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“Good. Then that will be all, gentlemen. You each know your missions. I expect a full report at the end of the day. You’ll find me in my home office.”
A murmur of consent ripples through the crowd, and we all rise to show respect for the Sakharov Pakhan as he leaves the room.
Rasputin is by my shoulder in an instant, his black gaze brimming with hostility as he looks me up and down. “Under my command, I’ll tell you exactly what you need to know when you need to know it. Otherwise, shut up and follow my orders to the T. You got it? Any questions?”
“Got it, Captain. I guess my only question is did your parents really name you Rasputin?” A bold choice considering the rather negative light he shed on the Russian patriarchy and the common belief that his mystical abilities were nothing more than the tricks of a charlatan. And I can see it’s a sensitive subject as soon as I broach it.
The man bristles visibly at my question, his hostility increasing exponentially. “Of course it’s not,” he scoffs. “It’s a stupid nickname I was given somewhere along the line. I don’t particularly care for it, but we don’t always get to pick what people call us, now do we?”
Viktor leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “He got the name because he’s basically a sorcerer when it comes to extracting information—and he’s really hard to kill.”
I can see why. The man’s a menace, and that’s coming from someone who’s supposed to be on the same side.
“Well, then, I look forward to learning from the best,” I state, keeping my cool though my instincts scream that I need to think about self-preservation right about now.
That seems to tamp his hostility a little, and Rasputin gives a huff before taking his leave with a polite acknowledgement of Sergio’s son. Viktor gives me a wink as I follow my new captain on our mission to hunt down the men who nearly killed me and Alina.
“We’ll start at the butchery on Union Park Street. Those boys hear a lot of good gossip,” Rasputin states as we stride toward the service entrance.
Three more men fall in beside us as we walk, and my new captain jerks his chin to indicate each in turn. “This is Malik, Kristof, and Lenka. My three best interrogators. Watch and learn, novichok.”
Newbie. That’s cute.
He doesn’t know that I have a history with Bratvas—none of the Sakharovs do. A blessing in disguise, really, since any one of them could recognize me from my time with the Nezhit, which would buy me a one-way ticket to hell real fast. But so far, I seem to be in the clear—possibly because no one would suspect a man right off the bat who was brought into the clan by Sergio himself.
We all pile into the same black Escalade, and Lenka floors it, racing down the streets of inner Boston toward the butchery. The father and son duo who come out from the back to greet us don’t have much to say, though they direct us toward a dry cleaning shop in Chinatown that they heard rumors about.
Something to do with unrest with the current hierarchy.
We head there next, and the exchange is vastly different this time as Rasputin and his men flood into the tiny shop. Rather than speaking to the owner like old friends, as he did with the family at the butchery, this time, Rasputin grasps the older man by the nape of his neck and slams his face down on the front counter.
The two women in the room behind them scream, clinging to each other as they cower, watching on in horror but too scared to intervene.
“I hear you’ve got a problem with my boss, old man,” my captain growls, leaning close to the rather frail man’s ear.
“I d-don’t even know wh-who your boss is!” the gray-haired man stutters in broken English, his face twisted in pain as he holds his hands up in surrender.
“No? Does Sergio Sakharov ring any bells?” Rasputin growls.
A flicker of recognition lifts the man’s eyebrows, and my stomach knots as Rasputin opens his pocket knife with a flick of his wrist.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he states, hovering the blade before the man’s right eye. “Tell me what you know.”
“Only that three men were in here talking about a man with that name the other day. They asked me for his home address.”
“And why would you have that?” he growls, bringing the knife closer.
“Because! Because his maid brought some suits here to be dry cleaned,” he rushes on, stumbling through his words.
“Did you give them anything?”
“No, I never give out confidential information,” he assures Rasputin, his hands shaking visibly now.
A long pause follows, then the captain flicks his knife closed and releases the man’s neck. The old man stumbles back, grasping his chest with his hand as he breathes heavily. His eyes watch us fearfully as Malik, Kristof, and Lenka encircle him.
“What did these men look like?” Malik asks, his green eyes coldly amused at the man’s distress.
“W-Well, they were all tall. And two were blond with blue eyes. They could have been brothers. The other had a red beard.”
