Kings of Brighton Beach Bundle

by D. B. Shuster

  Vlad had two guns, fully loaded. But he wouldn’t be able to reload. His attacker shot wildly, freely wasting bullets. Vlad took aim at the shadowy figure. One shot, unmuffled, louder than the rest exploded in the narrow space. The shots near the street stopped.

  More shots rang, this time from the other end of the alley, near the parking lot. He pivoted, facing down flares from two separate muzzles. One shooter, like him with two guns, or two gunmen?

  The scorched smell of gunpowder filled his nose. Bullets hit the wall a mere foot from Vlad’s shoulder. Bricks shattered. The dust stung his eyes, scratched his throat. He couldn’t hold back his cough.

  “Over there!”

  A bullet punched his shoulder and threw him back. His head hit the wall.

  “Got him,” someone crowed.

  Vlad’s knees buckled. He slid down the wall toward the ground, dizzy from the impact. The sudden blistering pain in his shoulder momentarily stunned him. A few more shots fired with no answering shot. Then silence.

  “Did we get him?”

  “Better make sure.”

  Vlad held himself still. He hardly dared to breathe. He still couldn’t see well enough to take aim. He prayed his attackers were as blind as he was and that they wouldn’t resort to spraying the ground with bullets in the hope of turning his battered body into Swiss cheese.

  The moment he heard the tentative footsteps, the soft slap of fine leather soles on pavement, the flapping of a long trench coat, he fired a single shot. The body hit the ground with a satisfying thud.

  “Vasya?” Vlad fired in the direction of the voice.

  The recoil sent a throbbing reminder to his body of his latest wound. The hot bullet casing bounced off his leg and made a musical sound when it struck the ground.

  Three down. Was it over? Were they dead? Were there more? He held his breath and waited.

  Vlad gingerly touched his shoulder. No blood. There was a tear in his leather jacket, but his bulletproof vest had kept his skin intact. Fingering under his shirt, he winced at a raised welt the size of a golfball. The sucker would leave an impressive bruise, but he’d live.

  After a string of tense minutes, Vlad reached into his pocket for his phone and texted Svetlana. “Trouble in alley outside Troika. Use caution.” He trusted she would be able to assess any remaining threat and that any thugs lying in wait wouldn’t rush to attack the bartender in her stilettos and bootie shorts if it seemed she was merely having a smoke in the back lot.

  Within moments, Vlad heard a familiar whistle, his signal with Svetlana. He whistled back. A light appeared at the end of the alley near the parking lot. Vlad scrambled to his feet, guns at the ready as the flashlight beam stopped on each of the unmoving bodies in the alley. The men were light-skinned. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think they were Georgian, especially not when one of them had such a classically Russian name as Vasya.

  “Get their guns,” Vlad said while he kept his weapons trained on the prone forms. She kicked a gun away from the first body and then prodded him with the point of her stiletto. No reaction. She moved to the second, only feet from the first.

  Vlad covered her as she crossed the length of the alley to the side near the street. She inspected the third shooter. “Good and dead,” she reported.

  She returned to where he stood in the middle of the alley. “Busy night.” She flashed the light over him. “You okay?”

  “Nothing some frozen peas can’t cure.”

  “Care to tell me what happened out here?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Vlad lied. He had a strong suspicion the men in the alley worked for Ivan. He didn’t know what his father’s game was, but telling Svetlana would only lead to questions Vlad didn’t want to answer.

  He didn’t plan on telling her he was Ivan Chertoff’s son. If she found out Vlad had a family connection to such a powerful member of the mafia, she’d suspect Vlad planned a double-cross—move into Artur’s operation and then keep the whole thing for himself.

  Svetlana had some serious trust issues. Vlad had committed a grave violation with his lie of omission. She might not forgive him when she finally learned the truth, even if he delivered what they both sought.

  He didn’t fool himself that they were friends. Svetlana could turn on him, and she would be a formidable adversary. With luck, he would already have achieved their goal by the time the truth came out.

