You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, you’re not going in, little pussycat.’

‘Did you say Evanoff?’ the expressionless bouncer cuts in suddenly.

‘Yes.’

The bouncer who was laughing at his own joke stops abruptly.

‘You’re Nikita Evanoff’s daughter,’ he repeats incredulously.

‘That’s right.’

‘Got any ID to prove that?’

I hand over my driver’s license.

He looks at it. ‘I’ll just hold on to this for a minute.’

‘Of course,’ I say coolly.

He unhooks the red rope and stands aside. ‘I’m sorry about my colleague’s behavior, Miss Evanoff,’ he says in Russian. ‘He didn’t know who you were and meant no harm. He’s English.’

‘Of course,’ I say graciously.

‘Perhaps you’d like a drink while I tell him you are here.’

‘Thank you, no,’ I say.

As I follow him I hear the rude bouncer ask the admiring bouncer, ‘Who the hell is Nikita Evanoff?’

I don’t hear his reply.

‘Please wait here,’ he says, and disappears into a dark door.

I look around me. I’ve never been to a strip club. There is something sad and desperate about the women and the men. Both moving towards each other like magnets but connected only by the currency of money. I watch a woman on a pole.

‘Come this way please,’ the bouncer says close to my ear.

I follow him and we walk in silence along a darkened hallway, the sounds of our footsteps on the wooden floors creating an eerie feel. I feel my stomach churn again. At the end of the hallway we take a lift to the top. The door opens to a large room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a French palace. It is a startling contrast to the rest of the club.

‘I’m going to have to frisk you, I’m afraid,’ he says politely.

I hold my arms out as he brushes his hands down my sides, under my breasts, around my waist, and down my thighs. He stops at my knees. He is very professional about it, and I feel as cold as ice.

‘This way,’ he says. He opens a set of double doors and we enter a large, expensively decorated room.

Dimitri Semenov is sitting on a long sofa with two topless blonde girls wearing thongs. They look frightened. I imagine them to be girls trafficked from Ukraine or Russia. He is carelessly fondling the breasts of one of them as he watches me with small, curious eyes.

‘Come in and sit down, Tasha,’ he invites cordially.

Then in a completely psychotic about-turn, he harshly orders the man who had shown me in to get out.

My eyebrows rise in surprise and he smiles. A sly, ugly smile. A shudder goes through me. I have heard this man is an utterly ruthless monster. I also know that other than me, no one hates my father more than him, and I have come to see him because of the old maxim.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

‘So what can I do for Nikita’s beloved only daughter?’ He says the words as if he is slurping them. He can hardly hide his delight that I have come to see him. He understands exactly what it means when your enemy’s daughter comes to see you.

‘I cannot speak to you in the presence of anyone else,’ I say quietly.

He slaps the breast he was just fondling. ‘You heard her. What are you waiting for?’ Both women jump up and literally run out of the room.

He picks up his glass of amber liquid and takes a sip. ‘There you go. Just you and me. Now speak.’

‘I need to hire two of your most silent men for a day.’

His eyes narrow. ‘All my men are silent.’ Then to make sure that he has not misunderstood the situation, he asks, ‘Does your father know you are here?’

I shake my head.

He smiles slowly. ‘What sort of … expertise should they possess?’

‘Heavy lifting. They must be able to lift, help transport, and completely dispose of a heavy object.’

His smile widens even further. ‘Do you know I have a pig farm? Those greedy beasts will eat anything. Back in Russia we used to feed them sawdust. Naturally, they enjoy a change to their diet as much as the next man.’ His eyes glitter with cruelty.

‘How much will it cost me?’ I ask.

‘For Nikita Evanoff’s daughter … nothing,’ he declares grandly, then he laughs again with the glee of knowing he is looking at the face of the instrument of his enemy’s downfall.

Thirty-three

Tasha Evanoff

You Ruin Me

It is not I, but Baba who invites my father to join us for dinner. He might have thought it suspicious if the invitation came from me, but since it is Baba, Baba who has loved him ever since he was born, Baba, who would have walked over hot coals for him, it never crosses his mind that she is inviting him to his last supper. He simply assumes she is trying to make peace between her warring kin.