Finn
She looks back at the door to get into the building three times. Assessing whether or not she perceives the threat I pose to be bigger than the one through that door, I presume.
As I’ve said, I’m a patient man, so I’ll wait and see what she does. When she takes a step forward, and then another, I watch as she squares her shoulders, raises her chin, and sets her lips into a grim frown. I’ve seen that look before, a fake bravado to hide that her hands, balled into fists at the moment, are shaking and her heart is about to beat through her chest. She looks strong and determined, but once she’s close enough, I can read the real fear in her eyes.
“You’re on my car,” she says as she approaches, digging her keys out of her purse.
“I know,” I say. “Been waiting to talk to you, Mrs. Russell.”
“If this is about Matt,” she says, “I haven’t seen him in a month. I have no idea where he is and he doesn’t call me.”
“And so?” I ask.
“So,” she says with heavy emphasis, “I can’t help you with anything related to him.”
“Well,” I say with a shrug and a nod, “I do believe you haven’t heard from him. Guy is a ghost; no one’s seen or heard from him. But, way I see it, you live in a nice apartment full of nice things that were probably purchased with the nice loan I gave him before he skipped out.”
Selena Russell doesn’t look exactly surprised to hear that her husband has skipped out on a loan, but she also doesn’t seem to show any recognition of it, either. It makes me wonder just how in the dark he left her.
“I’m Finnegan O’Hare,” I say. “I own a loan operation in Queens that your husband frequented. He is in debt to me for a sum total of three-hundred thousand dollars. I’ve come to collect payment on that debt.”
“Three … hundred …” she barely breathes the words as all of the color drains from her face. She really doesn’t know what her husband’s been up to. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
I step forward, more menacing than I probably need to be, and get right into her pretty face. “Lady, you better find it. Because as long as your husband is hiding out like a big pussy, you’re next in line to make good on this. Figure it out.”
She swallows and meets my eyes. “My boss is right upstairs. He’s probably going to be down here any time. His name is Sergei Kovolov and he’s got a mean temper. If he finds you here …”
“I know who your boss is,” I snap. “I doubt he gives too much of a shit about his secretaries unless he’s fucking them. You fucking that mobster?”
She shakes her head, a “V” forming between her eyebrows. Great. She doesn’t know Kovolov is Russian mafia, then, either. This girl is either really dumb or really trusting.
“Look,” I say. “I’m gonna give you some time to look around, see if your husband left anything of value to help you pay on this debt. That fucker spent enough time at the craps table; he had to have come away with winnings somewhere along the line. Bought you a nice car? Nice jewelry? Probably stashed away some cash somewhere he thinks you’d never look. Have a look around. Pull that shit together. If you don’t, I promise there are other ways for me to get what I’m owed, but I promise you won’t like them.”
The color drains from her face. “I don’t … I can look but …”
“But nothing. Find the money and this will be quite painless. But if you run, I’ll find you. Call the cops, I’ll show you pain you’ve never seen before. It’s up to you how this goes down, but I assure you, this conversation isn’t over. Got it?”
She nods and gulps, looking every bit like someone swallowing back bile. “I got it.”
I step away and see her let out a breath. “See you soon, Selena Russell.”
***
Selena
I feel sick.
It’s impossible for me to keep my thoughts in order. Matt owed a three-hundred thousand to a loan shark? Why? And Sergei is a mobster? Like, as in the Russian mafia? In Brooklyn? And how does this Finnegan guy think I’m going to come up with that kind of money? I’m just a secretary. I mean, sure, Sergei pays me well for my work, but it’s barely enough to pay my rent and buy groceries. It would take me my whole life to pay that kind of money off. I’m sure as hell not going to my parents for help. They have it, I’m sure, but it would just put an “I told you so” umbrella over my head for the rest of my life with them. I haven’t even told them he’s gone yet; I sure as hell can’t tell them he left me with a mound of debt.
Matt did leave behind his car. It’s actually totally stupid to have a car in New York City. You can get everywhere by subway, bus, or taxi and parking is stupid expensive, but Matt always said he didn’t trust anyone else’s driving. I only live about half a mile from work, and normally I’d walk, but Sergei insisted I used the parking spot provided.
I wonder what the car is worth. And if it’s paid off. I just never asked questions about our finances. I trusted Matt to manage everything. I was so stupid.
I grew up in upstate New York and came to New York City for college. My parents thought I was nuts for choosing SUNY Westbury when there was a SUNY school closer to home, but that was the point. I wanted to get away from home and experience something different.
Matt and I met in a bar out on Long Island. I was nineteen, just about to finish an associate’s degree in business. He was already working on Wall Street. I was enamored from the first date. He was twenty-five and already doing really well. I liked his boyish looks, cherub cheeks, curly brown hair, mischievous blue eyes. We had sex that first night we met, and started dating immediately. I finished my degree but Matt didn’t want me to work, so we moved to an apartment in Brooklyn together right away. At first, that seemed awesome. I loved running and working out, so I had plenty of time to do that. I shopped with my girlfriends, other young Wall Street wives, usually. We did a few charity things together. Sometimes I’d drop by Matt’s office with lunch and we’d fuck on his desk.
