It’s Saturday night, so it’s no surprise the club’s packed. Smoke, perfume, cheap vodka, and bad decisions hang in the air. My soldiers are scattered around, laughing too loud, pretending they don’t notice me sitting in the corner booth. I’m fine with that.
I’m halfway through zoning out to some mind-numbing game on my phone when it buzzes in my hand, alerting me to an incoming call.
ThePakhan. Of course.
My brother’s voice has become the soundtrack of my week. In all the four years I’ve lived stateside, he’s never called me as much as he has in the last few days. It’s starting to get tiresome.
I answer before the third ring. “You really should relax, Misha. Calling every hour won’t make me find Kira any faster.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?” My eyebrow lifts, already bracing myself. “Then what is it this time?”
“I’m sending Kostya your way,” Misha says flatly.
Of course he is.
I drag a hand down my face. “Why? What’s the kid done now?”
My youngest brother’s got a talent for screwing things up—half out of boredom, half out of spite. And every damn time, I’m usually the one patching up the mess.
“He hasn’t done anything. Not this time. The feds, on the other hand, just blew months of work on the West Side.”
“Well, fuck. That’s not good news.”
“No, it’s not,” Misha says, irritation bleeding through his voice. “I want Kostya out of California for a few months. At least until the heat dies down. Then he can head back to San Francisco.”
“And you want me to babysit him until then, I’m guessing.”
“Just until you both come home.”
Home.
Russia.
Misha’s not the sentimental type, but with Christmas around the corner, I get why he wants everyone close. Elena likes the house loud this time of year. With her family long gone, it’s on us, the Petrovs, to fill the silence in that cold fortress Misha calls home.
“Fine. When is he coming?”
“In a week or two, when it’s safe enough for him to travel. The last thing I want is for Kostya to get arrested by the feds.”
“So who’s looking after him now?”
Yeah, I said it. Kostya might be twenty-three, but he still acts like a kid half the time. Leave him unsupervised, and things go sideways fast.
“The Triads are keeping him in one of their safehouses. When they feel the heat is off him, they’ll arrange for Kostya to fly over to Chicago.” I grind my teeth at his statement.
“The Triad, huh? So does that mean we’re in cahoots with them now, too?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I don’t press for further details. Misha never does anything without a reason. Every handshake he offers has a knife hidden up the sleeve, and somehow, he always ends up on top.
I might not understand his strategy, but I’ll give him this—he’s shown surprising restraint with the Outfit in Chicago. London hasn’t been so lucky. But that’s because Sasha’s got a hard-on for the Brits. Especially the Cranes.
Still, that’s his mess, not mine.
All in all, I’m a hell of a lot more comfortable dealing with the Chicago syndicate than I am with the Triad. Vincenzo Romano—for all his faults—is a man of honor, the kind who keeps his word even when it costs him.
