Finn

 

There’s this diner in Brooklyn, all stainless steel and subway tile. Smells like five decades of grease. Worst coffee in the state. Bunch of old-timers sitting at the counter, flirting with the young waitresses, bitching about the weather or the price of gas or the situation in North Korea.

 

I like it because it’s anonymous. I don’t walk in here and incite fear; these people don’t know me, don’t know what I do. They don’t know about the crescent-shaped scar on my solar plexus, where a mark got me in a badly aimed jab for my heart. They don’t know I broke a bottle of Russian vodka over a guy’s head in a bar fight three nights ago.

 

No, here I’m just that guy who comes in once a week for a greasy, sloppy Reuben sandwich and some French fries. The waitresses flirt. I leave big tips.

 

Except today, I can’t fully enjoy my Reuben sandwich because my next mark is at the counter, waiting on a lunchtime takeout order. She’s the wife of my mark, actually, but that motherfucker skipped town without a trace and by God, I’ll get blood out of that turnip, even if it means I have to scare the shit out of his old lady.

 

She’s tall, with legs for days. That’s the first thing I notice. Long, toned legs in high heels meant only for fueling sexual fantasies. Long, dark hair in waves down her back. Full lips, sharp cheekbones. She’s almost too pretty to mess with. Almost.

 

She grabs her takeout bag from the waitress and heads for the door. I throw some cash on the table and wave as I wander toward the door, pretending to look at my phone as I wander after my mark.

 

It’s a nice day in Brooklyn. Blue skies, low humidity. There are nannies out walking kids in strollers, people jogging. This woman, Selena Russell, walks quickly on those heels, stopping in front of a five-story, brick office building about four blocks from the diner. She pauses for a minute before going in, tilting her head back, exposing that beautiful face to the sun for a moment, oblivious to everything around her, including the pissed-off loan shark snow only a half a block away.

 

Selena opens her eyes after a long pause, turning to head into the building. As soon as she’s inside, I check the building roster on the front door. A doctor’s office, a lawyer’s office, and there it is, the offices of The Kovolov Company. Third-floor home of a Russian-owned shipping company. No way that woman works for some doctor or lawyer, not in those shoes. Not with that loser of a husband. Nope, Kovolov seems more like her style.

 

And good. If she’s working for Kovolov, then she’s making plenty of money. Sergei Kovolov pays top dollar, especially to pretty girls who’ll suck his cock while he counts his billions.

 

The building’s nice—I’ve been here before, I realize, to get payment from the CEO of an Internet start-up who couldn’t get the venture capital to get his business off the ground. He came to me for three times the interest and then tried to move the company out of town before paying me. I got my money; he got a broken nose. I thought I was quite generous, frankly.

 

This building has an underground parking garage, so I’ll just head on down and wait for Miss Russell to finish her workday before I confront her for her husband’s money. I’m not a fan of messing up women, but I’m also not about to let the Russells walk off and leave me holding the bag on this loan. I’ve got bills to pay and a business to run, and it runs on people making good on their debts. The husband may be MIA, but Selena is right here and she benefitted from what her husband borrowed, so she’s fair game.

 

So, I’ll just wait. I’m a patient man, and I’m looking forward to getting what’s mine.

 

***

 

Selena

 

While I scarfed down my lunch hours ago, Sergei’s sits untouched on his desk. I’ve only worked here for a couple of weeks but I’ve learned that when my boss doesn’t touch his lunch, it’s about to be a very long afternoon for us both.

 

His mood has gotten darker and darker since I came in this morning. When I arrived, he was all smiles. Now, his face is red and contorted with anger. My desk is right outside his office, my sightline straight to where he stands behind his desk, hand in his dark-blond hair as he yells in Russian. He’s been yelling in Russian for over an hour. I don’t speak it, but the beginning of the conversation was in English, and from what I gather, a rival company hijacked one of Sergei’s shipping vessels.

 

I suppose I’d be mad, too, if some rogue company pirated my shipment. Sergei’s shipments are usually worth millions. Sometimes he ships rugs and furniture, sometimes antiquities, sometimes alcohol. Sometimes, by his own admission, “contraband.”

 

I don’t keep the books, though, so I never ask about the shipments. I just field his calls and emails, set up his appointments, and get his coffee and lunch. I’m just the secretary.

