Chapter 4
ROMAN
She’s two minutes late.
I'm parked half a block down from the brothel, watching the side door, waiting on Olga, the whore I’ve singled out as my way in. For two weeks, I’ve been stalking this place, narrowing down a target. She’s the one.
Olga’s an old-timer. She’s been here long enough to hear every rumor and gossip.
Sneaky enough to take on clients outside the brothel.
Do I have proof? No. But one look at her jittery hands and fidgety movements told me everything I needed to know.
Straight-up heroin addict. She’ll suck and fuck anything with a pulse to pay for her next fix.
I watch as the side door opens. She steps out and lights a cigarette, scanning the street. I wait to see if anyone else comes out behind her. No one. When she’s halfway down the block, I get out and follow behind her.
"Olga."
She jumps then plasters on a smile, trying to look seductive. "Roman Ivanov. Looking for company?"
"Maybe.” I smile back. “Depends."
She blows out her cigarette smoke and cocks her hip. “On what?”
"Only if you want to make some easy money."
Her eyes light up. "I'm listening."
"Not here. Come with me."
She doesn’t hesitate. Olga nods and follows me to the car.
I drive us to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city.
It’s been bankrupt for months, empty and quiet, the perfect place to talk.
I park around the back and grab the duffel bag from the trunk.
Olga opens her jacket and starts unbuttoning her shirt.
I pretend to look interested, let her think that’s why she’s here.
I lead her through a door with a missing lock.
Inside, I point to one of the chairs scattered around the room.
"Sit down.”
She does, glancing around and wetting her lips. She’s nervous now, realizing from my tone this has nothing to do with sex or money. I need her to relax, though, so I pour two glasses of vodka, filling hers to the brim.
"Let’s have a drink."
She grabs the glass and takes a big gulp. Her eyes roll back slightly as the alcohol hits her tongue, dulling the itch.
I sit across from her but don’t touch my drink.
"Tell me something, Olga. You've been working at the brothel for what, four, five years?"
"Five."
"You like it there?"
She laughs. "Sometimes. Money’s decent.”
I arch a brow. "That’s funny. From what I hear, you’re open for business twenty-four seven.”
Her face goes paper white. "Ivanov. That’s not true. I swear."
"You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t care if you infect every man in that place. Not my problem. What I do care about, is if you're smart enough to be honest with me."
She stares into her glass, letting out a long sigh. "Fine. It’s true. What’s it to you, anyway?”
"Nothing. I just need to know if I can trust you.” I pour her more vodka. "Keep drinking."
She obeys, swallowing again.
"I need information, Olga. About the brothel. About something Belova keeps secret in there."
"What kind of something?"
I look her dead in the eyes. "The basement."
Her hand trembles around the glass. "I don't know anything about the basement."
"You’re lying again. I think you do know. I think the girls whisper about it when Belova’s not around."
She laughs, thin and nervous. "Really, Ivanov. I don’t know anything."
"Olga,” I warn. “You can tell me the truth, or you can refuse and deal with Belova knowing you’re a walking STD. Wonder how that conversation will go?"
She swallows more vodka, one gulp after another. "What do you want to know?"
Now we’re getting somewhere.
I lean back in the chair. "Everything.”
"There's a girl down there,” she whispers. “Nobody's supposed to talk about her. If we see her, we have to pretend we didn’t. Belova loses her mind if anyone mentions it."
"What girl?"
"I don't know her name. I’ve never seen her myself, but I heard Belova talking once. She said your father keeps someone down there. Someone who tells him things."
"What kind of things?"
Olga glances around like the walls might be listening. "Secrets."
She drains her glass and I pour more. "Some of the girls think it’s a witch he’s keeping down there. That she can see the future or read minds or something."
"Do you believe that?"
She shrugs. "I don't know what to believe. All I know is, your father comes every Tuesday like clockwork. He stays about an hour. Always goes straight to the basement. Never touches any of us.”
"Have you ever seen the girl?"
"No. Belova only forgot to lock it a couple of times. She’s the only one with a key.”
“Where’s the door?”
"Back hallway, all the way past the laundry room. It looks like it’s a closet.”