  Too bad Lady Luck had never been Vlad’s friend either.

  ALEKSEI

  ALEKSEI HEADED HOME, feeling dejected. He found Katya asleep in their bed, and he felt relieved not to have to face her.

  He told himself he would make it all up to her tomorrow. A bouquet of flowers and a romantic note. That usually did the trick.

  Careful not to wake her, Aleksei tiptoed downstairs to their kitchen and straight to the fridge. He searched the shelf for his bottle of Grey Goose, but didn’t see it. He moved around the takeout boxes and the home cooking his mother-in-law had delivered yesterday. He sighed with disgust. His vodka was gone. So was his beer.

  He headed for the bar in the den in search of some other poison to dull the sharp edge of his failures. Empty.

  He easily guessed Katya had gone on a rampage. She had cleared the house of alcohol—or so she might have thought.

  Their reconciliation would require something fancier than flowers this time, he supposed.

  He returned to the kitchen, and opened the cabinet next to the stove with all of the cookbooks. Katya never opened this one. She never cooked. His stash had to be safe here.

  Sure enough, when he reached to the back of the cabinet behind the cookbooks, he found his hidden supply and pulled out an unopened bottle of vodka.

  Aleksei didn’t bother with a shot glass. He screwed open the top of the long-necked bottle and took a swig. Ah. The hot, familiar burn of the alcohol gave him an immediate sense of comfort.

  He padded barefoot over the cold marble tiles of their gracious home to the living room, which his sister had decorated for them as a wedding gift. He swallowed another mouthful of vodka to banish the guilt he was feeling over Inna. And Katya.

  She would never, never forgive him if she learned his role. She would never stay another second with a man who would use his own sister the way Aleksei had.

  Aleksei would be lost if Katya left him.

  He sat on the soft leather sofa and consoled himself with his favorite drink. She wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t know. Mikhail had sworn he could fix everything.

  Aleksei would buy Katya diamonds. Or maybe a fur coat. Something ridiculously extravagant and expensive to show her how much he loved her. That would satisfy her, smooth over their current difficulty. Right?

  The front window lit up with a flash of lights. A car pulled into their driveway. Aleksei rose and headed to the window in time to see a portly figure with a fedora and overcoat exit the car. Stan!

  What was the idiot doing coming to his house? And in the middle of the night?

  Aleksei hurried over to the front door and threw it open before Stan could knock or ring the bell or make any loud sound that might awaken Katya and lead to more trouble between them.

  “What are you doing here? I told you not to come to my house.”

  “This is serious.” Stan pushed his way into the house. “We need to talk. The cops are asking questions.”

  “Keep it down,” Aleksei warned. “I don’t want to wake Katya.”

  Stan made a derisive sound. “Gangster wives do what they’re told. What’s the matter? Don’t think you’re man enough to control your woman?”

  Aleksei grabbed Stan by the collar and yanked the man forward. “Be careful what you say. I’m your boss. I control you.”

  Stan’s face reddened. “I don’t think you fully understand the situation. How about I change my story for the cops and tell them how you conspired to commit murder?”

  Aleksei released Stan and plunked down on the sofa. He motioned for him to sit. As head pharmacist, Stan’s
willingness to do anything if the money was good enough had been a huge asset to Aleksei’s schemes, but his involvement could now be a liability if the man decided to turn him in.

  Stan didn’t sit. He stood in the middle of the living room. “The police came to my home tonight. To question me. They recognized me,” he said. “From the cameras the other night at Troika. They can’t prove squat, but the way I see it, I’m holding all the risk. If the Georgians don’t take me down, the cops will.”

  Wishing for numbness, Aleksei nursed another swallow of vodka before saying, “You knew the risks when you made the deal.”

  “The deal’s changing,” Stan said. “We’re renegotiating. You’re going to pay me so that I don’t suddenly remember details the cops would find interesting.”

  “You think so?” Aleksei asked.

