Chapter 5

The “rat”, which stole an unaccounted for from the general cash register, was quickly figured out. Stas Petruk, uh… to this one, could not resist the temptation. He bet on underground sweepstakes, lost all his money and climbed into the master's treasury to win back. And according to the law of meanness, again a loss.

- How is it with him? Pop asked. - At the expense?

I decided to scare, judging by the smile that Petruk could not see. The beaten man, groaning, lay on the floor, not even trying to get up, like a downed football player on the field. He pretended to be dying. Only there is no referee to raise a yellow card.

Kalash and Gena Trubin, nicknamed Truba, were also present during the showdown. The matter concerned them personally.

- Zapadlo, Petruchio? Kalash asked. “But you can set me up, right?”

And he savagely kicked the embezzler.

- Kala-a-ash ...

- Talk to me! On the! Get it!!!

Zimin was just watching now. Kalashnikov was within his rights. It was he who brought Petruchio to Zimin and personally recommended him as "his" reliable person.

Petruk was lucky. If Zima wanted to, he would have beaten him to death a long time ago, and he would have done it quickly so as not to mess around. So, just dropped the anger.

However, the money had to be returned somehow. If an idiot played their sweepstakes, no problem. All money remains in the family. But he had the stupidity to squander them on the side, with Yegor Kuzin. Zimin did not want to quarrel with a competitor, so the question arose of what to do.

“If we kill, we won’t return the money,” Miroslav decided. - Kalash, this is your henchman. Take control.

- Sure, not a problem! he grinned. - Let's put it on the counter.

Now he did not look at all like the smiling shirt-guy that he was in public. Anger bubbled up from within. Petruk framed him before the chief, and he will not forgive.

"Guys, pick it up," Pop said.

Two "fighters" standing at the entrance helped Petruk to get up. He, moaning and groaning, straightened up. The muzzle is bruised, tears and snot, bloody saliva flows down the chin. The man wanted to spit, but under the gaze of Kalash he froze and swallowed nervously. In those eyes he saw death. Zimin may not kill him, but Mishka Kalash will not forget that he was set up like that.

“Let’s go, Stasik,” Kalash said cheerfully, helping the peasant up. - Let's discuss how you will look for money. If you don't find it, we will...

- Micah, don't! Don't, I'll get everything, - Petruk frantically chattered, faltering. - I will return ... I swear by my mother!

“We’ll start with mom,” Kalash laughed. - She lives with you in Vyazma, right?

- No need! “Now the man is really scared.

While they were beating me, I wasn't so afraid.

- What are we, completely Herods? Kalashnikov continued. We won't lay a finger on her. You have a good mother, kind. He thinks that from the night she settled down, she broke out into people. Quit with crime. Let's tell her who you are. What do you think, huh?

And Stas thought that his mother, who is already over seventy, and who has thirty-three sores, will immediately die from such news. The heart just can't take it.

- Kalash, I'll get everything!

- Let's go, don't piss ...

Kind of forgiving. He patted him on the shoulder, and he looked at Zimin and winked. The chief nodded approvingly and thought that everything was under control. M ... this one will re-borrow to re-give. And there at least the grass does not grow. Let him deal with creditors himself.

- All right, Pop. We're done, he said. -Let's go, shall we?

- Maybe in a pub? Eat hunting.

“We won’t be in time for the opening at Olympus. Then we'll eat.

- All right, - the deputy agreed, but it was clear that he was not too pleased with this alignment.

War is war, and lunch is on schedule.

***

Olga looked at the envelope. The envelope, as it seemed to her, looked at Olga. If you look for a long time, then you will not even see it ... In short, she thought, thought, decided, and then spat and postponed everything until the end of the weekend. I wanted peace, but it lurked in ignorance.

Then thoughts took a diametrically opposite direction. Instead of the former, she thought of the former of her current, or rather, first and only husband.

- Lily.

I went to the Internet - stuck for a long time. The screen of the smartphone did not convey all the beauty of this woman, but her youth was undoubtedly striking. Especially without makeup. Twenty-twenty-five years, no more. The tabloid and paparazzi shots were merciless, but even in them she looked brilliant.

“Where are your seventeen years? At the Bolshoi Karetny.

And a black pistol. Because for such a difference in age, someone is supposed to be shot. Although the girls, having met a status male, do not look at age. Still not deciding who to shoot, the singer or her husband, Olga stretched like a cat, and finally felt that the silk sat down exactly on the figure, like a second skin.

Perfume would still, but her head began to ache, and she abstained. I drank water from the cooler, watered the flowers and looked at the clock. Well! Why should she wait?

As if in response to her thoughts, the doorbell rang.

- I'm going!

