I can’t imagine Ivan Malenkov liked that very much.
In her absence, I know I have work to do. I need to make calls and plans. Taking her was impulsive, and probably a mistake, but the decision has already been made. I need to prepare myself for the fallout.
I call Sergei first. He needs to know what’s going on and what I need from him to keep the business running while I’m with Anya.
“Lock down the docks,” I tell him. “We need to confirm every shipment that’s coming in. Increase the security rotations, and double our safety checks.”
“Of course,” he answers dutifully. “Does this have anything to do with our meeting about Grinkov?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly, though I don’t give him any additional details on the situation. The less he knows at this point, the better.
He pauses briefly before answering again.
“Understood,” he says.
The next call goes to Misha, my eyes and ears on Brighton Beach.
“I want eyes on Volna,” I tell him. “In fact, I want eyes on all of the Grinkov clubs. I want to know about any activity happening there, and any comings and goings that may look like meetings.”
“You got it, boss,” he replies easily.
It isn’t his job to ask questions. His job is to gather intelligence and report back to me. I know I can trust him to do that.
Finally, I call the head of my security in Bay Ridge. I have separate security operations for each of my residences, including this one. It’s easier that way to maintain complete control.
“I need a full perimeter on the safehouse,” I tell him. “Lock down the entire block. Nobody gets in or out of this neighborhood without my knowledge.”
“You expecting company?” he asks mildly.
“Yes,” I say, leaving no room for further questions.
He’ll handle it. One thing I never have to worry about is the size of my security team. It’s one of the reasons the smaller families look to me for protection. I keep my organization well-guarded.
When I’m done coordinating the immediate next steps, I go into the control room off the main hallway downstairs. This isanother feature of all of my properties. I don’t leave anything to chance.
Three monitors show the exterior angles, including the entrances to the block. Two more monitors show me the interior hallways. One shows the stairwell leading to the second floor, and another shows the third floor.
I don’t keep a camera in Anya’s bedroom, but she’s left her door open. Curious. It’s almost like she’s daring me to watch her.
I see her pacing the room. She gets up and tests the window. That’s natural. I fully expect she’ll test every perimeter in this house before the morning’s out. She opens the door to the other bedroom and tests that window as well. I almost laugh to myself. So predictable.
She paces around the entire room, seemingly scanning for something, though I can’t imagine what. When she’s satisfied that she’s explored enough of that room, she descends the stairs. I watch the monitors as she moves to the second floor, again exploring.
She goes into the room I slept in, probably thinking the security in there will be more lax. What she doesn’t know is I chose that room at random. Every room in this house is locked down like Fort Knox. The windows are reinforced and bulletproof. There’s no getting out, and certainly no getting in. At least not without a significant amount of force.
I watch the way she moves through the space like she’s memorizing it. I finally realize that she isn’t merely looking for a way out. She’s mapping the house. She’s learning every detail. Where the floorboards creek, where the cameras have blind spots.
She’s even smarter than I initially gave her credit for, though I’m not surprised. She’s the heir of a Bratva herself. She knows what this life entails. In some ways, she’s probably been training for this exact moment her entire life. She certainly has the fighting skills to suggest that.
I lean back in the chair and let the cameras show me what I already suspected. She’s not frightened about being here. She sees this as an affront to her character.
I only take my eyes off of her when my phone vibrates on the desk. I look down to see Sergei’s face filling up the screen.
“We’ve got a problem,” he says without greeting. “Three bodies were found in Brighton Beach last night. Word is, they were Grinkov men. Shot execution-style with no witnesses.”
“What’s the chatter about it?” I ask curiously.
He sighs heavily. “Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it,” he says, sounding about twenty years older than his already advanced years.
