Maykl
I stand watch behind my desk as strangers off the street wander into our building for Kateryna’s open house. Her studio, Kremlin Clay, has a once-a-month open house where she and a handful of other potters sell their wares.
I head up security for our building, so I have men stationed all over the first floor to make sure nothing goes wrong.
My pakhan, Ravil, has Leo, a seventeen-year-old Russian-American who lives in the building, serving as a doorman while I keep a close watch on everyone from behind the desk.
“Welcome to the Open House.” Leo speaks flawless English, having moved here as a child. He’s not bratvaat least, not yet. He lives in the building with his single mother. Ravil gives him workat a very generous wageto help them out. He’s not just pakhan to the bratva. He considers himself a sort of tribal leader to everyone in the building.
“The studio is just past the elevators on your left.” Leo invites in a young couple.
I’m in a suit, my tattoos mostly covered, other than those that crawl up my neck. I try to keep the customary menace and suspicion from showing on my face, while still monitoring their every move.
It’s my job to assess danger at this entry point. I’m the gatekeeper. The guy who keeps out all threats to our occupants, especially to our pakhan.
Security cameras are on, recording everything. The stairwell doors lock from the outside. No one can take an elevator without a keycard. I see everyone who goes in or out of the restrooms.
Nikolai, Oleg, and Adrian are inside the studio, armed and extremely dangerous.
Still, this level of intrusion into what is normally an impenetrable fortress has me on edge.
Nikolai and Chelle saunter out to the lobby of the building holding glasses of champagne. I notice Nikolai’s drink appears untouched. He may appear casual, but he’s on duty like I am.
Chelle sets a small plate of hors d’oeuvres on the counter for me. “Nikolai said no alcohol for you, but I brought you some snacks.”
I clear my throat trying not to look too grateful because Nikolai, who is normally laid-back, gets irrationally jealous of his fiancee. “Thank you.”
“How many have come through?” Nikolai asks, knowing I will have an exact tally in my head.
“Forty-nine in, twenty-two out,” I report.
Chelle looks disappointed. She’s a publicist with the top publicity firm in the city, and she arranged a social media blitz to advertise tonight’s open house. “Well, there’s still another hour.”
Personally, I think there are plenty in attendance. More than I like having to keep track of.
“There’s hardly anything left in there to buy,” Nikolai consoles, his hand possessively at Chelle’s back.
Though they’ve been together a few months, I’m not used to this domesticated version of Nikolai. Nor of any of my brothers who are now paired with a woman.
Ravil’s break with the bratva code of forbidding marriage and relationships seems more dangerous than anything else he’s done.
Seeing my brothers paired up, seeing them in love, leaves me cold. I’ve already seen how irrational the women make them. How the females cloud their judgment and affect their decision-making.
Most of all, it creates some kind of scratchy void deep inside me. A prompting to wonder what it would be like for me to claim a woman. To have someone soft and beautiful warming my bed.
Not that I don’t bring a woman home on occasion. I get my basic sexual needs met. But finding a partnerthat’s something different.
The mere idea of it creates unease in me. A noisy clamoring of danger.
I’m sure it’s related to some basic primal wound of having my mother abandon me at a very young age. Who could blame her? My father was a monster.
But I’ve never known why she didn’t take me with her.
Chelle walks over to praise Leo and asks him how he’s doing while Nikolai leans against the counter and eats one of the toothpicks loaded with fancy olives from my plate.
“You hate this, don’t you?” Nikolai asks me as Maxim and Sasha join us.
“Every second,” I confirm.
“So do I.” Maxim’s watchful gaze sweeps the newcomers. He, of all of us, hates outsiders in the building most. His wife, Sasha, is the daughter of Igor Antonov, the now-deceased Moscow pakhan, who arranged her marriage to Maxim before his death last year. She inherited his interest in oil wells worth over sixty million dollars, which put her in the crosshairs of every mudak who dreams of taking her black gold from her. Igor chose Maxim to be her husband, deeming him the best able to protect her.
Maxim will probably spend the rest of his life anticipating threats to her safety.
“But we do these things to make life as normal as it can be for the women. As much as I’d prefer to keep them locked in the penthouse and never let out.”
Sasha chuckles and wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. “Such gallantry.”
