Chapter 3 Episode 3

Today was my older brother Tolya’s scheduled appearance at the Court of Appeals to plead new developments in his case.New witnesses are willing to come forward and testify, and we’re getting closer to tracking down the location of the false witness whose testimony condemned him to a life sentence. I hired the best legal defense team in the state of Nevada, a squad of f*****g sharks with J.D.s, and we marched into that courtroom with a bulletproof case for appeal. It was denied. It seems the opinion of Judge Andrew Cartwell is that, without the retraction of the key eyewitness’s testimony, my brother will spend the rest of his life behind bars for a murder he didn’t commit. Too bad the key eyewitness is nowhere to be found. The hard part wasn’t facing down the judge, or forcing myself to remain calm when the i***t banged the gavel against the blatantly obvious, or keeping my hands in my pockets so I didn’t strangle every last one of those preening motherfuckers. The hard part was watching Tolya get dragged away, yet again, bound in cuffs and reassuring me over his shoulder that it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. I was a helpless teenager all over again. Unable to protect my own brother. Unable to stand up for him. I waited until I returned to my penthouse and stepped into the private gym, before I let the rage and despair loose. I didn’t even bother changing out of the suit and into workout gear. I needed to punch things, to throw things. Feeling priceless seams rip only added to the rush. Bambi offered to send in some “extra relief,” but I turned her down. I don’t believe in dipping one’s pen inside the company’sink. And with the way I’m feeling, it’s better for women to stay out of my way and out of my bed. Now, I’m drained, and yet the night’s just begun. I tried sleeping through the afternoon to get some of my energy back, but I just need something to jump start my willpower. Nothing a few shots of bourbon and a successful night of burying myself in work can’t fix. The town car pulls to a stop in front of the casino. Even through the tinted windows, The Meridian’s lights sparkle over my arm in a twinkling promise of guaranteed good fortune to come. Well… good fortune for me, at least. Seeing as how I own the place. “What’s the headcount for tonight?” She taps the screen of her tablet and puckers her lips as she runs through a few calculations. “Twenty-one escorts working the Main Floor, seven men and fourteen women. Although we do have a few from the new pool of recruits waiting in the wings.Would you like me to⁠—” “Just one. Add them to the Main Floor and make sure we incorporate more tomorrow. For tonight, I like the numbers as they are.” I tell the press I’m not a superstitious person, but that’s a boldfaced lie. I don’t f**k with Lady Luck. The giveaway is the elegant statue of the goddess herself carved over the archway of The Meridian, welcoming gamblers to my establishment. I prefer the high rollers. Nothing like a rich fool with money to lose. But I do take a certain sort of secret delight at seeing the average Joe rejoice in a win now and then. Bambi’s roster of escorts isn’t simply an additional service we offer. It’s also our way of keeping tabs. When you know what your big spenders like, it becomes very easy to tempt them into doing it on camera. And when they know that you know… well,safe to say their business will remain ours for as long as they live. It’s almost shocking how many powerful men have very particular tastes they’d never breathe to their closest friends or, heaven forbid, their innocent wives. And not just corrupt politicians—athletes, too, and tech whizzes, and bad men with businesses almost as depraved as mine. Also—federal judges. Now, that was an unexpected surprise. “Add a few more security personnel to the High Roller Lounge.” I tap a finger on my chin as I think. “Make sure they’re wired.And let’s extend VIP hospitality to Mr. Cartwell. Keep him happy and keep him rolling. Just make sure every word he breathes is recorded and transcribed.” I open the door and step out onto the plush crimson carpet of The Meridian’s main entrance. It’s a bit of an old Hollywood touch I wasn’t sure about at first, but after seeing people stop and take selfies and follow it inside to try their luck at the slots, I decided to keep it. I did make sure the material wouldn’t catch on any stiletto heels—the last thing I need is a personal injury lawsuit splashed all over the headlines. Good thing, too, because I don’t see the woman standing next to the car. The door nearly slams into her, but she manages to stumble backward without falling. I ignore her. No harm, no foul, and not my fault or my problem. But I do catch a glimpse of her in the corner of my eye. As I do, some faint spark of recognition ignites in the back of my mind. “Is she one of ours?” I murmur to Bambi as I help her out of the car. Bambi steals a quick glance and shakes her head. “Not on our roster.” “Hm.” “Want me to look into it?” She loops her arm through mine and leans in close so it looks like we’re sharing an intimate secret. “Don’t bother. Just thought I recognized her.” Bambi looks like she wants to press further, but she lets it go. Instead, she smiles cordially at the attendants as they open the glass doors for us and smooths a hand over her silk jumpsuit with a sigh. “Ready?” I don’t answer. I simply lead us into the Main Floor and let the cacophony of the casino envelop us. Time to get to work. It’s a busy night—as it should be, given that it’s Friday. Payday for the rank-and-file means the slots are fuller and the money is flowing from their hands to the machines to my pocket. Just the way I like it. “Mr. Zakrevsky.” “Good evening, Mr. Zakrevsky.” “Good evening, sir.” My name fills the air as I meander through the casino. My payroll is rife with people in every line of work imaginable. Not just escorts, but cocktail waitresses, bartenders, attendants, concierges, and the like. People who know better than to ask questions. People who have nothing to do with the Zakrevsky Bratva. “What can I start you off with tonight, Mr. Zakrevsky?” The bartender, Mike, flashes me a genuine smile and preps a tumbler with ice. He already knows what I’m about to order, but he always gives me the chance to surprise him. I don’t. “Bourbon. On the rocks. Make it a double.” The drink is already in my hand before I finish the sentence. Bambi scrunches her freckled nose as I toss it back and savor the syrupy burn down my throat. “I’ll take mine neat,” she tells Mike. “Room temp. Like a normal person.” I chuckle and set the empty tumbler down. “Judge me all you want. We live in a f*****g desert. Ice is a blessing.” As I wait for her to finish her drink, I take the moment to lean back and scan the room. I’m not looking for anything or anyone in particular. Sometimes, it’s just nice to enjoy the sights and sounds of the empire I rule over. The same empire that should have been my brother’s. We’re about to leave the bar and head for the office suite when a woman’s voice reaches my ears. “… No, thanks. Really.” It’s the way her words tremble that pulls my attention. “C’mon, baby.” Some guy in a dark leather jacket with too much gel in his hair rubs her waist as she tries to slide off the stool.When she leans away, his fingers tighten. “I got a room upstairs. We can have a real nice time ⁠—” She musters a quivering smile and tries to maneuver from his grasp. “Really. It’s okay. I’m good.” “But I bought you that drink!” “I didn’t ask you to.” There’s fear in her eyes, but she’s trying so hard to be polite. The bartender starts to move in their direction, but I give him a subtle signal to back down. I’ll handle this. Bambi sits back and orders another drink, this time something pink with a fancy straw. She knows how I operate. She’s ready to enjoy the show. “Good evening.” I saunter up to the tangled pair, my most brilliant host’s smile plastered on my face. “How are you two doing tonight?” “We’re fine, man. Everything’s fine.” The man waves me off with an irritated flick of his hand. I loft a brow. “Is it?” My gaze slides to the woman. She looks shaken, but she forces a smile of her own. “I was just leaving,” she mumbles, grabbing her clutch. “Please—stay.” I gesture to her bar stool but still give her wide enough berth to run if she feels the need. She doesn’t know who I am, but her eyes do a quick once-over and something eases just a bit in her posture. Before she does decide to run, I gesture for the bartender. “Mike.” He slides over, his face serious even as his eyes glint with mischief. We love this game. “Yeah, boss?”