I’m so stunned that my feet won’t move. The man who cuffed me earlier, the kinder one, takes my arm and hustles me towards the door. “Better move, before he changes his mind,” he murmurs, moving me quickly past the woman.
As I go, I only get a glimpse of her, a flicker of blue eyes and bow-shaped mouth, pursed in displeasure. But as I make it to the door, she turns to look at me, and to my utter shock, shewinks.
I don’t understand anything that’s happening. My mind is so muddled with confusion that we’re back at my cell before I know it, the guard undoing my cuffs and pushing me inside before locking the door.
“Congratulations,” he says with a smirk. “Natalia just bought you at least one more night at the Obelensky hotel.”
I stare at him as he goes, still not comprehending.
Who the fuck is Natalia?
12
MAX
The next morning, I find myself bleary-eyed with an egg sandwich shoved into my hand courtesy of Levin, once again in the passenger’s seat as he drives out of the city proper and into a more…well-worn neighborhood. Hotels and businesses turn into shabby-looking apartments, low, squat buildings that appear to be dubious shops or clubs, and a flood of people with similar expressions on their faces–none of them pleased. They all look tired and beaten down, and I see Levin has a thin-lipped, tense expression on his face as he winds through the streets.
“Not a place you like to be?” I ask cautiously. Levin is rarely so wound-up.
“Memories I don’t like to think about,” he says curtly, turning the car behind a decrepit brick building with mold growing profusely along the base of it. “Follow me. Don’t talk too much–actually, just let me do the talking.”
The building is cold, unseasonably so, as if no warmth can combat the dampness inside. Levin takes us down a flight of rickety iron stairs, down into a basement, and I wince. This isn’t the kind of place where I’d want to go into the basement, but I trust Levin, so I follow him without a word. Whoever is down here, I’m certain it’s going to be the type of person Levin is more equipped to deal with.
The basement is set up like a makeshift gym, with punching bags dangling from the ceilings on heavy chains, free weights set up in one corner, and a half-circle of folding chairs set up around a small space heater, with men of varying ages and equal roughness sitting around it. Other men, some young and muscular and others leaning more towards the far side of wizened, are working the bags, while a man in a tracksuit who has the look of a trainer watches them appraisingly.
“Yusov,” Levin calls out, his voice sharp and blunt, and one of the men circling a swinging bag stops so abruptly that the bag swings towards him and nearly clocks him in the face. He puts his hand out just in time, stopping the trajectory. He’s tall and wiry, his blond hair shaved on both sides and gelled back on the top, wearing joggers that look as if they’ve seen better days and a thin cotton tank top despite the chill of the basement.
The trainer pushes himself off of the pillar he’s leaning against, but the man Levin called Yusov waves at him, shaking his head warningly as he walks towards Levin instead. “It’ll just be a minute,” he says, and then he glances towards Levin before nodding at the steps, a clear hint.
The others in the basement are watching us with an expression, not unlike wolves sizing up their prey, as we follow Yusov to the steps, heading back up at a quick pace until we’re in the stairwell.
“You don’t have anything more private than this?” Levin asks crossly, his mouth thinning with irritation. “This isn’t just to catch up, Yusov. And when did you take up boxing, anyway?”
“When I lost two teeth to a gang that jumped me on the street,” Yusov says flatly. “You here to ask me about my workout routine, Volkov? Is that really what this is?”
“You know it’s not. Which is why this isn’t the place.”
Yusov lets out a sharp breath between his teeth, looking around. “Fine,” he says. “Follow me up.”
We head up two more flights of rickety stairs, to a peeling wooden door. Yusov knocks twice sharply, and when no answer comes, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. “Quickly,” he hisses, and Levin slips inside, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket as I follow behind him.
The apartment that we step into is as shabby as I would have expected, with stained wallpaper, yellowing tiles, and a general smell of mold and mildew. I can feel my nose wrinkling as we follow Yusov into a small room that seems to be used as an office. The furniture is all in the same state of shabby disrepair, like a cubicle left to molder, and the computer sitting on the desk is far out of date. Yusov doesn’t take notice of any of it, leaning back against the edge of the desk as the door shuts, nodding at Levin.
“Alright, Volkov. You have your privacy. What the fuck is this about?”
Levin frowns. “This is secure? No bugs, no cameras?”
“Christ on ashushki, are you working for the Syndicate again?” Yusov’s eyes widen, real fear beginning to peek through the careless expression he’d worn up until now.
“Save the blasphemy.” Levin jerks his head towards me. “Have some fuckin’ respect. We’ve got a priest here with us.”
Yusov rolls his gaze toward me. “Sorry, Father,” he says, without a hint of contrition, and I laugh drily.
“Former priest,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I think we’re a bit past all of that now. Just answer Levin’s questions, and we’ll be on our way.”
“This is outside Syndicate business,” Levin says shortly. “That’s why I reached out to you, Yusov. You still dabble in information, no? And I don’t doubt that you still have the same taste for money that you had when we last talked. Gambling debts and all that–unless you’re on the straight and narrow, now?”
Yusov frowns. “Get to the fucking point.”