  “I know so,” Stan said. “I want a million in cash. In twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re crazy,” Aleksei said. “I can’t get you that kind of money so fast.”

  Stan gestured toward the vodka. “Crawl out of the bottle long enough to pay attention, Boss. I have the power here. Who do you think they’ll go after if all this stuff comes to light? The lowly pharmacist or the boss with family connections to an even bigger mafia boss? Ask your Papa for the money. We both know he’s got it.”

  “Oh, he’s got it,” Aleksei agreed. “But he won’t give it to you.” Or to me.

  “Then maybe Mommy Dearest will make the transfer to keep your ass out of the slammer. I don’t give a good goddamn who you ask or what you have to do. I want that money. You have twenty-four hours.”

  Stan turned his back on Aleksei and headed for the door.

  “Don’t turn your back on me,” Aleksei said.

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me in the living room and leave a nice big bloodstain for Katya to find?” Stan chuckled at his own humor.

  Aleksei clutched the neck of his vodka bottle so tightly he risked crushing it.

  Stan opened the front door. Over his shoulder, he said, “You’re a useless drunk. Stop pretending to be a big man and get me my money.” He slammed the door on his way out.

  Stop pretending. Stop pretending. Aleksei mimicked, growing angrier by the moment as the combined threats and insults penetrated and cut deep.

  Stan was going to pay. And dearly.

  KATYA

  KATYA AWOKE WITH a start. The room was dark, but she couldn’t roll over and go back to sleep. Aleksei was gone. Had he even come home?

  She thought she heard voices in the house, and her imagination ran wild with scenarios. Who was here? In the middle of the night? Had something terrible happened?

  She strained to listen. Yes, there were voices. Men talking low and with menace. Only a few words rose to her level of hearing: Boss, man, money, twenty-four hours. Not enough for her to be sure of the meaning of the conversation.

  Adrenaline propelled her out of bed. On bare feet, she tiptoed from her room down the hall. She reached the top of the stairs and stopped short. Stan! The pharmacist the police had wanted for questioning stood in the front hall.

  She hopped silently back into the shadows as Stan told her husband, “You’re a useless drunk. Stop pretending to be a big man and get me my money.”

  Stan slammed the door. She heard what sounded like the crash of glass against the wall and tiptoed to the edge of the stairs. The floor didn’t creak, but even if it had, Aleksei might not have noticed. He was muttering to himself and angry. So very angry.

  Katya’s heart beat with fear. Before last night, her natural response would have been to fly down the stairs, to check on her husband, to talk with him about what had just happened and how she might help. Before last night, Inna hadn’t been drugged and raped; a man hadn’t been murdered in Aleksei’s nightclub; and Aleksei hadn’t gotten himself falling-down drunk in front of Nick and the police. Before last night, her husband had never hit her. Before last night, the worst thing she could have imagined in their relationship was that Aleksei might be having an affair.

  Katya stayed where she was and watched silently from the landing.

  Aleksei cursed at the broken glass and the liquid that had sloshed the stone around the fireplace. She could guess what kind of bottle it had been and what the liquid was. She imagined he had stolen out of bed to drink, and she wondered how much he had imbibed before smashing the bottle. She pressed herself against the wall and chewed on her thumbnail as Aleksei bent to pick up the phone.

  “I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing,” he snapped into the cordless receiver. “Stan was just here. The asshole thinks he’s got my nuts in a vice. Wants a million dollars in twenty-four hours.”

  Aleksei paced the living room. He was shirtless, and the moonlight cast a glow over his sinewy muscle and smooth skin. He raked a hand through his platinum hair, and the ends stuck up in spikes.

  The moment was so surreal. He looked the same as he always had. Yet, she couldn’t see him with the same eyes. Everything was different now.

  “He can’t do this to us,” Aleksei said. Another pause. More listening. “No, listen. I have another plan,” he responded to his partner. “Early retirement.”

  Early retirement. She imagined he meant something far more sinister than early job termination.

