Free The Prince's Gamble by Caridad Piñeiro Page B

had some knowledge about the Russian mob’s activities in the area.

Chapter Seven
    The bar where Detective Roman had asked Kathleen to meet him was well off the path beaten by tourists to Atlantic City. The neighborhood was like an over-the-hill actress, painted to try and look new, but beneath that layer the sagging and cracks were hard to miss. The bar was no exception. At one time it had had real windows, but now plywood painted black replaced the glass. She wondered if the damage had occurred during the hurricane and if so, why it hadn’t been repaired after so many months. In the meantime, someone had tried their best to write the name of the establishment in white across one panel, but the paint had faded and smudged into an almost illegible blur.
    Roman leaned against the stained stucco exterior, tossing what looked like caramel-covered popcorn into his mouth.
    She wondered how he managed to keep so trim with all the crap he ate.
    “Detective Roman. Nice place you’ve chosen for lunch,” she said as she approached and inclined her head in greeting.
    He finished off the last of the popcorn, crumpled the bag and flipped it through the open window of a nearby car. His, she assumed. Hoped. Glancing around at the assorted unsavory types loitering nearby, she said, “Aren’t you going to lock it up?”
    He shook his head. “They know it’s my ride. None of them would be foolish enough to snatch it.”
    Without waiting for her, he pushed through the door of the bar and over to one of the booths. Despite the early hour, a good number of patrons sat at the long wooden counter and at the booths around the perimeter. More surprising to her was the fact that inside, the place was actually spotless and filled with enticing smells.
    Roman plopped onto the bench in the booth and she took the seat opposite him. The leather of the bench was worn and patched in spots with vinyl, but clean. A waitress quickly came over, and he said, “One order of the fried pierogi, one boiled, and one onion and cheese.”
    With a nod, the waitress strolled away to place their orders.
    “I hope you don’t mind,” the detective belatedly said, and there was something about his actions that reminded her just a little too much of Alexander. Princely, and a bit imperious.
    Narrowing her eyes, she considered him more closely. “So, remind me. What’s your relationship to Alexander Ivanov, again?”
    That he wasn’t inclined to answer was evident as he said, “I thought we were here to talk about your tattooed man?”
    She nodded. “I understand you have some information on the local mob.”
    “I do, and I have a suspicion as to who the man in the photo might be, but I just want to confirm it,” he said, and looked casually toward the door of the bar. She turned in that direction as a mountain of a man plowed in, barely clearing the door frame. He wore a tank top that strained against the thick muscles of his chest and his solid beer belly. The skin exposed by his shirt showed a number of tattoos similar to those she’d seen inked on Russian mobsters.
    “Give me a second, will you?” Peter got out of the booth and walked toward the man, who had a good half a foot of height and girth on the detective. Despite that, Roman laid a hand on his massive shoulder and guided him toward their booth.
    He was too big to fit in the space, so Roman stood beside him and gave her a go-ahead look. “This is Ivan. An old friend. Show him the photo you sent me.”
    Kathleen yanked out her smart phone and pulled up the image. She handed the phone to Ivan, who nodded.
    “ Da , that’s him. I’d recognize the tats anywhere.” His deep voice was flavored by a thick Russian accent.
    Kathleen looked over at the detective. “You know who it is?”
    “I suspected it was Igor Stravinski, but Ivan knows him better, right?” he said, and clapped the huge man on the back.
    Ivan wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “What do you want with