She came up and asked:

- Who's there?

- One hundred grams.

Zimin smiled in his eye. The voice was his too.

“Grams,” she corrected, opening the door.

- What's the difference?

- Big. But it doesn't matter.” She kissed him on the lips without thinking about lipstick.

He came, and inside again something trembled and reached out towards him. One day was enough for her to feel him as herself. It was strange. Usually Olga got used to people for a long time, looked closely, tried on, and only then let them into her life.

Zimin looked at the woman in surprise. It looks like she is not. At first he thought she was naked. Then he blinked and realized that it was a dress that matched the honey-gold skin. Olga was incredible! An implicit golden glow emanated from the woman and the outfit. The dress emphasized all the curves of the figure. It looked like a picture from a glossy magazine, but at the same time it seemed real. Real and earthly.

If he had seen her like this yesterday , he would not have dared to approach her. Uncomfortably cut down the branch, he suddenly realized. Then the man remembered her seedy commando and immediately calmed down. This will be with you not because of money or power, but because she herself wanted it.

“Good day,” said the husband’s companion.

She looked at the stranger and moved away to let him inside. She didn't like this man very much. The look is tenacious, piercing, very unpleasant. Although he looks just a skinny, unremarkable man of about fifty, dressed in a white two-piece suit and Italian shoes polished to a mirror shine. Some people must have watched too many mafia movies.

“Hello,” she smiled, not showing her feelings. - Please pass. Slav, will you introduce us?

- Anton, this is my wife, Olga Letkova. And this is my deputy, Anton Nikolayevich Popov,” Zimin answered. - Please love and respect.

“You can just Anton,” the man put in and looked inquisitively at her.

“Well, I don’t promise love,” Olga chuckled. But welcome to my humble abode.

She walked smoothly into the kitchen. The men, without taking off their shoes, followed her.

- Coffee?

“We’re already late,” Miroslav frowned.

"Come on," said Pop. “Five minutes won't make a difference. You are not an org to be there by the beginning. And everyone is late.

Olga, not at all afraid for the dress, the movements were so clear and balanced, made coffee for three. Could have been for four; There were four turks in the set. I bought it when I first went to Tuapse "savage". Then she still could not afford a vacation abroad.

But it was fun. She, her classmate Vika and her boyfriend. And one tent for three. When the couple retired, Olga did not interfere with them and walked around the city for hours. There she spied on how coffee is made in the sand.

Nice to remember.

A thing is not just an object, it is a whole story, sometimes no less interesting than human life. This is good and at the same time bad, because you can not get too attached to things, as well as to people.

Ready.

She poured the steaming drink into cups, pulled the sugar bowl away, and opened a packet of hazelnut biscuits she kept for the guests. Popov drank with pleasure. The belly was let down from hunger, so at least a little bit to kill the appetite.

He examined the wife of Winter and could not decide how to treat her. The fact that she's older is a good thing. Not like a singer! But beautiful, probably bad. Even if she does not look at the side, other men will always look at her. We'll have to graze her or protect her, as it goes.

But overall she is a strange woman. She married a stranger and did not blink an eye. Kalash told me that they even spent the night in a hotel, and nothing.

- And you, then, are the daughter of Boris Letkov? he asked carefully.

Olga shuddered and spilled her coffee. Fortunately, on the table, not on the dress. The heart raced wildly. With difficulty maintaining a straight face, she wiped a puddle on the table with a napkin.

– Does it matter? she asked a counter question, looking straight into the man's eyes.

“Maybe,” he grinned.

- Pop, that's enough, - Miroslav dropped. - Then we'll talk.

He did not like either the deputy's question or the woman's reaction. Something is wrong here. Even if it's an old quarrel, the years should have smoothed everything out a long time ago. Anger sooner or later fades and peace comes. He probably just asked out of the blue. That's the whole point.

- Let's go! He said as he waited for everyone to drink.

Olga reached for an elongated fitted jacket. Also gold, only made of thin kid skin. Miroslav got ahead of her and helped her put her hands through her sleeves. She cinched the belt around her waist. Order! Well, the weather allows you to walk around in shoes for now. Boots with this dress were categorically not mounted. Everyone, let's go.

On the stairs. Down, then into the car. Popov, fortunately, went in his car - a Lexus - and she, left alone with Miroslav, breathed a sigh of relief. This question unsettled her. The husband helped to buckle up, and they started off. The third escort car, like last time, followed them. Day guard in front. Such is the cortege of four mourning black cars that move at the same speed. It is immediately clear that they are not ordinary people.

