THE TWO MILLION DOLLAR bounty was paid. After expenses, for everything from the flights to Afghanistan to the fake military uniforms and the weapons and vehicles, the payment, split seven ways, came to $264,285 each for Joe, Yelena, Cash, Juno, Liam, Josh, and the family of Hamid. They met in the basement of the building behind Club Rendezvous where once before they had come together and branded Joe with their mark. Once again, Joe stood before the gathered bosses with Gio at his side.
It was Little Maria who presented the cash. She’d lost the foot—infection set in and it had to be amputated. She was on crutches now, with one leg in a cast and the other still in a stocking and red high heel shoe; rumor was that her prosthetic would be shaped to fit into stiletto heels. Her new boyfriend, a beautiful young man with a goatee, black T-shirt, and heavy gold cross, carried the bag of money and led a pit bull pup on a leash. Everyone stood up when she entered. First she kissed Gio on the cheek. “Hola guapo,” she said. Then, leaning on her crutches, she hugged Joe and kissed him on the lips.
“Gracias amigo, con todo mi corazón.”
Joe nodded in acknowledgment, a smear of bright red lipstick on his mouth. Alonzo was home but still not ready to travel; Reggie was there to represent him. He shook Gio’s hand, earnestly thanking him, then said to Joe, “My brother said to give you this,” and gave him a big hug. Jack Madigan was there, in a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, with Liam at his side.
Jack shook Gio’s hand respectfully, then pumped Joe’s hand hard. Liam clapped his back.
“How’s your brother?” Gio asked them.
“Fine, Gio, thanks for asking,” Jack said.
Liam shrugged. “Anyway he’s better. The fucking eejit.”
Rebbe, escorted by Josh, kissed both Joe’s cheeks. “You did it, boychick. Just like I knew you would,” he said, eyes twinkling, a sweet and kind old man with ice water in his veins. “Though I don’t think I’ll be going to that shvitz anytime soon.”
Uncle Chen chuckled at this, and patted Joe on the back. Then he told Gio, “We know you made your father proud.”
“Thank you Uncle,” Gio said. “That means the most coming from you, who know.”
Anton’s name went unmentioned. In his place at the table, representing the Russian gangs, sat Yelena, regarding Joe with a sly, ironic smile. She looked different: she wore a tightly tailored black suit skirt and jacket, with a sleeveless silk blouse beneath it, and her hair was up. She barely spoke, but shook hands elegantly with the others, and gracefully accepted kisses from Rebbe and Little Maria.
No one questioned her presence or authority. In the days since Joe stopped Toomey, Gio’s men, along with the other crews, had mopped up the last of the White Angel gang, brutally reasserting their domains. Bodies were still turning up in alleys and dumpsters all around town, but overall, things were returning to normal. A couple of Anton’s men were rumored to have fled back to Russia; others turned up dead in Miami or LA. And one was hauled out of the water near Brighton Beach, at least whatever had been left by the fish.
Afterward, the group left separately, and Joe walked Yelena to her car, a sleek black Mercedes. She had taken her jacket off in the stuffy basement, and now, as she leaned back against the hood and lit a cigarette, Joe could see the scabbed over scar from her burn—like an arrow—where the corner edge of the furnace had seared her.
“It’s healing well,” he said. “But you’ll have a mark.”
She shrugged. “We all have marks. That’s life.” She laughed. “But this one doesn’t suit you.” She wet a finger and scrubbed away Maria’s lipstick.
“Speaking of new marks,” Joe said. “You’ve been busy.” Yelena had several new tattoos to join the ones that had already decorated her body: Now an eagle soared above the church cupola on her back, beneath which, Joe knew, a Madonna and child indicated that she was born in prison. A dollar sign and a skull rode on each hip, indicating a safe-cracker and a killer, and a dagger ran down her left thigh, entwined with roses and a snake, whose raised head signaled “I began in stealing and robbing.” Another dagger, piercing a heart, ran down her right, and Joe could guess what the several newly added drops of blood meant. A new devil’s face had been inked on her arm, next to her burn mark.
“What’s that?”
“Enemy of the authorities. For taking out the SVR man.”
“Right,” Joe said. “And these?” he asked, brushing the row of stars on the top of each shoulder. He squeezed her right ring finger, which now bore a small crown. “And this?” He touched her chest, where between her breasts and under her clavicle, an eight-pointed star now shone.
“As you think,” she said, looking him back in the eye.
Joe smiled. “Congratulations. You’re a boss now. Is that what you want?”
Yelena laughed. “Want? It’s like your grandma taught you. We play the cards we are dealt. And we win.”
“Do we?” Joe asked her.
She leaned up and kissed him, very gently, on the lips. Then she knocked on the roof of the limo. Immediately, a huge man in a black suit jumped out of the passenger side and opened the back door, waiting with a respectful nod. The driver started the engine.
“I have to go to Moscow,” Yelena said. “To settle a few matters.”
Joe nodded. “Fly safely.”
“You too Joe,” she said, smiling, and got in the car. The bodyguard shut the door and nodded to Joe as he got in front. Joe stepped back and watched them drive away. He looked down at Yelena’s cigarette, still smoldering on the ground, and stamped it out.
“Hey,” Gio called to him. He was leaning from the window of his car. Joe wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, listening. “Need a ride?”