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CHAPTER 1

Ivan

The Uzbek across the table froust as I counted off my cut from the stack of bills he’d set down, and handed him back a far thinner pile

“This is all?”

Centering my stack of bills with a quick shuffle and tap, I placed it into an un and slipped it inside the jacket pocket of my suit The opposite side to my shoulder holster

“This is the way of the world, Ruslan,” I told hie teacher who had remained my close friend Ruslan’s was still harsh “You don’t want to make worries for Moscow, believe me”

His lips pursed together like he’d sed a mouthful of sour lemons He knew this hat he should expect He snized the sentiment

“As you say, Detective Kovalenko We want Russia on our side”

The Russian speakers in Brooklyn weren’t all Russian natives, although so few of them – of us – were born American citizens Lately there had been an influx of people from The Stans But they were happy to fall in with Moscohen the brotherhood – the Bratva – flexed their muscles and made it clear how difficult, or easy, life could be

Ruslan was one of them New in and still on the fence I watched hihtly wound cylinder and snap an elastic band around it before he tucked it into the inside pocket of his worn coat

I saw myself in him a little No doubt he would learn to blend in over time, the way I had to

I took a sip ofthe bitter-sweet liquid in the tiny cup as I watched him walk out of the private back roo cafe, rejoining Brighton Beach Avenue and the rest of the world beyond the shadows

I’ive me the respect it should