”“What was better?” I asked, my curiosity killing me.“He decided that the large space was perfect for his new enterprise. We would be partners... I would supply the space and he would provide the customers. He would reap all the profits, and I would keep my new respectable reputation unsullied,” she explained.“I’m guessing the enterprise is illegal?” I asked, knowing full well that this damsel in distress wouldn’t be here if this basement business wasn’t a vice cop’s wet dream.“It started out. Beijing Hotel, August 2015 I am staring at the blinking cursor. I'm upset. Somehow we had a connection. What can I say to him? What does he know about his mother, or about his father? The email I’d received was from Jean Vampilov, her son. Svetlana is dead. The story you are about to hear was told to me in the summer of 1995. I will try my best to recount it accurately. A few years have passed so allow me some poetic licence. The story was delivered across a white pine table in a dreary. More

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