 

Sergei’s voice gets louder and louder as the calls continue. He speaks entirely in Russian but I know things aren’t good. He bangs his hand on the wood desktop. At one point he throws his coffee cup against the wall. It shatters, and I’m left feeling honestly afraid of him. It’s not as if he’s taking this situation out on me, but I’m the only other human in the office. He’s bound to set his crosshairs on me at some point, take his frustration out on the closest warm body. That’s how my husband always acted. He’d come home in a foul mood and it wouldn’t take long before I was paying the price for whatever the world had done to fuck him that day.

 

Fuck Matt Russell, the coward. He pissed off too many people and instead of handling his problems like a big boy, he ran off like a little coward on the playground. Who the fuck knows where he is now? And good riddance. But he’s definitely left me in a financial predicament. See, he never wanted me to work. Always wanted a pretty trophy wife, wanted me to spend my time working out, staying pretty. And what did pretty get me? Nothing.

 

I hate to ever admit that my mother was right about anything, but she hated Matt from day one. Called him a “bum.” I have since called him much worse.

 

When Sergei slams his cell phone onto his desk, kicks his office chair across the room, and storms toward me, I panic a little.

 

“Those motherfuckers!” he yells at no one in particular. “I swear to God I’ll have all of them lined up, tied up, and wishing for death.”

 

His tantrum continues as he paces the reception area. Some of his yelling is in Russian, much of it is in English, all of it is menacing. I wonder what was on that ship that’s got him so crazy. I want to ask if he doesn’t have insurance, but think better of it. I just keep my mouth shut, focusing as best I can on the appointment requests in his email inbox.

 

Finally, his anger dulls to a simmer. He sits in one of the reception chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him, head back against the wall. He’s handsome, I suppose, with his blue eyes and blond hair. He isn’t terribly muscular but he’s not thin either. He probably works out a little, but he’s no beefcake. I mean, I guess he’s probably too old to be a gym rat anyway. I’m thirty-two, and I’d guess he’s ten years older than that. I don’t think he’s married or has a family. He works like a fiend. I don’t know if I like him or not.

 

“I’m sorry you have had to listen to that all afternoon,” Sergei says in his lightly-accented voice. “Will you let me take you to dinner tonight as an apology?”

 

“I don’t … that’s not necessary,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “It’s no big deal. I understand why you’d be so angry.”

 

He stands and saunters toward me, his expression turning distinctly predatory. A shiver goes down my spine. As he comes behind my desk, his hands rest on the back of my chair.

 

“I’m certainly not angry at you, princess,” Sergei says, his voice low in my ear. “Your presence is certainly pleasurable for me. I could quite use a distraction from the rigors of my work. I believe you could be just the distraction I need.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I’m afraid I’m not much fun these days. You know, since Matt left.”

 

“Well,” Sergei says, backing off only slightly, “It sounds like we could both use some distraction then. How about I send a driver for you at seven.”

 

“I don’t …”

 

“I insist,” Sergei says. “You’ve had to hear me rage for the whole afternoon. Let me show you that I can be good company.”

 

“I guess that would be fine,” I say.

 

“Great,” he says, stepping away with a clap of his hands. “Why don’t you head on out, then? Take off early. Let me finish things up here. I’ll make a reservation for us.”

 

I can’t get my purse fast enough. Sergei’s predatory gaze stays on me as I turn off my computer and make my way to the door. I wait until I am well down the hallway before I let out a breath I wasn’t even aware I was holding.

 

I’m so distracted by fear, by regret for agreeing to have dinner with my boss, that it doesn’t register right away. I always get a tingle at the back of my neck when something isn’t quite right I used to get it all the time when Matt was about to go ballistic. It never fails me. But today, I associate it with the encounter with Sergei, the implied sex in his offer of dinner and distraction, not with the dark-haired, musclebound man waiting at my car.

 

I see him too late. He’s been looking on his phone, but my brain doesn’t register the danger quickly enough. I look around for somewhere to hide, but it’s too late. He looks up, his gaze trained straight on me. I look back at the door to the office building. I could go back up to the office. Sergei would protect me, I’m sure … but at what cost?

 

Looking at this guy, I’d bet anything he’s here for something to do with Matt. Who knows what, but I can see it can’t be good. This man, the one resting on my car? He’s dangerous. Everything about him screams “don’t fuck with me.”

 

I’m a rat, caught between one dangerous man and another, with nowhere to run. So, I take a tentative step forward.