He stared into those amazing eyes of hers. “Listen, I’m going to get the two of us some real vodka, Russian vodka. Then I want to hear your war stories,” he said. “I want to hear what you’ve done with your life, Zoya. You have me curious now. Most of all, I want to play chess, Zoya. Nobody in America knows how to play chess. One game, then you go to heaven with your beloved Slava. But first vodka and chess, and, of course, I fuck you!”

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

ON ACCOUNT OF SECRETS that Zoya had told him under significant duress, the Wolf had to make one more stop in New York. Unfortunate. This meant that he wouldn’t be able to catch his flight home out of Kennedy and he would miss the professional hockey game that night. Regretful, but he knew this was the right thing to do. The betrayal by Slava and Zoya had jeopardized his life, and also made him look bad.

At a little past eleven, he entered a club called the Passage in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. The Passage looked like a dump from the street, but inside it was beautiful, very ornate, almost as nice as the best places in Moscow.

He saw people he knew from the old days: Gosha Chernov, Lev Denisov, Yura Fomin and his mistress. Then he spotted his darling Yulya. His ex-wife was tall and slender, with large breasts he’d bought for her in Palm Beach, Florida. Yulya was still beautiful in the right light, not so much changed since Moscow, where she had been a dancer since she was fifteen.

She was sitting at the bar with Mikhail Biryukov, the latest king of Brighton Beach. They were directly in front of a mural of St. Petersburg, which was very cinematic, thought the Wolf, a typical Hollywood visual cliché.

Yulya saw him coming, and she tapped Biryukov. The local pakhan turned to look, and the Wolf closed on him fast. He slammed a black king down on the table. “Checkmate,” he roared, then laughed and hugged Yulya.

“You’re not happy to see me?” he asked them. “I should be hurt.”

Biryukov grunted. “You are a mystery man. I thought you were in California.”

“Wrong again,” said the Wolf. “By the way, Slava and Zoya say hello. I just saw them out on Long Island. They couldn’t make the trip here tonight.”

Yulya shrugged—such a cool little bitch. “They mean nothing to me,” she said. “Distant cousins.”

“Or me either, Yulya. Only the police care about them now.”

Suddenly, he grabbed Yulya by the hair and lifted her out of her bar seat with one arm. “You told them to fuck me over, didn’t you? You must have paid them a lot!” he screamed in her face. “It was you. And him!”