  Bile rose in her throat, and this time she couldn’t force it back down. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. On shaking legs, she hurried quietly back to her bedroom. She rushed into the luxurious master bathroom, as large as a bedroom itself, and made it to the toilet with barely enough time to heave into the commode.

  Footsteps pounded up the steps. Aleksei had heard her.

  “You’re up. How long have you been awake?” He stood with his arms braced against the doorway as if he planned to bar her from leaving. “What did you hear?”

  The implied accusation frightened her. What had she heard? And what would he do about it?

  For the first time in her married life, she felt afraid of her husband. She couldn’t let him know she had heard anything. She needed to pretend everything was normal, that nothing had happened. Without answering him, she turned her head back toward the toilet and retched again.

  She hoped the sight of her doubled over the commode would make him forget the possibility she might have heard something.

  Her throat was raw, and her eyes burned with tears. “I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re having my baby?” He came to her, his mood changing in a flash. The face that had been dark with anger only a moment before now gazed at her with an almost angelic wonder.

  The tears came now, hot and fast. Big fat teardrops slid down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, but the flow didn’t stop.

  “Hey! What’s wrong?” His voice held the kind of tenderness and care that had lured her into falling in love with him. He wrapped his arms around her.

  “I’m scared,” she admitted. How could she raise a baby with this man?

  “Don’t be scared. I’m always going to take care of you. You and the baby. We’re going to have a wonderful life together.”

  He kissed her hands. She closed her eyes and wished hard that his words were true. Maybe all of this was a terrible misunderstanding.

  ARTUR

  ARTUR LEFT THE KGB headquarters in Lubyanka Square and breathed in the fresh air. His pockets were heavy with gifts. For Kolya, the boy, a deck of cards to keep him busy on the plane, and for the baby and Sofia, a rattle with diamonds hidden inside—all the wealth he owned. He would give Sofia the world.

  He had a spring in his step as he made his way to Ilyinskiye Vorota, the park where he and Sofia met in secret. They could do little more than exchange longing glances or letters, but that was all about to change.

  Sofia and the children were headed to Israel on Refusenik visas. After he saw them off, he would board a plane to Hungary for a business trip. They would meet in Italy and head together to America.

  He planned to leave everything behind him—t
he State intrigue and the dirty dealings that weren’t part of Soviet doctrine but were part and parcel of Soviet politics and espionage; his wife who was by turns clinging and cold-hearted; and the oppression of knowing his actions and words were being observed and scrutinized. At the KGB, Artur pretended to walk the Party line. While he doted in public on his wife, he secretly made his plans to run away with Sofia and the children and start anew.

  He felt a niggle of guilt about Aleksei, his own son. He didn’t want to leave without him, but he wouldn’t take the boy from his mother. He hadn’t said good-bye or explained. He couldn’t take the risk that someone would discover his plans and try to stop him—again.

  Artur scanned the park for Sofia. She had lunch here almost every day, bringing Kolya and little Ilana to the park for fresh air and exposure to the few patches of green to be had in Moscow. He didn’t see the checkered blanket or the stroller, the woman with the dark eyes and hair who made him believe in souls and destiny.

  He walked past their favorite spots, then circled back, but there was no sign of them.

  He sat on a park bench and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes passed. He checked his watch, walked around the park, searched the brick walkways and green lawn for them.

  He checked his watch again. A whole hour had passed. He could hear his heart beating in his ears.

  He should be getting back to his office. He didn’t want anyone to suspect. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

  Sofia had told him she loved him, had given him no reason to doubt. So where was she?

  She wouldn’t miss meeting him in the park on this, their last day in Moscow, unless something had happened.

  He knew he shouldn’t risk it, but his instinct screamed at him to check her home. He hurried from the park, jogged a mile in his neat pinstripe suit and loafers to the cement block building where Sofia lived.

  He hadn’t been here for months, not since the baby was born, staying away to allay suspicion, resigning himself to stolen glances in the park and a clandestine exchange of notes—love letters or instructions. Now he raced to her apartment, heedless of who might see.