We drove through the darkened streets. With the advent of autumn, dusk falls on the city earlier, although the foliage has not yet had time to turn yellow. Olga was silent, and Miroslav looked askance at her, not knowing what kind of strange melancholy had suddenly seized the woman. Another piz ... suffering for nothing, as it happens with women? It doesn't look like it. Okay, let's figure it out.

Popov, with his question, involuntarily stirred up the memories of seventeen years ago. Time flies, but it doesn't get easier. If there is hatred in the world stronger than she felt for her father, then such a person could only shoot himself from impotent rage. She, too, sometimes wanted to finish everything, but she lived in spite of everything, directing her rage into a constructive channel. She didn't need therapy to figure it out.

"Not to think".

Not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, never...

Just look out the window at passers-by and flashing houses. Almost there, by the way. Olga in advance specified on the Internet where Olympus was located, and read about the event itself. Charity event. The local elite, the district administration and athletes, patrons and sponsors gather to watch the fights and contribute to the development of youth sports.

Olga looked at the man's hands lying on the steering wheel, and saw that the knuckles on the left were knocked down and a little swollen. Got in a fight, right? Does not look like it. No bruises, no abrasions, moves easily and naturally.

Interesting. He also held a cup in his left hand. At a restaurant and both times when I had coffee at her house. Olga was attentive to details.

- Are you left-handed? she asked.

- Did you notice? he chuckled.

The woman nodded. Zimin was surprised. Not everyone immediately noticed this feature. He shot from the left hand, and the blow was better from the left, which saved his life a couple of times. What other surprises lurked in this woman?

Almost there. Their cavalcade of steel horses taxied into the courtyard, where the three-story building of the sports club rose. The one-story extension with a high ceiling was two stories high. There will probably be fights. The yard was no longer overcrowded, but they had reserved parking spaces. The solicitor hurried ahead. Zimin is always welcome here.

“In place,” he said.

Zimin unfastened Olga and suddenly rubbed his stubble-covered cheek against her skin. Hot breath burned his skin.

- Bored?

“I should say no, but actually yes,” she admitted.

Stupidity, of course. A woman is supposed to play, flirt and be a little inaccessible. The way Zimin laughed convinced her that the answer was correct. He stroked her cheek and asked:

- Have you got lipstick?

- Yes.

This means that she will not be indignant and squeal that she spoiled her beauty. Miroslav kissed her, crushing her tender lips, and suddenly terribly wanted to go back or go to the nearest hotel and from ... to her to insanity. And in general, today she is too beautiful for all these men. They will look at her. For some reason, she did not want all this gang of brethren to drool at her.

The kiss became deeper and more open. Men's hands lay on the chest in a silk case. He stroked it, squeezed it, and, not feeling the bones of the bra, suddenly realized that the woman was not wearing underwear. Wow! Interesting, and from below too? The second hand crawled down. Zimin wanted to lift up his skirt to check it out, but the tight dress wouldn't budge.

- ... la!

Olga grabbed her husband's shoulders and groaned. Her thoughts were the same. I wanted to give a damn about this high-society rout with hypocrites who could simply transfer money without showing off. The woman dreamed of being back in the hotel room and continuing what he started with his kiss.

Zimin moved away, and she caught her breath with difficulty.

- ... ec, - he said.

"What follows is an untranslatable pun using local idiomatic expressions."

Olga laughed, looking at the inflamed peasant. She's good. A woman has everything inside, no one will guess. Only a feverish blush and swollen lips betray what just happened. But he needs to calm down properly before getting out of the car, otherwise the guys will laugh.

She took lipstick out of her purse and adjusted her makeup. All. Is it time for them to get out? People are waiting.

Zimin finally got out, walked around his car and helped Olga down. Elegantly, for obvious reasons, it did not work out. He just grabbed her around the waist like a feather and put her on the ground.

Winter, what are you doing? Popov hurried.

- Yes, so ...

Olga took her husband's arm. He looked surprised, but didn't protest. He bent his arm, stuck out his elbow, and they went on, like other overdressed couples who were also moving towards the entrance to the building.

There were photographers clicking their cameras. Olga even recognized one. Chizhik! Vovka Chizhov, he still worked with her when she was in practice. So he and others were invited to cover the event. She smiled dazzlingly at him. Recognition flickered across the man's face, and he paused briefly, waved his hand at her, and then chirped hard at the camera, paying increased attention to her and her husband.

Zimin did not like such increased attention.

- Who is it? he asked, wincing. - Do you know him?

- Met a friend. They used to work together.

- It's clear.

Some tall jerk. Smiling, jumping around with a camera, blinding with a flash. Embed would, but only in public is unlikely to succeed. She and Popov, who caught up with them, looked at each other. He made a sign to the guards, and the guys gently brushed the photojournalist aside, after which Zimin and his wife freely entered inside. In the hall, she dropped her jacket from her shoulders, and her husband, picking it up on the fly, handed it over to the wardrobe.

