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“What now?” I answer without even looking at the screen, and a secondary pause on the other side already tells me that it’s not Boris.
“Sasha, this is Irina. We’d like you to stop by The Red Bush as soon as you can, thanks.”
Irina hangs up even before I can say anything, and I curse under my breath. She couldn’t have chosen a better time to call me, could she? But without any further questions, I drive past the demolished store where we caught the Mexicans earlier and take the next turn to drive toward the bar.
No matter how discreet Irina was, I know that behind her politeness is hidden Yuriy’s impatience. Otherwise, why would they call me instead of sending a message through George? I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, trying to keep down the jittery feeling in my chest. Could it be that they found out about my fuckup with Louis?
The Red Bush is an old and modest bar in the middle of West Town—a neighborhood that’s been a home for Russians since our great-grandparents settled in Chicago over a century ago. Perhaps the bar itself is just as old—it definitely looks like it—but it has changed and expanded under the Pushkov family’s control.
These days, The Red Bush is one of our main locations for meeting dealers and shaking hands with buyers. It has an underground facility for packing and storing drugs, weapons, and whatever else Yuriy is hiding beneath our feet. Irina is the administrator and coordinator for all deals that take place there. On top of that, she’s my cousin and Yuriy’s favorite niece who firmly holds one of the highest positions in our family.
When I get to The Red Bush, I notice that the parking lot is rather crowded. Is that Elena’s car? I hum. If the Italian Queen is here, it means that there’s an important meeting inside, and I don’t think I want to be a part of it. The tip of the Pushkov family is swarming with people obsessed with power, and as a daughter of one of them, I despise them with all my heart.
Irina meets me at the entrance of the bar, looking flawless and completely out of place with her white blouse, tight skirt, and blonde hair tied in an elegant bun. She fixes her glasses, eyeing me with a strict look that doesn’t make her smile any warmer.
“Sasha, hi. It’s good to see you. Would you like to join the game?” She gestures at the thick purple curtains at the back of the bar. Behind them is a billiard room where Yuriy likes to play pool and discuss important matters in, as he calls it, a warm and friendly atmosphere.
I hate billiards, but that’s not what Irina is asking, so I give her a tight smile and nod. “Of course, it would be my pleasure.”
She guides me past the tables with a few actual visitors scattered between Yuriy’s guards. I recognize most of them, whether from the family tree or shared patrols, but each of them meets my gaze only for a second before looking away. Cordial greetings are not a common thing in my family.
“Ah, Sashenka, here you are! I was wondering if you’d make it in time.”
Unless they are as fake as this one.
As soon as I step into the room, faintly illuminated by the wide lamps above the billiard tables, Yuriy straightens up next to one of them and gives me a wide grin. He acts as if I’m actually glad to be here, but I’m not dumb enough to complain. I only smile back at him and nod, walking closer.
“I drove here as fast as I could, Uncle.”
“Good, good,” he murmurs, returning his attention to the pool cue in his hands, and I stop a few steps away from him and look around. The room has gone uncomfortably quiet since I entered.
My eyes catch Aunt Olga first. She stands on the other side of the pool table with her spine perfectly straight and her fingers on the wooden edge. Her sharp blue eyes are studying the playing field, and I guess she’s the second player in Yuriy’s game. As if feeling my lingering gaze, Olga raises her head and gives me a cool smile, and it feels more like a genuine greeting.
Next to Olga is Sergei, her son, who doesn’t even acknowledge my presence, and not far behind him, I notice a figure. It’s hard to recognize her face in the shadows, but as soon as she turns to meet my gaze, I realize that it's Elena. It’s been a while since I saw my wayward cousin, but she still has the same cold and arrogant look on her face.
God, when I found out that she married Riccardo Messina, I was so pissed! Even now, I can’t help but feel annoyed at the thought of Elena escaping our family with the man she loves while I’m stuck with—
“So, Sasha, how have you been lately?” Yuriy asks all of a sudden, not even looking at me. He aims his cue at a yellow ball and sends it into a pocket before turning to me. “Nikolai told me that you’ve been rather restless for the last few weeks—and I can see it now.”
Yuriy pointedly looks at my red hair and shakes his head in disapproval. Damn it. I swallow, trying to keep my head cool. What has Father told him? What does he know?
“I think Dad is exaggerating. I’ve only been trying to get more information on the Mexicans, so we could use it against them. And my hair…” I unconsciously reach for it, pushing a strand behind my ear. “I didn’t want to be so obvious, Uncle. Everyone knows how to recognize a Russian in the crowd.”
Yuriy hums, studying the playing field, and something in his stern expression sends a wave of chills down my back. He picks a purple ball as his goal and, after he misses it, Yuriy gestures for Sergei to take his turn and turns to me.
“So you’ve been spying on the Mexicans, is that what you are saying?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Well, did you learn something new?” He tilts his head, keeping his gaze on me, and I have to cling to my confidence to hold my chin high. “I’ll be glad to hear whatever information you have on them. I’m sure we’d be able to use it, wouldn't we, Olya?”
Yuriy glances at his wife, but she only looks at him, at me, and returns back to the game without a single word. It doesn’t seem to bother him, and Yuriy only chuckles and turns back to me with an expectant look in his eyes.
Shit.
Shit!
My heart is pounding by now, and I frantically try to come up with something. The truth is, I’ve been gathering information on Louis for the last month or so, and I have no idea what to tell Yuriy. There’s sweat trickling down the small of my back as I gather my thoughts and force my voice to stay calm.
