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“Misha talks like a fucking teenager.”

“Misha’s never mentioned a woman in twelve years. How long?”

“As long as it takes. Run everything. Call me for blood or money.”

I hang up and text my cousin Dmitri.

I met her.

It’s about time, old man.

Misha’s at the door at six-thirty with coffee and a tablet. He looks at me, in my sweats, with her ruined panties hanging out of my pocket, and keeps his mouth shut.

“Her school account. Nine grand behind.”

“Pay it. Pay next year.”

“She didn’t ask for that.”

“She doesn’t get a say. Pay it.” I hand him back the tablet. “Her apartment. I want keys. Every door. Her car. Her roommates’ rooms.”

He doesn’t even blink. “And somebody on her?”

“No. I’ve got her phone.”

He swipes the screen, and his face goes flat. “The guy from the club. Trent Holloway. TV producer. He filed a police report. Said a Russian assaulted him over a cocktail waitress. He named her. Told the cops she set him up.”

I go very calm. The cold kind.

“Where?”

“Malibu. Alone.”

“Which hand did he grab her with?”

“Right.”

“Every finger. One at a time. He fell down the stairs. Before the last one, you tell him her name, so he knows why.”

Misha nods like I asked for bagels and goes.

* * *

She wakes up at seven-forty. All at once. She sits straight up, the sheet falls, her tits bounce, and she looks around the room like she’s been kidnapped. Then she sees me in the chair.

She yanks the sheet up to her chin.

“Morning,” I say.

“Oh my God.” She stares at me. Then her face changes as she remembers four-thirty. “Oh my God. You… This morning, you…”

“Yeah.”

“I was asleep, Sasha!”

“Not by the end.”

Her mouth falls open. Then she grabs her phone off the nightstand like it’s a life raft.