We walk the rest of the way in silence, and a car service is waiting for us as we head to the ground transportation level.
Inside, Dom throws his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, grabbing a few minutes of shut-eye.
He’ll go to his apartment first to shower, then come to the hotel to keep an eye on security for Volya and Misha.
I’m going straight to the hotel to check into my room, shower, and change before our first meetings.
I thought of Coach Harris’s family again. Technically, I shouldn’t interfere.
Harris and his family aren’t under Barkov’s protection, and they haven’t asked for it.
Harris seems woefully unaware of the criminal element in Chicago; otherwise, I imagine he’d have some idea of who I am outside of hockey.
I could offer protection, but I’d need a reason other than altruism.
Altruism doesn’t exist in our world.
There’s always a give-and-take, and Harris technically has nothing to offer me in exchange for his or his family’s safety.
Still, I hate it when innocents get caught in the crossfire. It always brings me back to the memories of my parents, to the reason Misha and I are in this life instead of some other.
The easiest thing to do would be to help the Harris family disappear. I could obtain new identities for them and relocate them far away, with assurances in place for their safety and well-being.
But then Campisi will just hire some other shitty dishrag of a person to do a shitty job of coaching what could be a championship-level team.
So, yes, taking care of Coach Darrell Harris and his family would be a kindness. But it also just pulls some other innocent into our world.
What a conundrum.
By the time we get to the hotel, I’ve decided to put surveillance on Harris’s family. Dominic says he’ll get it in order, with instructions to report if anyone from the Campisi organization starts sniffing around.
Inside, I stride through the large lobby area, looking around to see if I recognize anyone. I see a few people heading out for a morning run or grabbing coffee at the kiosk, but I don’t see anyone I know. At the front desk, I hand over my driver’s license and credit card.
“Nikolai Ivanov. Oh, don’t you play for the Reapers?” the hotel clerk asks. She looks at me, wide-eyed, for confirmation.
“I do indeed,” I say.
“Weren’t you just on the West Coast?”
I nod. “Yes. I took the red-eye back. I have meetings here this week.”
She types some things into her computer and then says, “Well, it’s been hectic for us here. We actually had some overbooking. I think we got it all taken care of, but we had some unhappy guests earlier. I’m glad you did the online confirmation, or we might have given your room away.”
“Well, good thing I live in the city,” I say. “I could have just gone home.”
She makes a noise of agreement. “We have a sister property next door, but several guests were not happy to go there. Either way, I’ve got you in a king suite with a kitchen and a city view on the twenty-first floor.”
She slides the key cards across and points me toward the elevators. Then, almost shyly, “Would you mind a selfie? My dad and brothers will lose it when they find out I met you.”
I’m dead on my feet, praying for an hour of sleep, but I manage a smile. “Sure.”
She comes around the desk, phone ready. We snap the photo, she thanks me again, and I sling my bag over my shoulder toward the elevators.
It feels like a painfully long ride, though it’s barely a minute. By the time I hit the room, the time difference and flight had left me running on fumes. All I want is to drop my bag, take a piss, and face-plant into the pillows for an hour.
I manage the first two without turning on the lights—bag dumped in the kitchen, quick stop in the bathroom. Then I head for the bed.
Immediately, a smell hits my nose, and I’m suddenly fully awake.