We got married two years later in my parents’ backyard. My father seemed okay with Matt; he liked that he was a Wall Street guy. My mom hated him but faked her way through the whole thing, making nice for all of her friends, who fawned over Matt and his career as if trading was better than curing cancer or something.
As soon as I’m in the door, I’m looking. I pull open every drawer, overturn every cushion. It’s only when I pull a chair into the closet and stand on it that I see the box pushed all the way to the back. My stomach drops. As I pull it down, there’s so much, I can’t even process it all. Credit cards maxed. Casino receipts. It appears my husband was a gambling addict.
And I had no idea.
There are a few things around the apartment. A Tag Heuer watch he told me was fake, that he said he bought off of some street merchant in Manhattan. A diamond bracelet from Tiffany. Not nearly enough to pay back the loan shark, but maybe a start, maybe a way to buy myself time to think.
Should I talk to Sergei about this? If he is who Finnegan says he is, maybe he can help me? Protect me? I don’t know much about loan sharks, but I’d guess his business isn’t founded totally on legal lending practices. Though, which is worse? Dealing with a loan shark or dealing with the Russian mafia?
It’s nearly seven when I finally look at my watch. Shit. I forgot I told Sergei I’d have dinner with him. Maybe I should tell him what happened with Matt. Maybe he can help me figure this out somehow.
I dress for dinner in a black dress that is modestly sexy. I don’t want to put off the wrong vibes. Sergei is my boss and even though he has heavily implied that he’s willing to mix business and pleasure, I’m not sure that’s what I want. Sergei seemed dangerous, volatile, before I found out he’s got ties to the mob. Now? He flat-out scares the crap out of me.
At seven on the dot, a knock at my door announces his arrival. He stands, dressed smartly in a well-tailored button-down and a pair of black slacks, looking at his cell phone with a deep frown on his face. When I open the door, he smiles broadly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve booked us a table at Le Petite Bistro,” he says. “My favorite French cuisine.”
He puts his hand on my back as we walk out to the waiting town car. As I slide in, I ask, “Have you been to France?”
He laughs lightly. “Yes, of course. Many times. I have to admit I have a bit of a thing for the food there.”
“Any Russian favorites?” I ask.
“Ah, my babushka always made a borscht that warmed my stomach,” he says. “She was a good cook.”
“Your … babushka?” I ask.
“Grandmother,” he says. “My mother’s mother.”
“Are you parents still alive?” I ask.
“My father is well,” he says. “My mother passed in childbirth with my younger sister.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs. “I was very young. I don’t remember her. My sister is now thirty, so it has been a long time. My grandmother raised us until we finished school and joined the family shipping business.”
“Oh, you all work together?” I ask.
“We do,” he says. “I cover North American enterprise. My sister covers South America. My father covers Europe and the homeland.”
“Do you see each other often?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “We talk by phone daily though. Mostly related to business. In person? We meet twice a year.”
“All business?” I ask.
“Usually. My father is a humorless man. My sister and I prefer the separation. We do try to visit my babushka a few times a year, though. She is very old now.”
We pull up in front of the restaurant then, and make our way inside. It’s small and quiet, very romantic. It makes me anxious.
We talk more over dinner. I ask if he’s ever been married—he has not. He has no children. He would like to settle down, he says, and I see the implication in his eyes. It makes my stomach lurch. He asks me about my husband. I tell him that I met Matt when I was very young, that he left me just a month ago. I reiterate that I appreciate that he gave me a chance in this job. I really needed it, I tell him.
He tells me he finds me very beautiful and he can’t believe any man would let me go without a fight. He asks if I want to have Matt killed, then laughs and says, “That was a bad joke.”
Sergei is a good conversationalist. He almost makes me feel comfortable. Almost.
“Dinner was great,” I say as the waiter clears away our dinner. “Really the best I’ve had in some time. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says. “Would you like to share dessert?”
“Ah, no thank you,” I say. “I’ve overindulged. I’ll need to work out twice as hard to burn off these calories.”
“You’ve got a beautiful body,” Sergei says. “One sweet certainly won’t ruin it.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “I’m not really a sweets person. And it’s getting late.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Let’s get you home, then.”
Sergei insists on walking me back to my door when we arrive back at my apartment. I hold out a hand for him to shake, but he pulls it to his mouth and kisses it. It takes everything I have not to cringe away from his affections.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“I … uh …”
“A nightcap, perhaps?” he asks.
“I … well … I guess. Maybe just one since I denied you dessert,” I say as lightly as I can.
“Yes, well, I admit I am not used to being denied what I want,” he says with a light laugh as I unlock the door to let us both in.
I make my way to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine as he wanders my apartment, looking at the pictures I haven’t yet had the heart to take down—wedding photos, vacation photos. More than ten years of a life lived with someone I realize I did not know at all. And I’ve left the box out on the coffee table, so there are pages and pages of documents showing Matt’s debts. My debts now, I suppose. The thought sours in my stomach.
As I wander into the living room, where he stands, peering at the papers, he looks up. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, assessing me. He says, “I think there is something you’re not telling me, Selena. You need not keep secrets.”
Okay, here we go.