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I’ve learned not to show fear around these guys, though. Assholes like Tony will feed off it like a rabid coyote until there’s nothing left of me but bones. “It’s late. Drop me at home and I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.” Korsakov’s temper is scalding, but it cools quickly. It’s best not to be around him until it does.
“Nah.” Tony’s grin is wide and obnoxious. “He called before you came out. Said to bring you in tonight.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I feign indifference but my stomach roils. That doesn’t bode well for me. He couldn’t have known I’d failed by that point. But maybe he’d made a decision about my fate in case I did.
I focus on my breathing as our SUV meanders along the city streets, the hazy glow of brake lights and relentless blast of taxi horns oddly therapeutic. My target left before I could make my move, but it would’ve been too risky, anyway. I have to assume Sofie is somehow tied to the feds, and if those cuff links went missing tonight, my studio apartment door would be the first they kicked down.
“What’s with the souvenir?” Tony asks.
He means Sofie’s glass that I swiped off the bar before the bartender could come by to collect, smuggling it out beneath my wrap, careful not to smudge her fingerprints. “You use it to drink wine.”
“You know, one of these days, that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you into real trouble. Why’d you lift it?”
“Because I needed a new one.”
He snorts. “Idiot.”
I took it thinking I’d give it to Korsakov when I told him about her, as a way of buying myself a pass for tonight’s failure. But the more I consider that plan, the more I realize it’s likely that he’ll decide I’ve been compromised. Last year, when Rolo was caught having a cozy chat with the DEA, Korsakov set him free with a bullet to the back of the skull. At least that’s the rumor—Korsakov is not dumb enough to murder with an audience. But no one, including Rolo’s wife and kids, have seen him since.
Tony is right. I am an idiot, for not slipping out the back of the venue while I still could.
My insides are churning when I spot the familiar vendor cart up ahead. “Stop here for a minute?”
“Seriously?” Tony twists his massive frame around to scowl at me.
“I’m starving,” I lie. I doubt I could manage a bite.
“You just left a penguin-suit party full of food!” He groans loudly—he always complains when I ask to stop—but then he nods at Pidge. “Fuck, yeah, whatever.” He adds under his breath, “Considering it’s probably your last meal.”
“I’ll even eat it outside,” I offer, my voice dripping with phony sweetness. The only thing Tony despises more than me is the smell of hotdogs and sauerkraut.
“Yeah, you will. You’re not stinking up this leather for the next week.” He shakes his head. “Can take the girl out of the street, but can’t take the street rat out of the girl.”
“There’s an umbrella under my seat,” Pidge offers as I gingerly set Sofie’s glass down.
“Thanks.” He’s quiet and the nicest of the bunch, but he’d still sell his own sister for the right price. I hop out, my clutch tucked under my arm. The dress I’m wearing is a sleek black satin halter style that pools around my feet—the least flashy of the designer lot the guys procured in their latest heist. Neither it nor my wrap offer any protection against the bone-chilling November air, but in my present state of mind, I barely notice.
I want to believe Korsakov wouldn’t end me, not over this. Ironically, the man has shown me more kindness than he does to most, albeit in his own way. Once, one of his goons took the “do not touch my pretty little thief” law as mere guidance and tried to force himself on me. Korsakov had the skin flayed off his back with a whip. I know because Korsakov made me watch the spectacle, smiling as proudly as a cat presenting a massacred bird at its master’s feet. Only Korsakov isn’t an ordinary cat. He’s a tiger who occasionally lunges at those who feed him.
But the phone call, the demand to see me with or without the cuff links …
Does he already know about the red-haired woman sniffing around me?
Or has he somehow learned about the discreet inquiries I’ve been making into securing a passport? About the cash I’ve been squirreling away in my vent and the apartment in London that I’ve looked at renting? If he has, would he see that as anything other than what it is—an escape plan?
My instincts are telling me to run.
I pick my way along the sidewalk, trying to avoid the puddles as I scramble to devise my strategy. Do I just kick off my heels and bolt? Do I wait until I’m a safe distance away to give myself a head start? I could cut through the park and jump into a taxi on the other side. Going back to my apartment to grab my stash bag would be a risk, but there’s no point going to the train station without it. It has money, clothes, a fresh ID—everything I need to disappear.
I’m only partly surprised Tony let me out. He’s stupid and arrogant enough to assume I won’t take off. Or maybe he wants me to, so he has an excuse to give his brother when he delivers me battered and bruised.
I’m still weighing my best course of action when I reach the stand. Alton is hunched in front of the grill, turning a sausage over the flame. “Yeah?” He grunts before glancing up. Instant recognition touches his face. “Haven’t seen you around in a bit.” I’ve come a long way from the gangly kid with heavy kohl-lined eyes and bleached hair who stole a hotdog from him. But he once said that it doesn’t matter how much makeup I hide behind or what color my hair is; all he needs to know it’s me are my blue eyes. They remind him of his childhood summers by the Adriatic Sea.
It’s been a few months. “I’ve been busy.” I dare a glance over my shoulder at the waiting SUV, its blinking hazards earning angry horn blasts from vehicles coming up behind. Tony can’t climb a flight of stairs without wheezing by the time he reaches the top; I could probably outrun him, even in my heels. But Pidge is smart enough to drive around and catch me on the other side of the block.
Alton opens his mouth to say something but promptly shuts it. I already know what he’s thinking. It’s what all my street acquaintances think: that I’m thriving as a high-end prostitute. I’ve never bothered to correct them. It’s more honorable to peddle what you own than what you’ve stolen. “Glad to see you still kickin’ around,” he offers.
Not for long, possibly.
