The tile is cold under her back and the water is scorching and her body is wrapped around me so tightly I can’t think straight.I fuck her against the shower wall, deep and hard, every thrust knocking another broken sound out of her. She clings to me, legs tight around my waist, hips rising to meet mine with no shame left in her now.
“Roman,” she gasps.
I keep fucking her, keep one hand under her ass to hold her up, the other sliding between us to rub her clit because I want to feel her break like this, under the water, on my cock, with nowhere to go but into it.
When I open my eyes, I’m alone in the shower with my cock in my hand.
I take out my phone and open the picture from Moscow. Time to time I feel myself going back to it, though I always promise myself I never would.
Mikhail arrives an hour later with coffee that’s actually drinkable and the expression he wears when he’s already read three things that made his day worse.
“You look rested,” he says.
“I’ll kill you.”
He nods. “Good. Then you’re awake.”
We spread everything across the table.Bay Fourteen.Oleg’s old channels. Arkady’s calls. Old Brighton contacts. Three names that led nowhere yesterday and might still lead nowhere today. The point isn’t inspiration. It’s movement, keeping myself busy. If I keep working, I don’t have to think too much aboutKaterina’s mouth or the way her daughter tucked herself against my side at lunch like I belonged there.
Mikhail opens the first folder. “Arkady’s still dirty, but not in the way we hoped.”
“No link to Oleg?”
“Nothing solid.”
I look at the page in front of me. “What about the phone call that rattled him?”
“Burner. Dead by midnight. We traced it to a club manager in Queens who swears it was borrowed and has suddenly remembered religion.”
“That’s helpful.” I look up. “Which club?”
Mikhail slides a sheet over. “Black Room.”
I’ve heard of the place. Everyone knows the place. Dark velvet, overpriced vodka, bad lighting, worse men. “Does Arkady go there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you think we can find any leads over there?”
“Possibly,” Mikhail says. “There was some chatter there after the pier incident.”
“Interesting, and it’s Arkady’s favorite spot.”
Mikhail sighs. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the old fool is involved.”
“That’s for me to decide,” I say.
He cocks his head. “Are you sure this is about your father?” His words stop me in my tracks.
“Yes, what else?”
Mikhail has the good sense not to argue with me, nodding.
By eleven, I’m in the back booth of Black Room watching Arkady Belov pretend he still has enough money to take up space properly.
The club is built to flatter weak men. Everything is dim enough to hide age and expensive enough to make them feel chosen. Red light, dark liquor, women in black moving through the room with practiced boredom. The bass is heavy enough to blur conversation unless you lean too close.
Arkady is doing exactly that.
