My heart fell, but I exhaled a relieved sigh when my best friend offered, “How about we meet at Brighton Beach for a walk? It’s close to the Dungeon, I can get away easier.”
I rolled my eyes at Kisa’s alternative plan, but couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up my throat. “You never were one for the bars, were you, dorogaya moya? Always been the good girl,” I teased.
Kisa laughed in return, clearly easing her worry for me. “And you’ve always had to be the rebel, haven’t you, Tal?”
My laugh turned into a guilty cough. Kisa was right. I’d never walked the “good old Bratva” woman’s line. My father had given up trying to keep me in check. I was his little girl and could wrap him around my little finger. But this, what I was doing with 221? I knew he’d never forgive that.
“Tal? Do you want to meet at the beach?” Kisa asked, breaking my inner self-chastisement.
“Yeah, we can meet at the friggin’ beach,” I agreed, “but, Kisa?”
“What?”
“Make sure you pick up a bottle of Grey Goose and bring it with you, okay?”
“Tal—”
“Don’t worry, Sandra Dee,” I interrupted. “I’m not going to make you drink. That liter of Russian perfection is all mine.”
Kisa’s light laugh filtered through the car, instantly making me feel better. “Tal?” Kisa said as her humor faded to silence. “Drive safe. I’m worried about you, girl. You don’t sound right.”
With a steady voice, I assured, “Don’t worry about me, Kisa. I’m good, as always. Nothing ever fazes me for long. Whatever this is, I’ll get over it.”
My unyielding grip on the steering wheel told an entirely different story.
*
By the time I hit Brighton Beach night had fallen, bringing a blanket of darkness. As I drove slowly through my hometown, past the gloomy abandoned streets, past the boarded up stores and bankrupt restaurants, the rundown shell of houses and the homeless people huddled on the floor, I shook my head.
It was like another world out here. If you were a part of the Bratva, if you were Russian, Brighton Beach was a haven. No cops interfering with business, hoards of loyal people from the motherland, sharing culture and wealth. But if you were any other nationality, you were forgotten, a piece of nothing to the Mafia that controlled the dingy streets.
Because in the world we—that I—lived in, the Mafia, the soviet brotherhood, was paramount. No one fucked with us. No one threatened our slice of East Coast Americana. Brighton Beach may look like some rundown hell to most, but to the Volkov Bratva, this was the land we ruled. My father and Kirill Volkov were the kings of this fucked-up kingdom.
Seeing the beach on my left, I pulled my car to a stop at the abandoned dark section Kisa and I had come to as kids, and cracked open the door. The icy wind whipped around my hair awarding me the jolt of reality I’d been searching for.
Locking the car door, and leaving my now powered-off cell in the passenger seat, I walked onto the freezing sand in my Gucci boots and, almost meeting the tide, slumped down to the ground.
I stared out at the vast sea of darkness, breathing in the salty air and tried not to think of what Savin and Ilya would be doing right now, finding me gone. And I was really trying not to think of the broken man I’d left on the cold basement floor.
Hearing a cough behind me, I turned my head to see Kisa heading my way, wrapped up in a thick parka and clutching a large bottle in her hands.
I smiled as she approached, her arms hugging her waist, her long brown hair whipping around her face. When her eyes met mine, she shook her head. “Talia Tolstaia, I love your crazy ass to pieces, but it’s freakin’ freezing out here!”
Pushing myself off the ground, I walked to my best friend and wrapped my arms around her. “You’re the one that wouldn’t meet me at a bar, so technically, it’s your fault we’re freezing our asses off right now.”