⭑· · ────── ·( 𝐀 𝐯 𝐚 )· ────── · · ⭑
"Mr. Andrei," I start again, my voice steady despite the pulse pounding in my ears. "You mentioned you could tell me something about Jade Pavlov?"
The old man across from me, his face a canvas of tattoos and scars, stretches a hand toward my waist. I dodge his touch with practiced ease, careful not to provoke him.
My mission here is crystal clear: I need to extract information about Jade Pavlov from Andrei Romano.
This is the final piece of the puzzle in my plan to win the case and finally land my own law firm. Simple in theory, complex in practice.
The last thing I wanted was for this man to get mad.
I was here for one reason, and that was a story. I wanted to get it.
I needed to get it.
"You're too pretty to be here alone," he grumbles, slamming his vodka shot glass on the bar with a thud that reverberates through the smoky haze. "But let me taste you, and you won't be."
He leans in to kiss me, but I moved away from him just enough to escape the unwanted advance.
"Let me try you," he said, "and I'll tell you whatever you want."
Another two drinks appear on the bar, even though my first is still untouched. This time, his hand lands a firm grip on my thigh. I count to ten before I put my hand on his.
"If you share the information, Mr. Andrei, I'll go with you."
I apply pressure and bend his finger, just enough to capture his real attention. Then I peel my hand away.
Andrei nods, rubbing the scar on his face.
I don't know his real name, not that I'm sure he does either. Men of his age didn't bring much with them from Russia.
A name was probably seen as a frivolity. He's had plenty gifted to him since then, though, and he's fond of knowledge, if I can get to it.
If he doesn't try and rape me or kill me first.
Everything about him screams Bratva—from the tattoos to the scars to the bar we're in right now.
It's soaked in the blood of organized crime.
I'm looking to get my hands dirty.
That's why I'm here, after all.
If I want to get ahead, make a name for myself, I had to start at the buttom.
I need to start at the buttom.
I need to start at a bar like this, no matter how much I hate the place and the Bratva.
There is no other way in.
"Drink, Eve. What is it that you want to know?" Andrei takes a big chug of his drink, and I hold back a look of disgust.
My heart beats fast.
There's no way of asking him about what I want directly, but if I can win the confidence of a man like this, I know he'll start talking—even if it's for a price.
"It's Ava, I—"
"Ava. It's short for something Russian, eh? Avelina?" He laughs, but it doesn't touch his eyes. They remain hard and cold. A warning.
"No. Grew up here in Chicago," I say, deftly shifting from his wandering hand.
"Well, Ava, what do you want to know? Bratva or Pavlov?"
"Both." I hold still because I know being here is beyond dangerous, but I also know chances like this don't come around often.
Andrei could be my key.
"Come home with me, Avelina, and I'll tell you."
The blood heads down to my toes, leaving my skin cold and clammy. "I'm good here."
He pulls back, turns away, and orders another drink.
Shit.
Every lead and rumour from all the sources I've scraped up, paid off, and flirted with have led me here.
