I want to know everything about her.
“Enough that I’m sitting in front of a stranger with tattoos everywhere, asking for a new identity.”
I tap the pen against the notebook. “Not everywhere,” I say suggestively.
“Good for you. Can you help me, or am I taking my money elsewhere?”
Before I can answer her, my phone buzzes on my desk. It’s Mika.
Frowning, I pull up the CCTV feed of the inside of the club again and glance at it to find that I was paying too much attention to the woman in my office and not enough to what was going on outside.
“Bogdan. Downstairs now,” I say as I pick up the phone. “Da?”
The woman’s eyes widen as Bogdan moves out and the atmosphere goes colder.
“Anton Melnikov—”
“I see him. Bogdan is about to greet him.”
The woman freezes, her eyes fixed on my phone. She heard the name through the line, and it has frightened her.
I end the call and set the phone down.
“Melnikov,” I say, watching her face. “That name means something to you.”
She doesn’t answer. Her hands have gone white around the ruined spine of the book.
“I asked who you pissed off. Now I have a name.” I stand and move around the desk. She flinches back into the chair, and I stop, giving her the space she wants.
“I need to leave,” she says, already rising.
“Sit down.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand plenty. Anton’s brother is dead.
Found in an alley with a knife wound in his neck.
” I notice every flicker across her face as I say it.
She doesn’t manage to hide the flinch this time.
“And here you are with fresh bruises on your wrist and running like a scared rabbit. So, little bunny. Was that you who killed Gregor?”