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“Oh, don’t you go pointing fingers at me. I’m just the good big brother, taking his little sister out to see an art show I know she’ll like. You’re the one who turned it into a McDonald’s playpen.”
“You are so going to get it,” I threaten, holding my fingers up as if to pinch Ben.
“Not if you can’t catch me!” he hollers, making a break for it into the crowded Manhattan streets.
“Coward!” I shout, racing after him.
But I can’t stop smiling. Because this is Ben,myBen. The brother I grew up with and love so much it hurts. And I love that he’s actually spending the day with me.
18
EFREM
“They came late last night, after the club was closed but before the girls went home, so the doors were still unlocked,” Gleb states darkly as he meets Pyotr at the front doors of Satine.
The strip club is closed for the day, after being robbed at gunpoint the night before. Val and I flank Pyotr closely as I take in the sight of the vacant front room. The place is in shambles, tables upturned, chairs broken. Bullet holes pock the stage and catwalk, leaving several of the backlit tiles dark, long cracks spiderwebbing from the entry points.
“What did they take?” Pyotr demands, striding purposefully into the room, his eyes scanning to assess the damage.
“Nothing from the registers,” Gleb observes coldly. “They knew right where to go.”
“The product?” Pyotr asks sharply.
Gleb nods.
“How much?”
Gleb hesitates, and I know it must be bad. One of our main distributors works out of Satine, so I’m sure we had a considerable amount stashed in the back.
“How much?” Pyotr repeats, stopping to face his captain.
“Couple hundred kilos,” Gleb answers, shaking his head.
“Blyat,” Pyotr growls, resuming his trek to the back room. “Valentin?” he asks, referring to the distributor.
“Dead. They beat the shit out of the club manager, too,” Gleb adds.
But I can tell that’s not all. His lean muscles are wound tight like a spring, bracing for the worst of the news to come.
Pyotr seems to notice too. “What else?” he growls as we head down the back hallway lined with neon track lights.
“They took several of the girls.”
Stopping with his hand on the door handle to the back room, Pyotr turns. “Girls?” His voice is low and deadly.
“The dancers. The men took seven of them at gunpoint—as many as they could drag out the door.”
A long stream of Russian curses leave mypakhan’smouth as he whirls, looking for something to break. When he finds nothing, he turns a wild gaze in my direction, as if beseeching me to find something to unleash his anger on.
I remain still, watching Pyotr carefully, though his rage mirrors my own.
“They left this.” Gleb jerks his chin toward the back room, gesturing for Pyotr to enter so he can show whatever it is they left behind.
Pyotr obeys, collecting himself before opening the door and stepping into the dimly lit room. Several scantily clad girls sit about the space, black mascara streaking their cheeks as they cry openly, clinging to each other like their lives depend on it. Their lives probablydiddepend on it just hours ago, when they got held at gunpoint and told to leave with unknown men. Several of Gleb’s men attend to them, trying to calm the hysterical girls.
Dima, the club manager, looks worse for wear, his face a mask of purple-and-black bruises, one eye swollen completely closed. He clutches his ribs in a way that makes me think they must be broken.
“Lev,” Gleb calls, beckoning to one of his men.
