Aralina stared at her plate and started eating the brioche. Her face lightened. “This is delicious,” she signed.
The fact that Kirill was banished to Russia at such a young age left me flummoxed.
“Aralina.” I caught her attention. I had a feeling she was uncomfortable that she’d revealed so much about her family already. Details that I didn’t think either Kirill or Ivan would’ve shared.
“How long did Kirill stay in Russia?”
“He stayed away until he was fourteen,” she signed, then switched to her phone. “He came back for a visit when my parents were reconciling.”
“Irina was mad at Ivan for sending Kirill away?”
She nodded. “She visited Kirill in Russia every year, and on her last visit convinced Kirill to come home. He was only supposed to stay there for two years, but then he started liking it there. He came back for a couple of months when I was born, but returned to Russia and didn’t fully commit to our bratva until he turned seventeen. He stayed on the condition that Kolya joined the bratva.”
And what about Anya?I didn’t ask. Obviously, she married Davenport as a move for the Moscow mob. I wasn’t sure if Aralina knew how these interconnected, but I had enough puzzle pieces to mull over.
We chatted about other less touchy subjects like her graphic design projects. Renz came over and hung out with us for a bit. Then Aralina announced she had to get going and entrusted me with the folder.
I texted Trevor that I was heading his way and if he wanted anything from Jabbin’ Java. A few minutes later, bearing two large takeout coffees and the folder Aralina left me, I descended into the belly of The Grindhouse.
It was used in planning operations. Right now it was empty and quiet save for the whirring of the servers in the computer room. Trevor sat with his back to me, several screens in front of him.
“Your large black coffee.” I set the cup beside him.
“Thanks.” He eyed the folder under my arm. “What you got there. Trouble?”
I laughed. “Maybe.”
“Dom said not to do anything for you while he’s gone.”
“Excuse me?” I feigned outrage.
“Kidding.” He winked, returning his attention to the screens and keyboard. “So what do you have for me?”
“I was going to ask you to do a deep dive into any connection you can find between the Kings and the Zahkarovs. However, I’m not sure if I should trust what Ivan has told me.”
I showed him the contents of the folder and gave him the gist of what Ivan had divulged about his relationship with Duncan King. What I knew about Esther. How Davenport was involved by managing four percent of the shares held in trust. “I don’t have a last name for Renée, but maybe you can figure it out.”
“So you need an age progression of this girl?” he asked.
“Yes. But there was also something Dad mentioned a while back—that Ivan was the one who ordered a hit on Duncan and Esther King five years ago, so if you could find any conflict between those two around that time frame, that would be great.”
Trevor got to work and scanned the photo. At face value, the girl bore no resemblance to Aralina, Kirill, or Maksim. Trevor even found an old picture of Roman. With Renée being an unknown, we only had the father as a parameter to influence the age progression. Judging from the girl’s coloring, she could be a relative of Theodore, Jeremiah, and Duncan King.
“We could do a straight age progression without parental or sibling parameters,” Trevor said. “And we could do a genetic blueprint. This could take a while.”
“Define ‘a while,’” I said.
He laughed at my impatient tone. “A day or two. For more refined results, a couple of days.”
Trevor’s phone buzzed. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“That was Renz.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes even when the rest of his face was solemn. “There’s a pissed-off Russian looking for you at Jabbin’ Java.”
Shit. I checked my phone. No signal.
“It’s blocked down here, remember?” Trevor said. “Which reminds me.” He walked over to the shelf of drawers and pulled one open. “I got a phone for you so we can communicate better.”
