The Bookie

Chapter 1-1

1

Nikolai

There’s just no pleasure in delivering a good beat-down anymore.

As bookie for the Chicago bratva, it’s part of the job, but my heart isn’t into it. Not with this kid.

I bury my fist in Zane’s soft belly and watch as he doubles over, wheezing. We’re in his dorm room at Northwestern. I told his roommate to take a hike unless he wanted me to beat his face in too.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get your money. I promise,” he gasps.

“Nah. We’re past your promises,” I tell him. “This time, I’m here to collect.” It’s not like he hasn’t been warned. The truth is, I probably have gone way too easy on him because I like Zane.

He’s smart. Was a decent addition to my poker table before he got into blow and started acting like a douche.

Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, hauls him back to his feet and holds him up for me to punch again. I tip my head at Adrian, one of our soldiers, to have him deliver the blow.

I don’t get off on violence. Not the way Pavel, the most s******c in our bratva cell, does. But he moved to Los Angeles to be with his actress girlfriend, who gets off on his s******c ways. And Oleg, our huge, silent enforcer, is also in love, which has softened him.

The guy was probably always a teddy bear under the huge fearsome exterior, but he pulls punches more often now. Case in point—he’s doing the holding up instead of the punching. Considering one aptly delivered blow from Oleg’s giant fists could end a guy, it doesn’t make sense.

“I’ve given you slack while you get the money together, but you missed last week’s p*****t. Didn’t answer my texts. So here is what’s going to happen.”

Adrian punches his jaw then delivers a left uppercut to the ribs. Our new cleaner shows promise. Adrian’s new to this country and has known great hardship. He still rides the sharp edge of violence. The rest of us have grown softer living large in America.

“You’re going to give me the keys to your Mustang and sign over the title.”

Zane gapes at me, eyes bugging out. Blood runs from both his nostrils and his lip. “You can’t...I…” I raise my brows, and he finishes with a simple “fuck.”

Adrian hits him again.

“I’m not completely heartless. I’ll deduct the full resale value from what you owe the bratva. It’s a 2018?”

Adrian hits him before he can answer, and Zane drops to his knees. “No more,” he wheezes.

“Get me the title.”

“Here are the keys.” He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls them out. “The title is at my sister’s place. I’ll bring it to you Friday.”

I take the keys. “Nah. We’ll go get it now—together. I wouldn’t mind meeting Big Sister. What’s her name again? Chelle?”

Zane’s eyes go wild, not missing my intended implication. “Leave my sister out of this. I’ll get you the title right now. Just give me a lift over there.”

“Let’s go.” I spread my hands.

Oleg hauls Zane to his feet, but he stumbles on his way to the door, like he can’t remember how to walk. We flank him as we head down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

I’d scoped the location of the Mustang when we arrived, so I go straight to it now and get behind the wheel. Adrian shoves Zane toward the back seat and takes the front passenger side.

Oleg leaves to drive the SUV we came in.

Zane lunges between the seats and points to the glove box. “There are napkins in there,” he grunts. “Unless you want me to bleed all over your new car.”

“Someone else’s new car,” I say mildly, lifting my chin at the glove box to let Adrian know it’s okay to get them. “You think I want to drive your old set of wheels?”

Adrian’s lip curls when he hands the napkins back, and Zane flinches at the hardness he catches in our soldier’s face.

I drive to Zane’s sister’s place without directions. I’ve already done my homework. My brother Dima, our bratva cell’s hacker, researches all our players. When Zane got in the hole with us, Dima went deeper. I have everything I need on Zane to wring him dry.

I know he and his sister had an upper middle-class upbringing. Their father was a stock broker who shot himself three years ago. They inherited little because it turned out the guy had a gambling problem. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in Zane’s case.

The one thing the dad hadn’t touched was his kid’s college fund, so Zane was still riding his privilege there. The sister is five years older and works for the top publicity firm in town.

I pull up in front of a brownstone building in a transitional neighborhood of Chicago. It is one of those up-and-coming hipster areas where old buildings are being gentrified, but there are still good deals to be found.

Zane gets out and punches a code in at the door, then leads us up three flights of stairs. “You have the key,” he mumbles at me. I hand him his keyring, and he finds the right one and pushes it in the lock.

The apartment is small but nice. Worn oak flooring, walls painted white except for the random accent in muted teal and plum. There are tastefully framed black and white art photos. Everything is relatively neat. I stop and pick up a framed picture of what looks like Zane’s high school graduation. He’s in his cap and gown, a young woman tucked under one arm.

“Is this Chelle?” The woman is much smaller than him, but they share the same facial features—the shape of their nose and mouth, their coloring.

“Leave her out of this,” Zane snarls.

I don’t comment. I have no intention of harming his sister, but I’m not above making him think I will. I learned the art of intimidation from Ravil, our pakhan. I know it’s more what you don’t say, what you merely imply, than what you really do. Let their imaginations run wild. Let them wonder how much we are actually capable of. The truth is, while we may operate on the wrong side of the law for many of our business operations, there’s still a code we live by. Harming innocent women isn’t something we do.

I bring the photo closer to my face to inspect it. Chelle is actually quite lovely. She’s petite—I doubt she’s much taller than five feet and everything about her is diminutive. Her dark brown hair cascades in long waves over her shoulders, and there’s a smattering of freckles across her nose. I can’t tell if it’s just the way the light hits her eyes in the photo, but her irises appear less hazel than Zane’s and more golden.

Zane’s gone to a filing cabinet in the small nook of the living room that she appears to use as an office and is rooting through it. “I mean it. Chelle has nothing to do with this.”

I’m glad Zane isn’t a complete douche. His desire to protect his sister from his foibles scores a few points with me.

“Did you find the title?”

Zane is tearing file folders out, rooting through them, and tossing them on the floor. Eventually, he stands. “Here it is.”

He limps over and thrusts the title under my nose.

“Sign it,” I instruct him.

“It will have to be notarized.”

I smirk. “I’ll take care of that.”

“Can you just keep it and give it back to me when I pay you off?”

“No. I need cash. Consider yourself lucky that I’m willing to handle this transaction for you. Me giving you full value is a f*****g gift, so show some appreciation and get me the rest of my money.”

“I will, I will.” Zane picks up a pen and signs it over to me. I hold my palm out for the keys, and he unwinds the car key from the ring. “I’m sorry, man. I will get the rest of it.”

I pocket the key and drop a hand on his shoulder. “You are very smart. I know you can figure this s**t out. I’ll expect another p*****t by next Friday, and if I don’t hear from you, we won’t be so kind as we were today.” I make a point of glancing back at the photo of his sister. “I wouldn’t mind involving Chelle in the next transaction. She looks like a hot one.”

Zane makes a choking sound, but we’re already making our exit.

He can find his own ride back to the dorms.