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“Never lie to me,” the Wolf said. “I have my sources. They are everywhere!”
He sat on the arm of an easy chair that looked as if it had been in this hideous bedroom for a hundred years. Dust puffed from the old chair as it took his weight.
“You like him?” he asked Zoya. “My wife’s cousin?”
“I love him,” she said, and her brown eyes went soft. “Always. Since we were thirteen years old. Forever, I loved him.”
“Slava, Slava,” the Wolf said, and walked over to the muscular man on the floor. He bent to give Slava a hug. “You are my ex-wife’s blood relative. And you betrayed me. You sold me out to my enemies, didn’t you? Sure, you did. How much did you get? A lot, I hope.”
Then he twisted Slava’s head as if he were opening a big jar of pickles. Slava’s neck snapped, a sound that the Wolf had come to love over the years. His trademark in the Red Mafiya.
Zoya’s eyes widened to about twice their normal size. But she didn’t make a sound, and because of that the Wolf understood what tough customers she and Slava really were, how dangerous they had been to the safety of the organization. “I’m impressed, Zoya,” he said. “Let’s talk some.”
He stared into those amazing eyes of hers. “Listen, I’m going to get the two of us some real vodka, Russian vodka. Then I want to hear your war stories,” he said. “I want to hear what you’ve done with your life, Zoya. You have me curious now. Most of all, I want to play chess, Zoya. Nobody in America knows how to play chess. One game, then you go to heaven with your beloved Slava. But first vodka and chess, and, of course, I fuck you!”
Chapter 43
ON ACCOUNT OF SECRETS that Zoya had told him under significant duress, the Wolf had to make one more stop in New York. Unfortunate. This meant that he wouldn’t be able to catch his flight home out of Kennedy and he would miss the professional hockey game that night. Regretful, but he knew this was the right thing to do. The betrayal by Slava and Zoya had jeopardized his life, and also made him look bad.
At a little past eleven, he entered a club called the Passage in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. The Passage looked like a dump from the street, but inside it was beautiful, very ornate, almost as nice as the best places in Moscow.
He saw people he knew from the old days: Gosha Chernov, Lev Denisov, Yura Fomin and his mistress. Then he spotted his darling Yulya. His ex-wife was tall and slender, with large breasts he’d bought for her in Palm Beach, Florida. Yulya was still beautiful in the right light, not so much changed since Moscow, where she had been a dancer since she was fifteen.
She was sitting at the bar with Mikhail Biryukov, the latest king of Brighton Beach. They were directly in front of a mural of St. Petersburg, which was very cinematic, thought the Wolf, a typical Hollywood visual cliché.
Yulya saw him coming, and she tapped Biryukov. The local pakhan turned to look, and the Wolf closed on him fast. He slammed a black king down on the table. “Checkmate,” he roared, then laughed and hugged Yulya.
“You’re not happy to see me?” he asked them. “I should be hurt.”
Biryukov grunted. “You are a mystery man. I thought you were in California.”
“Wrong again,” said the Wolf. “By the way, Slava and Zoya say hello. I just saw them out on Long Island. They couldn’t make the trip here tonight.”
Yulya shrugged—such a cool little bitch. “They mean nothing to me,” she said. “Distant cousins.”
“Or me either, Yulya. Only the police care about them now.”
Suddenly, he grabbed Yulya by the hair and lifted her out of her bar seat with one arm. “You told them to fuck me over, didn’t you? You must have paid them a lot!” he screamed in her face. “It was you. And him!”
With dazzling speed, the Wolf pulled an ice pick from his sleeve and stuck it into Biryukov’s left eye. The gangster was blinded, and dead in an instant.
“No . . . Please.” Yulya struggled to get out a few words. “You can’t do this. Not even you!”
Then the Wolf addressed everyone in the nightclub. “You are all witnesses, are you not? What? Nobody helps her? You’re afraid of me? Good—you should be. Yulya tried to get revenge on me. She was always stupid as a cow. Biryukov—he was just a dumb, greedy bastard. Ambitious! The godfather of Brighton Beach! What is that? He wanted to be me!”
The Wolf lifted Yulya even higher in the air. Her long legs kicked violently and one of her red mules went flying, scooting under a nearby table. Nobody picked up the shoe. Not a person in the club moved to help her. Or to see if Mikhail Biryukov was still alive. Word had already circulated that the madman in the front of the Passage was the Wolf.
“You are witnesses to what happens—if anyone ever crosses me. You are witnesses! So you’ve had a warning. Same as in Russia. Same now in America.”
The Wolf took his left hand out of Yulya’s hair and wrapped it around her throat. He twisted hard and Yulya’s neck broke. “You are witnesses!” he screamed in Russian. “I killed my ex-wife. And this rat Biryukov. You saw me do it! So go to hell.”
And then the Wolf stomped out of the nightclub. No one did a thing to stop him.
And no one talked to the New York police when they came.
Same as in Russia.
Same now in America.
