Chapter2
Mikhail
Ilook over at Artyom and feel my headache growing worse. The man has been with me since I first took over this Bratva , and if he’s irritated, then I know things are very bad.
“Spit it out,” I tell him in Russian, leaning back in my leather chair and bracing myself for the worst.
“He still won’t budge.” Artyom flicks his hands up in annoyance and adds in his fast Russian, “The motherfucker doesn’t want to dirty his hands with a Russian Bratva.”
“Well, we just need to be a bit more persuasive then.” I reach for the glass of vodka sitting on my desk and down it in one swallow, savoring the smoothness of it. I motion for the decanter, not that Artyom’s ever waited for an invitation before pouring himself a drink when he wants one, but he waves it off.
“Take Yuri and do some digging. Everyone has dirt. We just need to find his.”
Artyom gives me a nod, and I catch a glimpse of the thick scar on his neck before it disappears in shadow again. “Consider it done.” He looks at me with the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Plans for tonight?”
“No. Why?”
He shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I thought maybe you might go out and eat, maybe hit that restaurant we went to last night.”
I give him the look that’s made grown men piss themselves, but he just laughs. “I saw the way you looked at her. No one ever catches your eye,” he says with a smirk, “but that clumsy, young hostess sure as hell did.”
I pour another vodka, hoping it’ll kill my headache. “Didn’t I give you a job to do?”
He stands with a laugh. “Don’t worry, the mayor is under surveillance. There’s nothing I can do about him tonight, so I’m going to go find a nice piece of ass to pass the time with, and you look like maybe you should do the same.”
“Fuck off,” I say, making him smile.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Go find some pussy, Misha, before you explode.”
He pats me on the back before leaving my office, and I seriously think about taking his advice. All it would take is one call to Sabrine, and she’d send one of her women over, but something in me hesitates, and I’m not sure why. I don’t do relationships, and high-end escort services have always been my go-to way for a quick fuck. There are no strings attached, no expectations, and they’re all clean. It sure beats going down to one of the many bars around here and finding some local girl who will ask too many questions, get attached, and might have herself an STD.
I should just make the damn call, but instead I set my drink down and grab my suit jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on as I walk out the door and down to my garage. Looking at the sleek line of vehicles, I decide on the black Ferrari and grab the key fob from the hook by the door. The purr of the engine helps soothe my nerves as I back out of the garage and point myself in the direction of downtown. The large bridge that crosses the lake can be a real bitch during peak times of the day, but tonight the traffic is light, and in less than thirty minutes, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Maglione’s.
I eye the Italian restaurant, wondering what in the fuck has gotten into me. I don’t chase tail, but something about that young hostess got under my skin. Maybe it was the way her cheeks had lit up in embarrassment as she’d knelt in front of me and dried my leg, or maybe it was the quick glimmer of heat that had passed through her light brown eyes when I’d mentioned my cock. Whatever the fuck it was, I’m here, so I might as well go in.
A sharp spike of disappointment hits me when I walk in and see another young woman at the hostess stand. She gives me a big smile, her eyes widening ever so slightly as they run over my broad shoulders. I’m used to women reacting like this, and there was a time when I really enjoyed it, but lately I’ve found it just bores me. I know I can use it to my advantage, though, so I give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes and lean a little closer.
“Table for one?” she asks, darting her eyes down to look at my hand and then fighting a big smile when she doesn’t see a wedding band.
“No, actually I was hoping you could help me with something.”
She sucks in a soft breath at my accent and shifts her weight from foot to foot. I do believe little Miss Blonde Hostess is wetting her panties about now.
“What can I do?”
“I was here last night with some friends, and I think I left my debit card.” I smile even bigger and give a soft laugh. “The guys from work talked me into drinking a little more than I should. Would you mind checking in the back and asking around if anything’s turned up?”
“Sure,” she says, absolutely thrilled to do this favor for me. “What’s your name?”
“Alex Ivanov,” I say, the lie coming effortlessly to me.
She gives me another big smile before walking off. I wait for her to go through the door that leads into the back before walking behind the hostess stand like I have every damn right to be there and reaching in to pull out a stack of papers that are sitting on a shelf. The top sheet is just a list of reservations for the night, but beneath it is exactly what I’m looking for. I scan the schedule, looking for yesterday’s date and when I find it, I see Charlie Sinclair penciled in as the hostess who was working the shift from two to nine. I put the papers back and walk out, not even bothering to wait for the other hostess to return.
When I’m back in my car, I pull my phone up and do a quick search of her name. Nothing immediately comes up, and it irritates me more than I want to admit. Not allowing myself to think too much about it, I send a quick text to one of the many people on my payroll.
Find out everything you can about a Charlie Sinclair. She works at Maglione’s.
The reply is instant, as it should be for what I pay him.