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I had no particular regard for Hektor. The first time I met him, I thought he was an idiot. The second time, I was fucking sure of it. He reminded me a lot of my father, who beat my mother black and blue to remind her who was boss but never seemed to keep the upper hand. If Hektor had taken a gentler approach, he could have got those whores to love him even as he hurt them.
I don’t like women as people. They are not thinkers. I don’t even particularly enjoy fucking them, but I do like screwing with their heads. Still, there’s nothing like prison to make a man miss pussy.
Ira Trusov is a bratva boss and my employer. I made myself indispensable to him while I was doing time, and the gratitude of a mob boss is a valuable commodity. I took out some of his rivals in the joint, and in return, he funded a crooked appeal.
Now I work for him, and he has given me a specific task—to find out who had the gall to straight-up murder his pet pimp.
Hektor shouldn’t have been doing his business around these parts, but that’s not the point—someone killed the slimy fuck without opening a dialogue first, and that’s just rude.
I sit on the couch, trying to picture the scene.
Our man probably said little. He shot Hektor and whoever else was here but didn’t smash the camera. Either he knew it was fake, or he didn’t give a shit. Quick, efficient, and cold, just like me. I wonder why he did it. I’ll ask before I kill him.
I head outside and walk around, getting a feel for the space. Nothing here except a dented dumpster. There’s nothing unusual inside it, just regular street garbage. A patch of concrete stands out on the ground beside it, clean and scrubbed.
The door isn’t damaged, suggesting it was open but guarded. Was there an altercation here too?
I scan inside the dumpster again, and this time, I notice a reddish-brown splatter on the inside wall. I brace my arms on the rim and vault inside, cursing as I land in a couple of inches of fetid water. Nothing here but stinking newspapers and rotten food.
I’m about to climb out when I see a small book floating. I grab it and shake the water off.
It’s a diary with just a few lines for appointments and essential information. There’s a notebook section in the back, and I find names and numbers. I flick back to yesterday’s date.
Vito Serra, M, 7 p.m. Drop off and collect.
Perfect.A name is all I need. Whoremongers use the services of more than one girl and more than one pimp. Others in the business will know him.
I take out my cell phone and make a couple of calls. I’ll soon find a snitch who’ll take a few crisp bills in return for the skinny on Vito Serra.
17
Morgana
"Welcome to Aida's Bridal." The boutique owner waves her arm at the rails. "I have hundreds of dresses here." She looks me over. "You're about a size four? Most samples will fit, but I will adjust your choice for you. I promise it'll be perfect. Oh!" She clicks her fingers. "I almost forgot. Mr. Kislev left you a note about dress styles with the champagne and macarons. If you want anything else, I'm instructed to get it and charge it to him."
"Thanks," I say, trying to hide my irritation.Style notes? Ha.We'll see about that.
Josie is fiddling with a bottle. "This is fantastic," she says. "I love champagne, and there's enough to—"
With a pop and a smash, the front of a glass display cabinet falls away. I burst into laughter.
"Charge that to Mr. Kislev, please, Aida."
Aida produces a hand-held vacuum cleaner and sucks up the mess before stalking away, her mouth set in a thin line.
Lili pours a glass and hands it to me. "Thanks for asking me along. I don't get out much. Vladi is so over-protective."
"He loves you, Lili."
Her brow furrows. "I know. But I'm the weak link for him. Everyone knows Vladimir Kislev has a soft spot for his weird little sister, and one of these days, it'll be his undoing. Papa hates me for being useless, but he hates Vladi for loving me even more."
"Surely the Kislev brothers love each other too?"
"They do, but it's different. And they all have their place. Vladi will be in charge soon. Sasha is our muscle and Vladi's right hand, and Avel," she laughs, "well, Avel is learning how to be Bratva rather than just a brat. Even Arman has a job to do. I serve no purpose."
I catch Josie's eye, and she shrugs. What can we say to her? She's a bratva princess, sheltered but deeply vulnerable. Her experiences, like Vlad's, are worlds away from mine.
We look at the dresses, and the subdued atmosphere lifts as we add gown after gown to the 'maybe' rail.
