Ellie dropped the lipstick into her clutch and checked her watch. Ten to eight. Perfect. She stepped back and examined herself in the mirror. Her new federal friends on the task force had provided her with the leather choker with the jagged-edge crystals. They had also given Faye Simpson other pieces of bugged jewelry—a watch and a bangle bracelet—to wear when she was working with Anton.

The plunging V-neck of her blouse was a little sexier than she usually went for, Faye Simpson’s tastes being more revealing than Ellie Batista’s—even more so since she wasn’t wearing a bra—but the double-sided tape was nicely holding the fabric in place. No danger of an accidental nip slip tonight.

Nip slip, she thought, and smiled. Something Cody would say. She left the bathroom and walked down the short, dimly lit hall and entered the restaurant, wishing she could call him back and tell him she was okay, that he didn’t have to worry.

The hostess, a striking brunette named Misha, was adjusting the knot of Anton’s tie and laughing at something he’d said—laughing in such a way that clearly showed she was into him. Ellie could see the appeal, in a way. Anton was built like a professional wrestler, but his face was as welcoming as a Russian prison camp. He’d spent time in one, too, he had told her once, a penal colony in Mordovia, some republic southeast of Moscow, before immigrating with his mother to the United States. His nose was slightly crooked from having been broken one too many times and he had cauliflower ears from having been punched and kicked too many times, and the left side of his mouth was slightly paralyzed, either from birth or from a fight—she didn’t know which.

Anton saw Ellie approaching and smiled, giving him the full wattage of his capped teeth done in a brilliant toilet bowl white.

“Right on time, as usual,” he said, spreading his arms open wide to accept her. He leaned down and kissed both her cheeks. He had a permanent case of five-o’clock shadow, even after he shaved, and she felt his stubble scrape across her skin.

“Come, come.” He placed his strong hand against the small of her back and turned to the hostess. “Let us sit.”

“We’re staying for dinner?”

“Why else would I have invited you to such a beautiful place, asked you to dress up so nicely?”

“Drinks, I assumed.”

“We could have drinks anywhere. Tonight is a celebration.”

“Oh? Of what?”

Anton grinned coyly and arched his eyebrows a couple of times. His English was pretty good, but he still had a bit of an accent, Anton having arrived in the States when he was twenty-two. He was thirty-three now, and with his deep voice and accent, his solid build and the fearless way he carried himself, he looked and acted the part of Nameless Gangster Thug in a Russian mob movie—not that Hollywood made them anymore, everything now recycled reboots of things that had already been recycled and rebooted.