A beat of silence.
“And you want me to follow the money.” She gives me the look she does when she’s both nervous and determined. “What about access?”
“Elena can help with that,” I say, glancing at her sideways. “If you hit a firewall, she’s got keys I’d rather not know about. Just ask.”
Astrid nods once, all cool resolve. “Alright. I’ll dig.”
“Carefully,” I add. “If Spalding smells us coming, we won’t get a second chance.”
She doesn't flinch. “Then I won’t give him one.”
We approach the restaurant, my guards breaking off to man the perimeter. I touch her elbow lightly before parting ways. “Be careful. And if anything feels off, call me.”
“Same to you,” she says. “If Tatiania’s any indication, I can only imagine her father.”
I smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
We stop outside the trattoria. The sign is worn, the windows fogged with heat. I spot Ivan’s silhouette at the corner booth—thick neck, white hair, fancy suit.
“I’ll be back at the mansion.”
She turns off toward the black car parked across the street. I watch as she climbs in and the car disappears. My guards shift positions. I square my shoulders and step into the restaurant.
The trattoria is dim, all amber light and dark-stained wood. The scent of garlic, wine, dark secrets, and a bloody history hangs thick in the air.
There are no other customers.
Ivan Abramov is dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, thinning hair swept back like a man clinging to the illusion of youth. His eyes are small, sharp, and always calculating.
Beside him, Denis, his brother and Tatiana’s uncle, looms. He’s broader, balder, and quieter. His suit fits poorly, his hands appearing too big for his wine glass. But his presence does the talking. Denis has that old enforcer stillness—like a dog trained not to bark, just bite.
Ivan rises from the booth with theatrical effort, arms spread like a benevolent patriarch. Denis doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. He just watches me, stone-faced.
Ivan wears a blinding smile. “Yuri, my boy! Look at you—lean, mean, and more like your father every year.”
I brace for the hug. It lands, warm, heavy, and three seconds too long. I don’t return it, just clap him once on the back to make it passable.
He pulls away, still grinning like a politician. “You’ve been keeping us waiting. But I suppose you’ve earned the right to set the clock, eh? The way you and your family are running things here in Chicago, it’s quite impressive.”
“It’s good to see you, Ivan. Denis.”
Denis doesn’t say a word; he just nods.
I sit across from them. I shake my head to the waiter as he approaches. I won’t be eating.
“Yuri, my boy,” he begins, swirling his wine like it holds some ancient truth. “I remember when you were just a shadow at your father’s side. Always watching, always so serious. Not serious like Denis here, though.” He chuckles then, casting a glance at the silent mountain beside me. “Denis doesn’t have your patience. Do you remember the dinner at your father’s place, what, fifteen years ago now? That poor bastard from Minsk made a comment about your sister Elena.”
He doesn't wait for me to answer.
“Crack! Just like that, jaw shattered. Could only eat through a straw for three months.” He smiles, all teeth. “Of course, your father, who was in the other room when it happened, didn’t bat an eye when he walked into the aftermath. Hell, I’m halfway sure he wished he was the one that did it. That was the order of things back then; respect was expected, not negotiated.”
I don’t take the bait. He keeps talking, as if he’s simply indulging in fond memories, not circling his real purpose like a vulture.
“You know, I often think about those days. How clean everything felt. You did what you said you’d do. You didn’t pretend not to know the rules. And if someone stepped out of line?” His smile sharpens. “Well. There were consequences. Predictable ones.” He leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “These days, it’s all paper trails and power plays through banks and shell companies. Less honor in it, don’t you think? Less blood.”
He nods, more to himself, satisfied he’s set the tone. The nostalgia’s just a stage curtain. I can feel it. Behind it is the real reason he called for this meeting. Something has been festering, some itch he’s decided I ought to scratch.
“Which brings me to why I asked to speak face-to-face with you and not through lawyers. The old-fashioned way, like your father would’ve done.”
