Apollo presses the buzzer next to the nearly illegible name slot—Konstantin, except several letters are smudged so it readsKo st n in.
“Yes.” A male voice, low and surly.
“Georgios Konstantin?”
“Yes. What do you want.”
“My name is Apollo.” A pause, a sigh of resignation. “Apollo Karahalios.”
“They are all dead. And goodfuckinkriddance to them all.” The Greek accent is thick with anger, here.
“Please. I need to speak with you. I…” Another soft out breath from Apollo. “It’s regarding your daughter.”
“You know where she is?” A note of hope.
“Please…just let us in. It will be easier to explain if I could sit and speak with you.”
“Us? Who us?”
“Me and my…” a pause. “Girlfriend.” He looks at me apologetically—I’m more than his girlfriend, and we both know it.
But not formally, and he’s never had to introduce me in such a way before. We haven’t bothered with titles or labels.
I rub his shoulder. “It’s fine,” I whisper. “Later.”
“You have information about my daughter?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s important, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Fine.” The terse, snapped word is accompanied by the door buzzing noisily, clicking as the lock disengages.
One guard yanks it open and the others move through it, heading for the stairs in a swift march, muzzle pointing up the stairs as he ascends. Apollo and I follow, the second guard behind us. Three flights up a narrow, echoing, dimly lit staircase and down an equally narrow hallway. One of the doors is open, in it stands a short, barrel-chested man in his late thirties. He’s not unattractive, in a rough, weathered sort of way. Thick black hair cut short and swept back, dark eyes, strong jaw shadowed in stubble, wearing khakis and a white tank top.
He sees us, the guards with the guns, Apollo standing tall and hawk-like in his custom suit which probably cost more than what the man makes in a month, me in my meet-with-investors power suit and wedge heels. I suddenly see us as he might—reeking of money, power, and influence.
To his credit, Georgios holds his position without flinching, merely eying our approach with an air of proud anger. He gestures at the lead guard with a wave of a thick, hairy hand. “Who is this? You said you and your girlfriend.”
Apollo steps forward. “They are our security.”
“Why would you need this kind of security? You can’t protect your woman yourself?”
“It’s complicated,” Apollo answers. “Can we come in?”
Georgios flips a hand derisively and disappears into the apartment. “Fine. But the men with the guns stay outside.”
The lead guard meets my eyes and shakes his head—that’s not going to work. They follow us in, and Georgios turns and sees them, eyes narrowing.
“Outside, I said.”
Apollo holds up his hands. “We take our security very seriously, and they take their jobs very seriously. If you want them to wait outside, then they’ll have to do a quick search.”
“What, you think the bastards who took my Yelena are hiding in here?” He waves a hand at his little apartment. “I am playacting, you think?”
“You have no clue the kind of people we’re dealing with, Georgios,” Apollo says. “That is entirely possible.”
“I have no clue what is happening at all, you bastard!” Georgios shouts, his nerves fraying. “My daughter goes to school, like every day. But this day, she is at school, and then poof, she is gone—right from playground. No one calls us. No one tells us what they want. We have no money. We have nothing. What do they want? Hmm?”
“Me.” Apollo lifts his chin. “They want me.”
