“His name is Taras Kreshnik,” she explained to me that first day, helping me to a seat on the thin twin mattress that would become mine. I was trembling so bad I could hardly breathe. She held my hands. Shushed me. Stroked my hair until I finally managed to draw in a gulp of air.
“Who—who is he?” I’d managed to gasp.
“The devil,” she answered in a quiet murmur. “He’s the goddamned devil.”
She was right about that.
More specifically, he is an underboss for the Albanian mafia. A key player in the hierarchy. The men who are cackling like hyenas right now in the drawing room are his underlings, his runners, his capos. They come here regularly to pay fealty. To beg for support. To negotiate for cash, guns, drugs—
And most of all, for women.
To anyone passing through, it looks like all of
