Two hours later, I find a convenience store owner who knows about The Kremlin and points me to it.
As I stare up at the beautiful multi-million dollar building though, doubts creep in.
This is nuts. The Russian mafiya wouldn’t operate out of a luxury building like this, would they? Could running a weekly poker game really net profits enough to afford something like this?
Then again, Zane was into them for tens of thousands of dollars, so maybe it would.
The moment I march in, I know I have the right place.
The security guard or doorman or whatever you call the guy sitting behind the giant curved copper desk is covered in tattoos, same as all the guys I saw at the poker game. He gives me a stony stare.
I attempt to clear the desperation from my voice. “Hi, I’m here to see Nikolai,” I
