Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King
Chapter 11
MAXIM
The parking lot of Ivory’s apartment building is needlessly exposed from two sides. I’m used to there being more coverage, with trees or tons of other vehicles to blend into.
The resident parking structure would have been a safe bet if I was smart enough to forge a pass, but I hadn’t thought that far yet. I’ve been kind of operating minute to minute on this mission, and I know that regardless of how flawless my initial plan is, I won’t be able to execute it if I get caught for dumb shit like illegal parking.
As I’m lighting up my second cigar of the morning, I see a young couple and their ankle-biter dog leave the main lobby through the oversized glass doors. They appear to be bickering over something inane and unimportant as their menace of a dog yaps at them from the pavement.
I have to admit, even if Ivory’s apartment building isn’t the most intuitive for spying in general, I’ve gotten to see how trust fund kids get to live. I didn’t come into money until my late 20’s, so seeing all of the dumb shit that these kids are buying is entertaining to me. That dog probably cost $5,000, and it can’t even clean its own ass.
I’m enjoying the ensuing fight between these two unsuspecting college kids when I see a cop car pull into the circular main drive at the front of the complex. I immediately turn my attention in their direction, my whole body tense as I consider moving further to the back of the lot.
Would that help conceal me? Or attract more attention?
I know that eventually, somebody will notice that I’m not actually visiting anybody here, and I’ll attract negative attention that way.
Why doesn’t anybody in this city own a house? This would be so much easier if Ivory’s father had just bought her a brownstone townhouse in the Upper East Side.
Maybe she thought living downtown would help her find herself or something. That’s what rich college girls do, right? Find themselves? I know I found myself long before that, when the first dollar bill hit my scrawny little hand when I was starving in the streets.
Two cops emerge from their car, both of them working hard to maintain a stone-cold expression as they enter the building. Even coming from somebody who kills people on a regular basis, I’d be willing to bet that the police would have more success talking to people if they weren’t such hardasses.
This isn’t a poor neighborhood by any means, so seeing cops swarming around is unusual and typically indicates that something bigger than a low-level drug deal or domestic dispute is going down.
Before I can choose to mentally check myself out of the situation until the cops leave, I remember the house party that Ivory asked me to drop her off at, crawling with first responders and law enforcement.
She wasn’t even there when anything happened.
What would they want with her?
Either way, they need to stay the fuck away from her. I need her free, whole, and unbothered if I’m going to get her pregnant and inherit all of her daddy’s money. The extra police attention is sure to cause issues with him, too. No politician wants their kid in legal trouble, no matter how inconsequential it may be.
I decide that right now is not the right time to be spying on Ivory. I’ll return later when the cops have left, but for now, I need to run back to the headquarters and discuss my master plan with my brother, who seemed less enthusiastic about it than I had hoped when I initially brought it up.
The city has awoken for the day, and traffic has picked up considerably since I got here. Impatient by nature, I jump a curb in front of a corner shop, sending some kids screaming as I turn onto the side road that’ll lead to the base without as much interference.
It’s not the fastest way, but sitting in traffic increases the risk of the cops running my plates. The tint on my SUV is too dark, which is immensely helpful on a day-to-day basis, but bored uptown cops will nail you for the least important shit.
When I return home, I find my brother Sergei passed out on the couch with half a handle of vodka lying on the floor next to him. I’m disappointed— a brother of mine would have finished the whole thing.
I lightly kick his shin to wake him up, but he doesn’t move. I kick him harder, and he groans.
“Sergei, wake up. We need to talk about the girl,” I say, hoping to engage him with talk of the ruination of American political empires.
He opens his eyes, partially glaring at me for ruining his near-comatose state. “What of it? We talked about this last night. We have a plan. Please go fuck yourself so that I can sleep again,” he replies, still slurring.
“She might be involved with the police,” I respond, hoping to gauge his interest with potential setbacks.
He loves to solve problems. He could have been an engineer or a physicist if he had the motivation to finish school. No matter, I need him with me anyway.
“What kind of involvement?” he asks, opening his eyes fully and sitting up.
That’s better.
“She was at a house party last night,” I explain, “and there was a heavy police presence by the time we returned to it.” I completely gloss over the fact that I had contact with her. His booze-addled brain will make the connection later. For now, I only need to give important details. I can’t let his mind get all tangled up in the irrelevant shit.
“Damn,” is all he’s able to muster before he falls back down onto the couch.