Let's move on. Teenagers crowded around, or rather, still children of about twelve years old. Weird! It seems to be an adult evening planned.

“First, demonstrations among young people,” Zimin explained in response to her questioning look. - Then the presentation of prizes and diplomas. After that, the children disperse, and the fun begins.

- Clear.

This means that the "meat" will be after the children's time is over. It's already eight o'clock. It turns out that they missed the introduction, they will look at the kids, and then the actual fights and the charity auction.

In the big hall there was just an ordinary square ring with restrictive ropes and more mats for crawling. Not the octagon, about which Olga also read today, looking at the photo with interest.

Org noticed her husband and rushed to shake hands with him and his deputy. Directly all came from delight, what people visited them. He kissed her hand, holding her for a long time in his hands. Under Zimin's heavy gaze, he released her and took a step back.

Everyone was watching this show. Olga understood that their couple involuntarily attracted attention. She is attire, and Zimin ... just Zimin. Such charisma emanated from him that it was hard not to notice.

The best places were allocated to them, behind the judges' row. It was clearly visible. Pupils rolled and rolled each other on mats, their parents groaned and gasped, music played, medals and diplomas were awarded. The winners beam with joy, the vanquished bite their lips and look frowningly from under their brows, listening to the words of consolation from their relatives. Someone wins, someone loses...

When the first part ended, they took a short break, and Olga went off to "powder her nose." In the toilet, she breathed a little while looking in the mirror. Yes, I probably overdid it. That's what everyone is looking at. The last time she wore this dress was at the Bolshoi Theater, but the audience there is different. They don’t devour you with their eyes, like all these men in the crowd. What to do if she was born like that? Do not disfigure yourself?

"You are the one to blame".

Usually they blame a woman for seducing a man with her beauty, and not for someone who is greedy for other people's charms and cannot control himself.

"Not to think".

The bell sounds. It's time to return. Olga went out and returned to her husband and his people.

We sat down again, and the fun began. Guys of about twenty-five entered the ring, but they didn’t box, but fought in different styles. Who was strong in what. As Zimin said in her ear, the winner was entitled to a solid prize. The fight ended with the presentation of a certificate and a commemorative ribbon.

She watched as young, full of strength men beat each other, and could not take her eyes off. There was something ancient, primitive in this, some kind of atavism that caught and did not allow looking away. And even though sometimes she wanted to close her eyes in fear, she watched every fight to the end.

Miroslav admired her clear profile during the fights. She sighed frightenedly, held her breath, and he immediately understood who she was “rooting for”. Eyelashes drooped for a moment: afraid. Blood or just brutality? He looks again, this time without looking away. She clenched her hands into fists, bit her lower lip from excitement, and again wanted to take her in an armful and carry her somewhere far away to finish what they started in the car.

- All? she asked in surprise when the performance was finally over.

Time flew by unnoticed. Captivated by the spectacle, she did not immediately come to her senses.

“Yes,” he replied. - Went.

People were getting up from their chairs. Employees of the "Olympus" collected them in piles and carried them away, freeing up space. Waiters scurried around the hall with trays full of champagne glasses and glasses of mineral water.

- What do you need? Miroslav asked, catching one of them.

- Water.

Then she saw another familiar face in the crowd.

“Ah, but no. Champagne.

Let it hit you in the head. She will ask her husband to take her away from here, they will sleep again, and everything will be fine.

"Not".

Nothing will be good.

Her mother, Isabella Letkova, stood in the crowd. She was wearing a stylish pantsuit, most likely from Chanel. On the neck is a scarf that hides the scar from thyroid surgery. Short blond hair flawlessly styled. In the hands of an expensive camera.

Invited to film an event? Or, more likely, she asked for this charity auction herself. In a couple of days, all participants will receive an invitation to the gallery to buy pictures there for fabulous sums, the more the better. All this will also go to charity.

Olga froze. Then she raised the glass to her lips and drank the contents in one gulp.

- What are you? her companion was surprised.

- Nothing.

He stood behind, but even on the back he knew that something bad had happened. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he felt that she was petrified. Stuck like I don't know what. The man began to quietly stroke her neck until she relaxed.

- Who is it? he didn't recognize, although the photographer's face seemed familiar to him.

- Nobody.

So no one? Suddenly, his head clicked. It's her mother! Strange, however, relations. At that moment, the woman pointed the camera at them and clicked a couple of times. Then she moved away from the viewfinder and looked at them again in surprise. Recognition flickered across her face too.

“Let’s get out of here,” the wife suddenly asked.