Olga’s drunk now, slurring her words. "Belova slapped a new girl for opening it. Threatened to choke her."
"What about guards? Any inside at night?”
"One outside. One inside by the desk.”
Olga just confirmed everything I’ve seen. "You’re very helpful," I tell her, moving over to a table. I open the duffel bag I’d placed earlier on it, slipping on a pair of gloves. I pull out a small plastic bag with Olga’s reward.
Heroin. I hold it up. Her eyes glaze over, locking onto it, wild with pure need and hunger.
"Is this what you want?"
"Yes."
"It's yours. All of it."
She reaches for it, but I pull it back. "Answer me this, Is there a way out through the basement? A door to the outside?”
"I don’t think so. Never seen anything when we throw out the garbage.”
“How many side doors? Back doors on the main floor?”
She frowns, thinking through the vodka haze and itch. "Two. A back alley for delivery. Side door for customers.”
I think for a minute, then hand her the bag. "That’s good enough.”
Her hands shake as she grabs it from me, clutching it to her chest. "Thank you, Ivanov. Thank you so much."
"You're welcome."
I watch her pull out the syringe I prepared. I need this to go fast. "Let me help you,” I offer.
She smiles at me, holding out her arm for my special mixture. Heroin laced with fentanyl. It’s enough to make sure she never wakes up.
Olga’s too far gone to notice anything wrong about this situation. She’s too desperate for her fix to think I’d ever let her walk away knowing I was aware of my father’s secret.
I tie off her arm, find the vein and push the plunger. Olga sighs, moans, then slumps back against the chair, her eyelids fluttering.
"That's good," she murmurs. "Thank you. So, so good.”
"I know."
Her breathing slows. Soon, her eyes close. I sit in my chair and wait. I need to make sure the drugs worked. It does. Five minutes later, she’s dead. I walk over and check for a pulse. There’s none.
Overdose.
This happens all the time with addicts. No one will investigate too hard. Olga’s been using for years. A simple case of a whore who met with a man in an abandoned building for a quick fuck and a fix right after.
I place the syringe in her hand, pack up the vodka bottle and glasses into my bag and leave. Next, I drive across the city, to one of the ugliest sections of Moscow. Crumbling buildings, smokestacks rising to the sky, belching out black smoke that hovers over apartment buildings.
This is where Pyotr lives. He’s an engineering genius who lives like a hermit. I knock once, then twice in a faster beat. He opens the door. Sixty something with gray hair and thick bifocal glasses, Pyotr lives under the Bratva radar, despite doing work for me when I need discretion.
"Ivanov?”
I step inside his apartment. Papers and technical manuals cover the floor and table.
“Let yourself in,” he mutters, shuffling behind me.
I don’t waste time. “There’s a building, old as dirt. The electrical system hasn’t been updated in decades. I’m concerned about fire safety.”
His brows shoot up. Pyotr scratches his chin, his interest sparking. "Which building?"
"Brothel on Trudovaya."
"Oh, that one. You’re right, that building’s ancient. Soviet-era construction. The wiring has to be original. Extremely dangerous if you ask me.”
"Exactly. That’s why I want it inspected. Make sure everything is safe."
“And if I find problems?” Pyotr asks, eyeing me carefully.
"You fix them. It’d be a real shame if it caught fire.”
He nods slowly. "You worried about total loss or minor damage?”
“Minor. The kind that leads to evacuation.”
"When?"
"Next Tuesday. Early in the morning, around two.”
"That's very specific."
"I have my reason. Can you do it?"
He considers this, nodding “Yes.”
“How much?”
"Sixty thousand rubles."
"Done." I count the money out and hand it over.
Pyotr set it on top of his paper pile. “Any cameras I should know about?”
“None. Belova’s the one that runs the place.
She goes upstairs around eleven, comes back down at five-thirty.
Once she’s gone, it’s just the guard at the front desk.
Nothing ever happens, so he’ll be glued to his phone.
The electrical room is near the utility closet.
It’s a side door entry. Left-hand side. You’ll know it when you see it. "
"Anything else?"
"Yes. You’re a ghost in that building. Understood?”
He snorts. "Don’t insult me, Ivanov."
