Half listening, I reorganized the disastrous situation. My plans for appetizers on the back patio seemed out of place. How were we supposed to sit out back with the bumbling goons who were currently traipsing out of the bathroom? Plus, Haroldson was clearly uncomfortable, which made me decide to just have everyone sit down.
It took a good thirty minutes for the smell of distrust to lift a fraction. It lingered, like a piece of rotten fruit stuck in the back of a fridge, but I forced everyone’s attention on the meal. Brady was instrumental for carrying the conversation. He jabbered about our plans to homeschool, regaled the developer with tales of life in the cozy cottage and the family ranch, and then chatted about how he hoped to make lots of friends here in Chicago.
“Let’s take a walk,” Ivan suggested when the slices of sponge cake disappeared.
I winced, shooting a worried look outside. “Is that such a good idea?”
Ivan frowned at me. “It’s part of the plan, no?”
The developer looked between us, brows knitting together as the easy vibes of dinner dissipated and that bad stench grew stronger.
“No, of course it is,” I said quickly. I was not going to let the mistrust poison the air I worked so hard to clear. “I was just checking that we had enough time.”
Legs shaking, I followed the men outside.
As we walked, Ivan began to tell stories about each house we passed. There was old man Miroslav. He was tortured by the KGB but escaped to find his family murdered. Here in America, he met a lovely Scottish woman, and they had seven grown children, twenty-one grandchildren, and were expecting great-grand baby number eleven by Christmas. On the next block over in the pumpkin-orange house was a family from Nigeria. The parents fled the political unrest and came here impoverished, but they worked their asses off to send their kids to the private school, and now their son was doing a medical residency and the daughter was a junior professor of philosophy at Loyola. The cottage with a well-kept garden was tended by a Filipino lady named Fally. Her son was the store manager of the grocery store I shopped at.
Each house had a history.
Ivan knew the stories of every single person on the mile trek to the rundown shopping center.
“And this is the best we can offer this neighborhood,” Ivan sighed, pointing at the dilapidated structure. “There’s no money here. Everyone commutes to work. But what if the jobs stayed local? What if there was plenty of employment to offer these people, and anyone else who wants to call this portion of the city their home?”
The developer gazed over the scene with a critical eye. “It’s going to take a hell of an investment to tear this down and rebuild.”
“Money has never been an issue,” Ivan said in a clipped tone. “I told Commissioner Dallas that on multiple occasions.”
Haroldson scoffed. “That prick has no sense of right and wrong. He’s stalled more than one project and given my company a good share of grief.”
As we’d walked, I forgot my fear of a drive-by shooting. But standing here in the open, I began to cast glances to each side. Fear quaked in my belly, and I wished more than anything Brady was safely back at the house, instead of standing to the side, playing I Spy with Boris.
Ivan slid his hand in mine. The reassuring pressure warmed me.
“If the complex is built on the other side of the Skokie, I can’t guarantee a better outlook for the people living here,” Ivan explained. “You understand what’s at stake?”
“I do. And if you can fund the project?” Haroldson gave Ivan a pointed look.
The mob boss nodded. “The funds are already in a foundation. The bookwork is lined up and ready.”
Haroldson let out an appreciative whistle. “That’s a lot of capital.”
“I’ve been saving my pennies.”
I gaped at Ivan. Was that supposed to be a…joke? He was joking now? But if the truth behind the attempt at the lighthearted quip was real, that was tens of millions of dollars.
“There’s a fellow, Filip Nowak, you heard of him?” Haroldson shifted his stance and gave Ivan a pointed look.
“Yeah, I know him.”
The developer hummed. “He wants the complex built to the east.”
“I heard.”
The men studied each other. Something unspoken passed between them. I paid attention, guessing the unspoken pieces had to do with the underworld more than the corporate playing fields.
“Deal with Filip, and you’ve got a straight shot,” Haroldson said quietly.
“Consider it done.”
