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“At ease, soldier.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I plan on striking fast.”
“And if he happens to strike first?” he demands. “What then?”
“Then you will be the new pakhan,” I say, squeezing where my hand still clasps him. “And I expect you to protect my family.”
“Dmitri—”
“I’m serious, Aleks.” He falls reluctantly silent. “You need to promise me that you’ll take care of Wren. And my boy.”
“For fuck’s sake, man,” he swears angrily, “you don’t even have to ask. Of course I’ll protect them. But you should be the one protecting them. You should be the one around for them. Let me go in. I’ll?—”
“It has to be me that goes in there, Aleks. Anyone else, Vittorio will simply kill on the spot. We can’t leave any room for error here.”
“Ironic, considering you’re waltzing into enemy territory blind as a bat, with nothing but hope and a prayer. Some might call that ‘an error.’” He tilts his head to the side and gives me his puppy dog eyes. “I’m not above begging if you make me, brother. Let me come in with you. Just me.”
“No. If they take me down, you need to lead the Bratva. Someone will have to avenge my death.”
“If Bee were here, she’d have smacked you over the back of the head. At least twice. Maybe more. I just think?—”
“Enough,” I say in my pakhan voice, the one that brooks no argument. “It’s too late to turn back now. There’s nothing worth discussing.” I pull out the envelope that I prepared just minutes before I kissed Wren on the forehead as she slept and slipped out of our room. “If things go south, give this to Wren.”
Then, without waiting for Aleks’s answer, I climb out of the car and stride towards Soling House.
The door is nondescript in the way all speakeasy entrances are. You’d never be able to spot it if you didn’t know where to look. When I knock, it’s answered immediately by an old man whose tattoos have turned wrinkly along with his skin.
He swings the door open and steps aside to let me pass. When it slams shut, it feels like one chapter is ending and another is beginning.
“Down the corridor,” he croaks in a smoker’s rasp. “Make a left. Another left. A right at the staircase and then the fourth door on your right.”
I nod and start walking down. I hear a click and, when I turn, the man is gone. No sign as to where he might’ve passed to. No sign of any other life, either.
With a grimace, I walk. The only sounds are my feet striking the marble floors and my breath coming in even, controlled exhales. I feel no fear. I show no weakness.
Enemies are watching.
And my son and wife are waiting.
I take the first left, as instructed. And the second. A right at the staircase. There’s one door, a second, a third…
Then my destination.
This door is indistinguishable from the others. Simple wood, brass knob, though the frame is thick and sturdy. When I touch it, the handle is cold as the grave.
I twist and step through.
There’s only one dim lamp lit in the corner. Enough to illuminate how old this room is. The air is musky, dense, like a crypt sealed for decades on end.
Something is wrong.
I turn on the spot. There are windows but the curtains are drawn tight. I walk over and pull them apart…
To discover that they’ve been bricked shut from the outside.
The fuck?
That’s when I hear it. A firm and decisive click from the door. I make a run for it but it’s too late. I’m locked in.
“You bastard, Vittorio!” I yell, punching at the door with my fists.
