The Boy from Reactor 4

“Damian?” Victor said. The cat skipped over and jumped into his lap. “Yes. Obon mentioned you were interested.” Victor stared into the cat’s fur and stroked its back for a moment. “Damian was a thief. A notorious con man. He once stole the entire milk supply for Kyiv. He struck a deal with a mortician to buy the uniforms of dead militiamen in exchange for future payment. Then he and his friends dressed up like the local police and emptied the warehouse. Sold it on the black market for a fortune.”

A commotion broke out in the background near the front door.

“How did he die?” Nadia said.

“Poorly. He stole ten million dollars’ hard currency from an apparatchik who’d embezzled it from the government. When the little bureaucrat found out, he had Damian and his crew buried alive in hot asphalt. Never did learn what happened to the money.”

The huge man who’d let Nadia in appeared in the doorway. “Misha,” he said.

Victor frowned. The huge man walked away.

Victor asked more pointedly, “Why are you asking about Damian? Obon said you heard the name on the street in conversation. Whose conversation? On what street?”

“Oh. Um…”

Victor handed her the cat. “Excuse me for a moment. I have another visitor. It won’t take long.”

“Of course,” Nadia said. She placed the cat on her lap and petted it gingerly.

“Because I thought you might be asking for a different reason,” Victor said, poking his head back in. “I thought you might be asking because you found out his last name was Tesla. Because you found out Damian was your uncle.”

CHAPTER 11

MISHA MARKOV BURST into a grin as Victor approached. It was the arrogant grin of the carefree and immortal that Victor would like to pound on sight. A gold necklace large enough to double as a tire chain for his silly British truck jangled around his neck. A thin black jacket of the finest Italian leather hung off naturally muscular shoulders that had never seen an honest day’s work. Victor heard that women swooned in his presence almost as much as he did in front of the mirror.

“Thank you for coming, Misha,” Victor said in Russian. “But you’re early.”

“Of course I’m early. I’m early because I wanted some wisdom from my mentor.” He spread his arms out. “I love you so much. Come here, man. Give me a hug.”

Misha buried him in a hug. Victor suppressed a wave of nausea. His head didn’t even touch the kid’s chin.

“You all right?” Misha said after pulling away.

“Yes. I’m all right,” Victor said. Misha was still smiling, but more like a lunatic now. “The question is, are you all right?”

Victor looked around for Stefan but couldn’t find him. He had to be around the corner, in the living room.

“I am fucking awesome, Victor. Awesome.” Misha moved to Victor’s side and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “Actually, I’m early because I wanted to show you something. Come into your living room with me for a minute.”

Misha guided him into the living room. Stefan sat in Victor’s reading chair, surrounded by three of Misha’s men, sportsmen who took chemicals to make their bodies bigger. Their right hands were buried beneath their black leather jackets.

Tara, the sweet child in a family way, sat on the couch to their left. An eggplant-colored bruise surrounded her left eye, which was barely open.

A vice clamped down on Victor’s lungs.

“You see?” Misha said to Victor, pointing at Tara’s eye with his free hand. “That is what happens to an ungrateful whore who talks about me behind my back. And now,” Misha said, looking at Tara, “I want to show you something, too, bitch.”

Something flashed before Victor’s eyes. The back of Misha’s hand?

Victor toppled toward the floor. His cheek stung. Had that bastard just hit him? Was he going to fall all the way to the ground? Couldn’t he stop himself? Stefan was watching. Tara was watching. Oh, no. Not in front of her. He would look like…such a fool. He had to catch himself. He had to do something. Do something—

Victor crashed to the carpet. His vision blurred. His hip groaned. He tried to right himself and fight. Get up and fight. A spasm shot through his back. He winced and fell back to the carpet.

Tara screamed.

“Shut up,” Misha said.

Stefan shouted. One of Misha’s men pulled his gun out and pointed it at him.

Misha straddled Victor. “You gave her your personal guarantee she wouldn’t get hurt? Who the fuck are you to give my woman a personal guarantee?”

Misha reached down and slapped Victor in the face. Open palm. Once, twice, three times.

Victor’s nose burned. His eyes teared. Stefan swore in the background.

Victor searched his memory for a more embarrassing experience. Something his father had done to him? No. Something in the gulag? No.

“Old man, you make me so crazy,” Misha said. “I let you keep a piece of your old businesses. I want to show respect for the old ways. I want to keep up the traditions. But you? Look what you make me do.”