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I stopped, turning my head a fraction.
She nodded toward the door, which was going to be forever locked once ma was gone. “Even though things…happened between us. I’m still here.”
That memory—of us saying vows before we even stepped foot in a church—that had been on her mind. We were edging closer and closer to the day we never talked about. Because she refused to.
“I happened,” I said, reminding her, then turned fully and left.
LILO
PRESENT DAY
Traffic was light as I made my way toward Little Odessa. I needed to have a chat with Kirill Balabanov. The Russian who was obsessed with Ava Girardi. I’d seen a few of them obsessed with her over the years, but none like him. Some claimed that he cried the day he was sent back to Russia because he thought he was bringing back a New York souvenir he’d gotten attached to. Her.
Anyone who truly knew Kirill Balabanov truly believed the man was born without tear ducts. His happy place was cutting off the extremities of friends and foes with a dull knife. It didn’t take much to flip his switch. It was by sheer luck Ava had gotten away from him that night. He was out looking for her when he’d been picked up and sent home.
My hands squeezed the steering wheel when I thought of Lucila alone, trying to help her sister escape from his reach. He was a big dude with an even wider rule on the streets. His men were considered soldiers, and they acted like it—or that flip would be switched.
I had no problem with Balabanov. He had no problem with me. Some of his associates and I did business together. Lucrative business. But I wouldn’t touch any kind of deal with Balabanov, even if it meant millions. His idea of business always came with alcohol, women, and nothing but trouble. He was too high profile. And there was no telling when he’d be deported again. He came back often under aliases.
The thing about Balabanov? He had ins where no one else would fit. It served me well to be on good terms with him. I needed to tap into the pulses of the world I lived in. He was one of them. Which was why Ava had gravitated toward him. She always had a reason, and that reason was her end game.
If someone didn’t know Ava, they would have said she was playing a dangerous game with her life. But I’d known her as long as I’d known her sister. If anyone could play the game, it would be her. She was wilier than some of the men I did business with. Still. I didn’t like it. This life was no place for her.
I shook my head as I drove past Coney Island. It was all lit up. The quintessential American theme park. For some, like my grandfather, he considered it part of the American dream.
It only brought back memories of a more romantic dream I had. Of how things were going to go. Of how they should have been.
I kept driving, entering the Brighton Beach/Little Odessa area a few minutes later. The place I was headed to was understated and old looking, located in a strip mall, open 24 hours a day. A Russian market that sold imported goods. Foods, books, and trinkets. It also had a small area for staples, like bread and milk.
Market was lit up in red on an unimpressive neon sign. The place was discrete and the perfect front for what existed in the back. The store was split into two sections: the front, which always had enough people to match the cars out front; and the back, which was Balabanov’s private area.
He catered to people with unique tastes. Even though he was a ruthless killer, he enjoyed women. All women. He was never in the market to sell them, but he hired them to have sex because they wanted to. He told me once that he found women who loved the freakier stuff in bed, and who loved doing it with strangers, and paired them up for a hefty price.
“I get paid. She gets paid. He gets laid by one of the most unique women in the world. What more can anyone want?”
He once told me he had a woman who was so nimble, she could suck her own toes. But she only liked to do it while she got fucked. This woman was a doctor who really didn’t need the money, but she did it because she enjoyed it. He found men who were into that sort of thing, and the deal was made. And it was men who had the money to pay top-dollar for it. Sometimes men in powerful positions who would kill to keep their secrets safe.
Which was why I suspected Balabanov had a never-ending pool of aliases at his disposal. It was also why he knew so much. He’d smooth talk the women into getting some of the men to talk. Especially the ones who were fond of being watched as they fulfilled their kinkiest fantasies.
I found a spot out front and parked, whistling for Mooch to follow me inside the building. One of Balabanov’s men opened the door for me before I even got there. He looked behind me at the two cars that followed. My men.
They wouldn’t follow deep inside. Balabanov rarely had security in the back. He was the security. But we had a professional relationship, and my dog was enough for me.
The man nodded. “He is waiting.”
Customers moved out of our way as we walked to a door that read “Personnel Only.” Another man who blended in with the shoppers stood against it.
The man opened the door for me. At the end of the dark hallway was Balabanov’s office. Numerous doors had to be passed before getting there. Sometimes when we’d have these meetings, Balabanov would open what looked like a curtain past the door. It would reveal a glass and whoever was behind it, doing whatever they paid for. I couldn’t hear any sounds coming from any of the rooms, but there was a certain feeling in the air that told me people were fucking behind these walls. Even Mooch’s head tilted from side to side every so often. His sensitive ears heard what I only felt.
Before I knocked, Balabanov told me to come in. His office was dark except for the blue neon lights that made him glow. He was sitting in a chair that had a tank where his feet went. They were submerged in water, and fish were frantic as they bit at his skin.
“Like little piranha,” he said, grinning at me, “but not as viscous. They eat all the dead skin. A man wanted to try it. But not on feet. That did not work out, but it feels nice like this. You want to try?”
He went to stand but I held my hand up. “I appreciate it, but no. Mooch.”
He’d gone to investigate the tank. Either he was thirsty or curious. He turned and came to stand next to me.
“Take a seat, Shadow Man,” Balabanov said, gesturing to a leather chair across from him. “We will talk.” He rang a little bell and a woman dressed in a black leather dress came through the door. Her hair was blonde, and she had crystal blue eyes and tan skin. She looked me up and down with eyes that missed nothing and then turned to him. “Drink?” he asked me.