“Glad we understand each other.” I head for the door, glancing over my shoulder. "Tuesday. Two a.m. Don't fuck it up."
"I never do."
By the time I get home, it’s nearly three in the morning. I’m asleep within minutes. My phone buzzes around nine, waking me.
It’s Dimitri.
"Yeah."
"We need to meet. Now."
I already know why but ask anyway. "What’s up?"
"Your father and his fucking Albanian pets.”
I rub my temple. "Alright. Where?"
"Stary Dvor in one hour."
An hour later, I’m in the backroom of a restaurant we’ve been using for meetings over ten years. Dimitri is already there, hunched over a table with a bottle of Baltika nine in front of him.
"Motherfuckers," he says, the second I pull out a chair. “Your father gave away a quarter of my territory. Half of my goddamn operation was out of Novy Kamen.”
I sit across from him. "Did he hand your operations to them too?”
Dimitri takes a long draw of his beer. “Pakhan’s not that fucked in the head yet. No. He called me in yesterday, said it was strategic. The Albanians can move shipments through more secure routes.”
"You believe that?”
“Hell no. I’m losing money. My men are feeling screwed and cash isn’t moving like it used to.”
I let him vent. I understand his problem—or at least, I make it look that way. The truth is, Dimitri’s has the largest crew. If I can convince him that we need new leadership, his numbers alone will force the others to fall in line when the shift comes.
"What about Alexsei and Yuri? They’re losing ground too?"
"Nope. I’m the chosen one.”
“That’s rough,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “What are you going to do?”
“What am I supposed to do? Start a fucking war with the Pakhan?” He looks off to the side, jaw clenched. “That would be suicide."
"Why a war?” I ask, testing his frustration. “If enough people are pissed, it can go quick.”
Dimitri sets his glass down, raising a single brow. "Are you saying I should make a move against your father?"
"I'm saying you should do what's best for your men.”
He studies me then lets out a short laugh. "You’re fucking one to talk. You hate him, Roman. Pakhan might think you want his respect, but he has to know you despise him. I'm surprised you're still breathing after all these years."
"That’s because he knows I’m more useful alive than dead. For now.”
Dimitri drains his beer. "If anyone’s going to make a move, it’s you. You don’t have to bullshit me. That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re checking to see if I'd back you."
I choose my words carefully. "I want to know if you think the problem is deep enough to need a solution.”
Dimitri leans back in his chair, thumbing his chin. After a beat, he says, "It is. But talking’s easy. Doing is a whole other beast, one I’m not sure we can handle."
“You’re right,” I concede. “Problems like this need timing. The right people.”
Dimitri lets out a loud breath. “That’s the fucking problem right there.” He cracks open another Baltika. “Here’s to kissing Albanian asses.”
I leave soon after that. Dimitri’s not ready and I don’t trust him enough to lay out my plans. It’s too risky.
I spend the rest of the day preparing for next Tuesday.
I check out a few apartments, settling on one in a certain area of town before leaving with the keys.
From there, I zigzag across Moscow, covering my trail at different stores.
I stock up on all sorts of food, enough to last for a while.
I pay for everything in cash only. No trace.
Since I don’t know what condition the girl will be in when I find her, I make sure to grab some medical supplies and nutritional drinks.
She could be half-starved for all I know, useless to me if she’s on the verge of death.
My next stop is a clothing store. I don’t know shit about buying women's clothes, so I keep it simple. I grab a couple of sweatpants, t-shirts and some hoodies in a small size. I don’t even attempt figuring out the different styles of underwear.
Whatever looks like it might fit a thin eighteen-year-old girl, gets dropped in the cart.
I add a few bras that claim to fit one size and add some socks to the pile I pay and move on.
The last stop is for personal items. I get the basics of what I assume a girl would need, take everything back to the apartment and put it away. I’ll need to come back tomorrow to finish setting up the locks. Can’t have her trying to escape.
When I’m done, I stand in the middle of the apartment and take it all in.
It’s not the nicest place, nothing like my penthouse near the Moscow River, but it’s clean and much better than a basement.
Best of all, no one will look for her here.
Knowing my father, I can almost guarantee it.
She’ll be isolated and completely dependent on me. As it should be for an asset.
My asset.