Leon whistles. “Yep, that is bound to draw attention.”
He is right. Wars have been started for less. The Cartel orders their product off how much each client is willing to pay. Usually, a couple of million. If Kirill was unable to pay for the product the Cartel already ordered, he would be in some serious shit. The Cartel would refuse to shove off the debt and come after Kirill and his men until he was able to pay. And knowing the Cartel they won’t just kill Bratva soldiers but their wives and children too. Until either no one is left, or they pay.
Either way, it will be bloody unless Andrei steps in for his brother.
Fuck.
Andrei Tkachenko is my motherfucking uncle. That is going to take some time to wrap my head around. Leon pulls the SUV into one of the spots near the hangar. Dima stands at the bottom of the flight of stairs with the pilot. When he sees us park, he gives a slight nod to the pilot, dismissing him before heading in our direction.
Dima is the obvious choice to take with me. He is young and smart and can easily blend into any given environment. Leon is normally the one I would bring, but his presence would too easily be noticed if he is gone. That, and he is going to be needed if shit hits the fan with the Italian Mafia here.
Dante Romano has been MIA since our run-in with him at the small shipping port where we found the cash and shipping container.
It is thanks to the miscreant reporter Bailey that we managed to put a few more links in the chain on figuring out how Ward has been getting money into the United States from the Middle East. American money at that.
“There’s one more thing you should see before you go,” Mark nods his head through the screen at Kenzi, who dutifully changes the slides on the tablet.
“Recognize him?” she asks curiously.
My jaw clenches at the sight of the man before me on the screen. He is tall, almost as tall as me. The silver hair he sports is gone, replaced with a rich, dark brown that screams fake, but somehow suits his face. I wonder which color he fakes. He appears younger than the videos and photographs my men have gained since I learned of his involvement with Ava.
When I first saw him on the video feed outside McDonough’s, his suit was two sizes too big, a cheap department store fabric that wrinkled with the slightest movement. Now, he wears a gray tweed Sebastian Cruz original that fits him like a glove. The wolf has shucked away his sheep costume.
“Jonathon Archer,” I sneer at the screen. “Tried to frame me for Elias’s murder.”
Kenzi shakes her head.
“His name is Ivan Tkachenko and,” she informs me as she flips to another slide. My blood freezes as I stare at the image before me. The man’s hand is outstretched, the skin of his wrist barely visible, but I can still make out the familiar deformation that every man in my family carries. “He’s your cousin, and he’s been on your tail for the last ten years.”
Ten years? He has been after me for ten years and the first time I have any confirmation of this is in the past few months. What took him so long to make a move?
“It explains why he wanted that video.” Mark clears his throat uncomfortably at the reminder of his betrayal. A betrayal I don’t have the heart to hold against him. Most betrayals are met with a swift hand. A bullet between the eyes and it is done. There is something about Mark, however, and whatever it is, I can’t bring myself to view his betrayal as malicious. Not like I did Ava’s.
“He is searching for proof,” I growl.
“Maybe not,” he tells me.
“He must have just arrested me for fun then,” I deadpan.
Mark huffs impatiently. “The video clearly shows you acting in self-defense,” he stresses. “And the video isn’t the only thing he is after. He wanted a whole bunch of documents too, remember? I kept a copy of everything I found and have slowly had a program deciphering them.”
“You could have just asked,” I remind him dryly. “Most of us speak Russian.” Mark shrugs a shoulder.
“You were all busy,” he sighs. “I start deciphering the documents he went through most. One is the death certificate and autopsy report of Inessa Kasyanov, and the other is your birth certificate.” He pauses for a second, bringing a copy of the paperwork on the tablet’s screen. I snatch it from the cradle to get a better look.
“I scoured the web for an Inessa Kasyanov,” Mark continues. “But there is nothing on her. No birth certificate, no fingerprint files, no parking tickets—nothing. She is like a ghost. Inessa Kasyanov doesn’t exist. Which means?—”
“She is made up,” I breathe, my brow furrowing as anger and sadness rush through me. A geyser ready to erupt.
“Do you know her?” Kenzi asks tentatively, taking in my expression.
I nod.
“She was my mother.”
forty-three
For someone so keen to talk to me, Tomas is eerily quiet at the small table we are sitting at. The owner nearly tripped over himself when we walked in the door. He obviously knew who Tomas and Vas were by the way he smiled, shook their hands jovially, and then cleared out his entire restaurant only minutes later.
