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I sit up straighter. “What?”
“I checked her background. She studied languages and literature. She majored in English and Italian, but she also took courses in French and Russian. How convenient, yes?”
“It’s a coincidence.” I cut the call.
The waiter comes to ask if I want anything else, but I shake my head and focus on the entrance on the other side of the club. Could it be just a coincidence?
A group of men enter. Two guys in dark suits walk in front of a third one, partially hiding him from view, and both are scanning the surroundings. Shevchenko and his bodyguards. Looks like he’s trying to make a statement by only bringing two men with him. The slimy bastard usually has at least five guys in tow, which isn’t that strange given he would need several people to cover his enormous frame if shit did hit the fan. He’s almost as large as Igor, Roman’s cook, and that’s not an easy accomplishment.
They see me and head toward the booth. It’s only then do I notice a girl Shevchenko has with him. The bastard definitely likes them young. The girl can’t be more than eighteen.
The bodyguards climb the two steps to the booth first and stand aside. Shevchenko follows, dragging the poor girl with him.
“Belov.” He nods and takes the seat, pulling the girl to sit on his lap.
“You’re late,” I say, keeping my focus on the girl. I was wrong, she can’t be more than sixteen, and based on the terrified look in her eyes, she is not there voluntarily.
“I had a meeting with O’Neil. He wanted to discuss a partnership.”
“Oh?” I lean back and move my focus to Shevchenko but keep watching the girl from the corner of my eye. “And what did Liam have to offer?”
“Same product. He said he’s in the middle of negotiations with Diego Rivera, and should be able to deliver the quantities we need starting next month.”
“We take seventy percent of Rivera’s drugs. There is no way Liam can match either the quantities or the price.”
“Well, he said that’ll change soon.” Shevchenko takes the bottle of whiskey the waiter brought over, fills his glass to the brim, and empties it in one tug. He pours another round,then places his meaty hand on the girl’s naked thigh, squeezing it. The girl flinches and quickly presses her legs together, but Shevchenko opens them forcefully and starts moving his hand upward, under the hem of her short dress. The girl squeezes her eyes shut.
I look up at Shevchenko’s bodyguards, then move my gaze to the bottle of liquor on the table. It should do.
“I am very excited to see how the Irish plan on accomplishing that.” I lean forward, grab the bottle, and smash it against the edge of the table.
The girl screams while the bodyguards reach for their guns and turn toward the booth, but they’re too late. I am already pressing the broken bottle to the side of Shevchenko’s neck, right over his carotid artery.
“Put the guns on the table,” I say without removing my eyes from Shevchenko’s panicked face. Nothing happens.
I look up at his two men, who are standing on the other side of the booth with their guns pointed at me. I grab the hand of the one nearest to me and pull him across the table, shielding myself just before the other man fires. The guy I’m holding screams as the bullet hits his chest. I twist his hand which is still clutching the gun toward the shooter, and squeeze his fingers. The gun fires twice, catching the guy in the stomach both times. As he crumbles to the floor, whimpering, I use the broken bottle to slice the neck of the man I’m holding, then return my attention to Shevchenko. He is still seated, holding the girl to his chest like a sacrificial lamb. His eyes dart from me, over the bloody body sprawled on the table, to his man now lying unconscious on the floor.
“It distresses me when people point guns at me,” I declare and motion toward the girl with my hand. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Her eyes widen. She seems reluctant at first, probably because I have blood dripping from my hand, but then she gets off Shevchenko’s lap and rushes to stand beside me.
“How old are you?” I ask, not removing my eyes from the horror-stricken bastard still sitting in the booth.
“Fifteen,” comes a barely audible whisper.
Fifteen. Jesus Christ. She could be his granddaughter. “Go upstairs,” I say through gritted teeth. “Ask for Pasha. He’ll find someone to take you home.”
I wait for her to leave, then approach the sick son of a bitch who is leaning back in his seat, as if that will help him. Tilting my head to the side, I size him up, then reach for the gun left on the table.
“I don’t like child molesters.” I raise the gun and shoot him in the center of his ugly mug.
After throwing the gun back on the table, I clean the blood from my hand with the corner of Shevchenko’s jacket and turn around to find the waiter and a cleaning lady cowering in the opposite corner of the club, staring at me.
“Is Pasha here?” I ask.
The cleaning lady tries to take a step back, plastering her back to the wall. The waiter blinks and points up. I look up at the gallery suspended over the dance floor. Pavel is on the other side of the glass wall, holding a phone to his ear and looking in my direction. He’s probably calling Roman to tattle on me. I hook my thumb over my shoulder toward the booth, then motion with my hand to signal that he should clean the mess. Pavel squeezes his temples with his free hand and shakes his head. I don’t think he’ll let me conduct meetings at Ural anymore.
My phone rings when I am halfway to my car. I fish it out and take the call without looking at the screen. I don’t have to... I have a special tone programmed for my brother.
