Page 76 of Beguiled

Tick. Tock.

My guess was that Dimitri had someone else checking the account, adding it to the list of threats. But for a million reasons, the fact it hadn’t been brought to my attention pissed me off. Enough, I simply clicked out of my email and the file I’d been working on and shoved back my chair. Goddamn it.

There was nothing worse than being toyed with like a damn doll.

Grabbing my jacket and keys, I headed out the door, fighting not to slam it in the process.

Saige was still behind her desk, a dutiful employee who bristled when I opened the door but didn’t bother looking in my direction. However, she did close the window so I couldn’t see what she was working on.

“I’m headed out for the night,” I told her, biting back my anger. She didn’t need to endure my wrath. “Enjoy your evening.” I slowed my pace involuntarily. I don’t know if I was expecting she’d stop me and strike up a conversation.

She didn’t.

Maybe it was just as well. We needed to keep a distance between ourselves.

For the betterment of the company.

And perhaps our sanity if not our lives.

CHAPTER 17

Stash

The grill and bistro restaurant was much larger than it appeared on the outside. While framing it as a quaint Mom and Pop establishment, which it likely had been in the nineteen-sixties, it had grown significantly, providing lighter fare on one side, a full restaurant and bar on the other. Since it was already late afternoon, even before I walked in, I could tell the place was crowded.

No one noticed me at first when I walked in, groups of people conversing, the several televisions flipped to sports on four different channels. Two depicted various football games, or in the United States soccer. Wrestling was on another and the closest screen presented a brutal MMA fight.

A smile crossed my face as I headed to the bar. I had to wonder whether they were aware a ringer had been placed in the Strike Zone.

While Sean controlled the fights, there were only a couple of days a month when the third fight was held. And not everymonth held a fight to the death. He was careful that way. Plus, he was learning to control his anger.

Or so he continued to try to convince me.

Perhaps I should have realized that even in a city as large as New York, word on evil men traveled fast. As I’d experienced when walking into Sean’s club the first time, the din of conversation dropped all the way off, the silence a precursor to heads being turned in my direction.

Historically, Armenians and Russians had gotten along, although given the state of Russia’s political climate today, the close ties had recently been strained. In New York, I considered them just another mainstay of the city. From what I’d been able to tell in the months I’d been in the Big Apple was that they mostly kept to themselves. They also had an entirely different way of handling business than their ancestors.

Could they be considered a threat in the future? Yes, but who couldn’t? The lust for power and wealth was multi-generational and spared no one based on culture, religion, or political beliefs.

While there was no obvious sign of anyone deciding it was a good day to die, I ensured they knew by the look on my face that I wasn’t interested in taking any crap. And I wasn’t.

As I moved closer to the bar, a group of men backed away but others stayed. One of two bartenders walked closer, an older gentleman who eyed me with clear amusement.

He planted his hands on the bar, his gaze missing nothing, including where I’d placed my weapon. “Menk’ ch’enk’ uzum, vor dzer nmannery aystegh linen.”

We don’t want your kind here.

Interesting. This was my first personal experience with the Armenians and I could easily tell there was bad blood. Likely my cousin’s fault.

While the old guard continued to speak Armenian, the younger crowd refused to covet the old language. It was the same way with the Russians in Brighton Beach.

“I?nch’ tesak e da. Nrank’, ovk’er miayn mi bazhak shotlandakan viski yen uzum.”

What kind is that? The ones who want nothing more than a tall glass of scotch?

He wasn’t expecting I knew Armenian. At least he grinned.

“Slimy Russians,” he added but with more of a lilt in his voice. “But since you’re here and you have good taste in liquor, I’ll allow you to stay.”