"Your father stole from me," I say quietly. “I could have just killed him. I’m giving him a chance to return what he took.”
"My father isn't a thief."
"Your father is an accountant for the Bratva, Hannah. Has been for twenty years. He handles our books, manages our legitimate business accounts, makes sure our money stays clean and untraceable."
The color drains from her face. "The Bratva?"
"Russian organized crime. My family has controlled Chicago operations for three generations."
"You're—" She stares at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "You're in the mafia."
"Iamthe mafia. At least, the Chicago branch of it."
She backs away from me like I've just told her I'm a serial killer. Which, depending on how you look at it, might not be far from the truth.
"This is insane," she says. I'm starting to recognize that phrase as her default response to overwhelming information. "My father works for a construction company. Sokolov Enterprises builds shopping centers and office buildings."
"Among other things. Your father helps us manage financially."
"No." She shakes her head violently. "No, he wouldn't. He's the most honest person I know."
"Honest people don't embezzle five million dollars."
"He didn't!" The words explode out of her. "I know my father. He would never steal from anyone, let alone people like you. He would never work for you people.”
I smirk. “But he does. My father and your father were good friends.”
She shakes her head. “There is no way my dad works for the mob. No. Absolutely not.”
She's crying now, tears streaming down her face as the reality of the situation hits her. Her father isn't the man she thought he was. Her life isn't what she believed it to be. And she's trapped in the middle of a war she never knew existed.
"What happens to him?" she whispers.
I don't answer, because the truth will destroy her. Richard Quinn signed his own death warrant the moment he decided to steal from us.
"What happens to me?" she asks when my silence stretches too long.
"You stay here until the debt is paid."
"And if it's not?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. It’s security in the lobby. “Yes?”
"Mr. Sokolov? Bogdan is on his way up."
Perfect timing. "Thank you."
I end the call and turn to Hannah, who's still standing by the window like she might throw herself through it. "Stay here. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe."
"Who's Bogdan?"
"My cousin. And you don't want to meet him."
I lock the door behind me. A loud thud against the door makes me smile.
She’s pissed.
My office is at the other end of the penthouse, a masculine space of dark wood and leather that reflects the legitimate side of my business. When I enter, Bogdan is already there, standing by the window with a glass of my expensive scotch in his hand.
