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31
Lyon walked along the boardwalk at Coney Island with Alek at his side, trying not to be jostled by the crowd of pedestrians. The temperature hovered on the border of chilly and cold, but it was Saturday, and the boardwalk was still packed, the locals trying to get in one last hurrah before winter socked them in for the next five months.
“How is this fun for anyone?” Alek grumbled at his side.
Behind his sunglasses, Lyon scanned the masses. “It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”
Alek glanced over at him but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Lyon already knew what he was thinking: a month ago Lyon would have hated the press of crowds, the smell of hot dogs and cotton candy, the music that seeped out of the arcade.
Now he wondered if Kira would like it, imagined bringing her back when he had control of the bratva, buying her funnel cake and holding her hand while they rode the Wonder Wheel. If he hadn’t been in such deep shit with the bratva, he would have been worried about himself.
As it was, he didn’t have the bandwidth for it. Kira Baranov was, at this moment, the one good thing in his life. He could only accept it at face value and vow to dissect his feelings at a more opportune time.
They were married. There was no rush.
“Think he’ll show?” Alek asked.
“He’ll show,” Lyon said.
They were approaching the Wonder Wheel, the giant ferris wheel that was a Coney Island icon, and Lyon let his gaze travel over the iron benches lining the boardwalk.
He spotted the man right away, despite his efforts to blend in. He sat on one of the benches, dark hair almost too long, eyes hidden behind aviators that reflected the scene around him. To anyone who didn’t know better, he was just a man enjoying the ocean air, but Lyon caught the tense set of his jaw, the coiled energy in his shoulders.
He wore gray pants and a deep purple button-down, but they were too tailored, too well-cut, to be off the rack, and his shoes were obviously handmade.
“There he is,” Lyon said.
“Do you see his body man?” Alek asked.
“By the Tilt-O-Whirl,” Lyon said without moving his head to look. “There are two of them.”
“What an asshole,” Alek said.
“I don’t blame him.” The meeting was highly irregular, with a lot at stake for both parties. Lyon didn’t expect the other man to trust him.
“I’ve got your back,” Alek said, slowing his pace until he’d dropped back out of Lyon’s view.
Lyon kept walking. He’d only gone a short distance when he saw the man move alongside him in his peripheral vision.
“Thank you for joining me,” Lyon said.
The other man didn’t look at him. “You must think I have a death wish.”
“No, I think you have ambition. It’s something I understand, something we have in common.”
“Let’s get off the boardwalk.”
They made the turn onto a side street and Lyon caught a glimpse of Alek, following about twenty feet behind with the two men Lyon had spotted by the Tilt-O-Whirl.
The farther away they got from the boardwalk, the quieter it got. They passed a couple of smaller stores and then came to several walls covered with various kinds of art. The man next to him slowed his steps as they stepped around a large mural covered in a Cubist painting of the boardwalk.
Lyon stopped and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming. We’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Lyon Antonov.”
“I know who you are.” The man studied him a moment before shaking his hand. “Roman Kalashnik.”
“Pleasure.”
They turned to face the painted wall, both affecting an air of interest that had nothing to do with the art.