Maxim’s lips curve. “I try.”
Chelle returns to Nikolai’s side, and the two couples head back into the pottery studio. As I watch them retreat, I try to ignore the niggle of jealousy that fills me every time I see one of my happily-married brothers with his wife.
Kira
The crack house is exactly what the name suggested. It’s in a decrepit neighborhood. A side of America I didn’t know existed. Streets are littered with garbage. Ramshackle buildings are covered with graffiti. The front windows are boarded up at the address Officer Green gave me. I climb the steps, which are littered with cigarette butts, trash, and a couple of hypodermic needles. I bang on the door. When no one answers, I try the handle. It opens.
There are people inside. It smells of stale smoke and rank bodies. There are several dirty mattresses littering the floor, and trash covers every other inch of it. Someone sits up on the couch. A woman, I think. Her matted hair falls in her face. She’s nothing but skin and bones like Anya, her eyes hollowed out and dark.
“Who the fuck are you?” She reveals rotted, stained teeth when she speaks.
“My name is Kira Koslova.”
“Another Russian.” The woman lurches to her feet, staggering when she arrives. She ignores me, searching the floor for something.
“Did you know my sister? Anya?”
“You got a cigarette?”
“No. Did you know Anya?”
She shoots me a disgusted look. “Yeah, I knew her. She’s dead.”
“I know. I came from Russia when the police called.”
“So? What do you want?”
“I’m looking for her son, Mika. Is he here?”
The woman stops searching the floor and swivels. “She didn’t have a son.”
My hands clench into fists. A white-hot rage floods my chest, heats my face. It’s irrational, but potent just the same. “She did,” I snarl. “He’d be fifteen now. Her son.”
“No. No son. I’ve known her a long time. She never had a son.”
Panic flares, but I try to tamp it down with my anger. “How long?” I speak through clenched teeth. “How long have you known her?”
The addict shrugs. “Few years.” She shakes her head with a sneer. “Definitely no son.”
I want to attack the stupid addict and tell her she’s wrong. I want to scream. To throw things. Burn down this wretched building.
But none of those things will help me find Mika.
If I were honest, I’d recognize that the person I’m really angry at is myself. For not stopping Anya from leaving. For not insisting Mika stay with me.
If I hadn’t had my heart broken so many times by Anya. If I hadn’t been angry with her for the kind of mother she was, for her addiction and her continued association with the men who’d ruined her, if I hadn’t given up on Anya, maybe she’d be alive right now. Mika wouldn’t be missing. The idea that he may be completely lost to me terrifies me. I have absolutely no way of knowing if Mika’s alive or dead. Where to begin to find him. What happened to him.
But that guilt is far too painful. It’s easier to blame the bratva. They started this road to destruction by taking Anya as payment. A few months later, they killed our father, anyway.
It’s time I figure out how to pay them back for the evil they bestowed on my family.
I get back in my rental car and program the map for the address of the bratva stronghold. Then I dial the number of my supervisor in Moscow.
“Koslova,” Stepanov answers. He’s an adequate boss. Fatherly. He made a play for me once but backed off when I shot him down. “You okay?”
“No, sir. My sister is dead, and there’s no sign of my nephew. He’s missing.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I know you were hoping to bring him back with you.”
Tears smart my eyes. “I should have come years ago.” I don’t know why I’m confessing this stuff to Stepanov. He’s not the touchy-feely type. Police don’t generally do emotions with each other, but the sense of grief and desperation keeps growing. The helplessness.
“The bratva did this,” I say bitterly.
“Yes,” Stepanov says. “I have heard the Chicago bratva are the worst of them.”
I digest that, a fresh surge of anger piercing my grief. “They have a building here where supposedly all Russians are welcome. I’m going there now.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be a fortress. If you can penetrate its defenses, much could be done to bring down this American arm of the bratva.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have contacts in AmericaFBI. They have been looking for someone on the inside. They might be willing to help you find your nephew if you can help them.”
“Help them, how?”
“You get in that building. Make friends.”
My phone interrupts the call to give me the next direction, and I make the required turn.
When the sound changes back to the call, Stepanov has ended the call.
It doesn’t matter, I already feel far less alone. Less desperate.
I’ll have Stepanov and the FBI behind me on this venture.
All I have to do is get myself in.