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Rooster almost chokes on his champagne. “We’re not going to ask the future queen of the Pushkin Bratva to be a dancer! Good God, woman. Ten years we’ve been married, and I still can’t take you anywhere.”
“There is nothing wrong with being a dancer.” Legs pinches her husband’s shoulder. “Need I remind you how we met?”
He pats her hand, shushing her gently. “No, darling. I remember.”
Rooster started the club ten years ago; Legs was his first hire. She started as a dancer, but within weeks, she was his bride and co-owner. They’ve been doing it all together ever since.
He got his nickname from the bright red mohawk he wears all the time. She got hers from—well, that origin story is obvious. They’ve been my friends and allies for a long time.
Legs smiles at me. “But of course we won’t ask her to work here. I’m just saying shecoulddo it. If she wanted.”
The image of Cora on a stage, long leg hooked around a bar as she bends herself backwards, dressed in nothing but…
I clear the image from my head.
I set my glass down and lean back, one leg crossed over my knee. “Do you have any information for me?”
The Coop is Rooster’s largest club and his favorite, but he has dives and small bars all over the city. Plus, he’s friends with everyone—even his enemies. There isn’t much that goes on in this city that he doesn’t know about. It makes him an invaluable resource.
Instantly, the broad smile and relaxed posture are gone. Rooster shifts into his business persona seamlessly. His eyes burn like coals.
“I wish we had more,” he grumbles. “Your second sent me photographs of the men you’ve captured so far. We don’t know them.”
“They’ve never stood around one of my tables,” Legs chimes in. “I never forget a face.”
Rooster hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I wish we had more to share.”
I shake my head. “Don’t sweat it. Yasha hasn't found anything on them, either. It’s like they came out of nowhere and they refuse to tell us a thing. Whoever they’re working for, they’re scary enough that these men know failure to complete their mission means death. They’re killing themselves before we can even question them.”
“Must be someone powerful, then,” Legs murmurs.
She and Rooster share a look. So much passes between them in those few seconds.
Rooster turns back to me. “I didn’t think it was relevant, but…maybe I have something.”
He tips his head at Legs. She joins us at the rickety table. “It was a few months ago,” she begins. “I see a lot of men come in here with different women. I’m no prude and I won’t turn away anyone’s cash. Especially if they’re good tippers. I have to make sure I can pay my dancers. That's how I keep the best."
Rooster gives me an apologetic smile. “The short version, darling.”
She narrows her eyes at him, but nods. “Yeah. Okay. I saw Konstantin Sokolov here with a woman who was not his wife. They sat together for hours.”
Given when I overheard at the restaurant—the Sokolov guards making it clear their leader isn’t pleased with what he considers to be me backing out of our deal—I’m still counting on Konstantin Sokolov being somehow involved.
But I’m not sure how this fits together.
“I know that sounds like nothing. Gossip, at most. But there was something about the meeting that didn’t sit right with me. Konstantin met this woman here, but they didn’t touch. They didn’t dance. He didn’t even order a drink. They just talked. At the end of it, money was exchanged.”
“Did they leave together?”
She shakes her head. “The woman left, but Konstantin stayed and held court for another hour.”
“Who was the woman?”
She sighs. “I have no idea. She had dark hair and she looked young. Younger than Konstantin, for sure. I don’t think they were together.” Legs gives me a tight, apologetic smile. “It’s not much to go on, but I hope it might help down the road.”
So many scraps of information. Theories and snippets and half-hints. But nothing solid.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
