“Screwing the customers . . .” Miller grumbles, pushing the filing cabinet shut with a loud metal bang.
“Only the pretty ones.” And she is that. It wasn’t until she lifted her sunglasses that she had my undivided attention. Those big, blue eyes up against an olive complexion are striking. I wouldn’t have guessed Italian. Mediterranean, definitely.
Exotic, dark-haired, killer body—my type exactly.
“You’re going to lose business for the garage.”
“Relax. I wasn’t the one fishing.” And there was definite fishing on her part. For a long while there, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the bait. Everything about her—her upscale style, her expensive car, her cool demeanor—says she’s my kind of girl, and therein lies the problem. My kind of girl is good for one thing, and it’s not having lunch over at the food carts of Portland. Or conversation, in general.
Give those kinds of girls more and suddenly they become work, and money. Endless streams on both accounts. Rust warned me about them years ago. Thank God I haven’t tumbled into any of their traps. Even Priscilla, my fallback lay, who I consider a friend, who knows exactly where we stand in terms of our “relationship” and that I don’t have the kind of money she wants—even she will occasionally try her hand at sucking more out of me. A new bracelet, cash for rent, a tank of gas for the BMW that her last sugar daddy handed her . . .
But Rain was cute today, in a feisty way, humoring me by taking a bite of that sandwich that she was so obviously not going to enjoy. Her nose crinkling up at the sight of it. Her witty little insult. The way she hung back, waiting, hoping for a chance to see me again but not willing to come right out and ask after already being so forward earlier. Girls like Priscilla would have kept pushing. But Rain obviously has some self-respect.
And when she started walking out of the office, I couldn’t help myself.
I punch her number into my phone so I can call her after work. If I’m lucky, I’ll also have her naked and tangled in my sheets later tonight.
Rust’s number flashes across the screen and my stomach tightens. I hope he hasn’t had a change of heart about me going behind his back to his auctioneer. If so, I’m about to get my ass handed to me with Miller listening.
“Yeah?”
“You busy?” No anger in Rust’s tone.
I glance at the stack of paperwork. “Not really.” Miller can do that shit. He likes it.
“Good. Tell Miller you’re taking off for the rest of the day. Meet me at Corleone’s.”
“Corleone’s?” My brow spikes. Arguably the nicest restaurant in Portland. A place you don’t walk into without a suit and plenty of room on your credit card.
“Yes . . . I think it’s time you start meeting some of the people I do real business with.”
“Is it . . .”
“Just get over here.” I hear the smile in his voice.
Finally . . . I bolt out of the office with a grin, stepping over Rain’s invoice, which has slipped through my fingertips and now lies on the dirty office floor.
If the violin music is supposed to be relaxing . . . it’s not. Or maybe it’s the pompous company that has me feeling tense.
“Rust speaks highly of you,” Andrei says, the glass of brandy resting against his bottom lip, his shrewd gaze scrutinizing me. His harsh accent, his steely demeanor, his cold blue eyes somehow scalding—everything about him—reminds me of Rust’s old partner, Viktor Petrov, a successful businessman and by all rights a murderer.
I don’t remember Viktor having tattoos on his neck, though. This guy does. A hint of ink stretches out past the collar of his crisp white dress shirt.
I keep my smile muted to match his. “I’m the son he always wanted.”
That earns a smirk from him and a chuckle from Rust—because we both know that the last thing Rust has ever wanted is a wife and kids. He’s been “dating” the same blond—Ashleigh—for two years now, keeping her around with just enough diamonds and designer gifts in exchange for the occasional home-cooked meal and blow job without any of the commitment. The kind of relationship I should strive for if I want to avoid grief, according to him.
“It’s been a while since my last trip to America,” Andrei notes, watching the female server set our plates down in front of us. “Service here is as atrocious as usual.”
Her hands freeze for just a moment. The beginnings of an apology appear ready to leave her lips when he waves her away with a sneer of disgust.
I catch Rust’s eyes. They’re unreadable, as always. I can’t tell if sitting at this table with this asshole is as uncomfortable for him as it is for me. The service is fine. In fact, it’s probably the best damn service I’ve ever had.
“It will be nice to get home,” Andrei adds.
I bite my tongue a second before I ask what brought him here. It’s an innocent question—a way to keep the conversation going and distract from the awkwardness I feel—but I know that you don’t ask these men any questions. In fact, Rust warned me before we walked into this restaurant that less is more. And not to say anything stupid.
Rust has never needed to come right out and name his Russian mafia ties for me to know that’s exactly who his “business associates” are. They’re the same type that his father—my grandfather—kept. I’ve been around these kinds of people all my life. I can’t remember exactly when I figured it out but once I did, I’ve always been equal parts respectful, in awe, and wary of them. There’s never been any reason for me to be outright afraid. My grandpa dealt with them, right up until he died of cancer ten years ago. Rust deals with them. While they can be sons of bitches, I’ve never seen the kind of stuff that the movies make you think when you hear “mafia.”
Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. But what happened to my friend Jesse’s girl wasn’t business-related.
“Speaking of sons . . .” Andrei’s attention floats to someone behind me.
From my peripherals, a stout guy in a tailored black suit appears and takes the empty seat at our table, muttering a few words in Russian to his father.
Rust leans over and offers his hand, smiling broadly. That’s the thing with Uncle Rust; he’s a genuinely happy guy unless someone really pisses him off. He always makes people feel welcome. Since he’s usually surrounded by dour faces—including these two, right now—people naturally gravitate toward him. “Good to see you, Vlad. This is my nephew, Luke. He’ll start managing some things for me soon.”
I don’t know what “things” he’s referring to but I simply nod and stick my hand out. Vlad accepts it and I see that his knuckles are marked by tattoos. More tattoos disappear beneath his cuff and creep out from his shirt collar. I’m guessing the one on his neck matches his father’s. A branding, of some sort. From what I’ve read, all of their markings mean something significant.
Vlad’s facial scruff hides his age, but I’m guessing he isn’t much older than me. I get the sense that he’s had a much different life than I have, though.
He wordlessly analyzes me for a moment with those same cold blue eyes as his father, and then turns and begins relaying something in Russian to Andrei. I’m pretty sure I hear, “Another dumb American to deal with.”
I school my expression. Maybe they don’t care, or maybe they assume I don’t understand them. But I learned Russian from my grandfather. I might have earned some respect from these guys with that skill, but Rust warned me years ago that it was a good secret to keep under wraps.
I spend the rest of the meal listening quietly while Andrei, Rust, and Vlad pepper casual conversation with hidden messages in both English and Russian. Comments about a contact in Israel. A shipyard, and a person who is willing to help them “cut through the red tape.” Someone on the receiving dock that had to be “managed.” Nothing that a clueless person would pick up on or become suspicious of.
All things that are making me insanely curious.
Even dressed in an Armani suit and sipping a cognac, I feel like a ten-year-old boy at a table of grown men talking about the stock market right now. Rust should have filled me in before bringing me here. There’s no doubt, by the way both Andrei and Vlad watch me, that this meeting is as much about me being weighed and measured as it is a business planning discussion. I can’t be sure what they’ll decide. Perhaps that I need to be drawn and quartered.
After another hour of witnessing Andrei and Vlad be dicks to the wait staff and toss cutting remarks about Americans as a whole, Vlad drops a pile of cash—just like Viktor, these guys are all about no paper trails—to cover the bill, and Andrei turns to me. “So your uncle says that you’re ambitious.”
There’s no room for doubt. “I am.”
A crooked smile touches Andrei’s lips, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I hope so.”
