Ivan raises an eyebrow, faintly amused. “From what I hear, he’s naming names faster than the agents can write them down.”
I smile without humor. “He’s desperate. I shot him three times, and he still tried to sell me a deal on the way to the ambulance.”
Ivan’s mouth quirks. “And De la Rosa?”
“Picked up the next morning in Waukegan. No security detail, no lawyers. He looked surprised, apparently.”
“Fools always do.”
We fall into a quiet moment. For the first time in months, the chessboard isn’t shifting beneath my feet. No more rogue agents. No more cartel freelancing. No more Tatiana with knives behind her smiles.
Ivan steeples his fingers. “So that leaves you.”
I nod. “Chicago’s ours now. No challengers. The networks Spalding was bleeding are folding back into place. The cartel knows where we stand. And the cops have bigger headlines to chase.”
“Congratulations,” Ivan says. There’s weight in the word, something else behind the polish of his tone. “You’re the undisputed rulers of Chicago. And with that comes the inevitable question—what’s next?”
I lift a brow. “Expansion.”
“New York,” he says, dryly.
I smile. “Only if you’re inviting me.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his eyes glint.
We both laugh. It’s short and civilized.
“Go west, young man,” he offers, almost whimsically. “The Ivanovs of Los Angeles. You could wear linen. Get a yacht.”
I make a face. “Sounds like a bad crime novel.”
“That’s because it would be.” He leans back. “But then again, so is this life.”
Our amusement lingers a beat longer but drains as Ivan straightens, folding his hands with precision.
“And now,” he says, voice dropping, “there’s the matter of my daughter.”
The words sit heavy between us.
Slowly, I lower my gaze to the table before meeting his eyes again. He’s not angry, but his expression is stone-like. No more jokes. No more veiled jabs and brotherly chuckles. Just a father staring down the man his only child tried to ruin.
I don’t blink. “Say what you need to say.”
“She fled the scene, as you know,” Ivan begins. “Tried to hedge her bets, to get credit for taking the Ivanovs down if the plan worked but avoid the consequences if it didn’t.”
“She still in town?”
He nods. “I’ve had her followed. She’s checked into a condo downtown under a pseudonym she thinks I don’t know about. This morning, she ordered her usual coffee. And now she’s planning to come into work. Like nothing happened.”
I laugh, low and bitter. “She’s going to play dumb.”
He nods. “She thinks you’ll look the other way because of our history,” Ivan says. “It’s not going to be easy, what comes next.”
As if on cue, the conference room chime sounds. Then the assistant’s voice, filtered through the intercom announces,“Tatiana Abramova is here to see you, sir.”
“Send her to Conference Room A,” I reply smoothly and lean further back in my chair.
Ivan’s mouth flattens into a thin line.
