Dima
Dima“You did what?” Nikolai’s head nearly spins off his neck.
whatI’m set up in my corner of the luxury Chicago hotel suite where tonight’s poker game will be held. Nikolai’s the bookie. The games are his operation. I’m here to track the bets, vet the players digitally, and run security footage.
Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, is here as muscle. He sits in the opposite corner, near the door.
“I gave Natasha the address. She wanted to come,” I repeat.
“What. The actual. f**k?” Nikolai gapes at me. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”
Oleg glances up, but doesn’t comment, which isn’t unusual. He’s mute, and while we’ve all been learning sign language to understand him, he still doesn’t have much to say, except to Story, his girlfriend.
I close my eyes and shove my fingers throu
