It's over in a heartbeat.
Viktor, thick and brawling, looks diminished in Maksim's grip. Maksim doesn't speak. He wrenches the arm up at an angle that threatens to snap the elbow, his face a mask of bored efficiency. He waits for the command.
Boris stares at the knife on the floor, his expression unreadable, carefully blank.
"Viktor." I stand slowly. I let the silence stretch, letting the weight of the room settle on his shoulders. "Did you really think that was going to work?"
"I wasn't—" Viktor wheezes as Maksim applies more torque. "Protection. Just protection. I didn't mean?—"
"You brought a weapon to my table. In my house. After conspiring with men who want me dead." I round the desk, stopping only when I can smell the sour sweat rolling off him. "Explain to me how that translates to 'didn't mean anything.'"
Viktor's eyes dart to Boris, pleading.
My uncle examines his manicured fingernails.
"Please," Viktor chokes. "Ivan. My children. My wife. A mistake. Just a mistake."
"Several mistakes. The first was thinking I was blind. The second was assuming I'd care about your bloodline when you threatened mine."
I have no children. Viktor knows this. But in this world, legacy is the only currency that matters, and he just bet his family's future on a bluff.
"What do you want?" The bluster is gone, leaving a terrified, hollow shell. "Anything. Territory. Money. Names."
"Names."
Viktor blinks, the speed of my answer throwing him off balance.
"You've been meeting the Rosettis. I want the offer. I want the promise. And then I want the names of every other captain, lieutenant, or foot soldier they've approached." I lean in. "Every. Single. One."
Viktor swallows hard. He looks at the hand crushing his wrist, then back to me. "They'll kill me."
"Probably. But I willdefinitelykill you if you hesitate." I look at Maksim. "Take him downstairs. Make him comfortable. I'll join you shortly."
Maksim gives a sharp jerk of his chin. He hauls Viktor up by the twisted arm, guiding him toward the exit with the inevitable force of gravity. Viktor stumbles, corrects himself, and submits. There are no other options left.
The heavy oak door clicks shut.
Boris exhales, a long, rattling sound. He moves to the bar cart, crystal clinking as he pours vodka. He doesn't offer the bottle. He knows the rules.
"That could have been handled with more finesse," Boris says, back turned to me. "Viktor is connected. People will ask questions."
"His cooperation will answer them." I move to the window, looking down at the grid of Chicago—glass, steel, and rot. Somewhere below, Viktor Sorokin is about to learn the price of disloyalty. "The Rosettis have been probing. Viktor was just the first loose brick."
"And if there are others?"
"Then I'll pull the wall down until I find them."
I turn. The afternoon light catches the lines on Boris's face. Fifty-two, my father's shadow, a fixture in the organization since before I was born. He knows where the bodies are buried because he dug half the holes.
He is also the only person, aside from my father and myself, who knew about the safehouse on Ashland.
The one that is currently a pile of smoking rubble.
The one I was scheduled to visit the night it exploded.
"You're tense, Ivan." Boris downs the vodka, sets the glass down, and adjusts his cufflinks—a nervous tic. "Viktor, the Italians... perhaps you're seeing ghosts where there are only shadows."
"Perhaps." I study him. "Or perhaps the shadows are finally taking shape."
