The drive to the warehouse takes twenty minutes. It's one of several properties I own throughout the city, this one located in an industrial area near the docks. Perfect for the kind of business that requires privacy.
Matvey parks the car and we head inside. Two of my men are waiting, standing guard over a man tied to a chair in the center of the empty space. He's middle-aged, balding, with the soft body of someone who's spent more time behind a desk than in the field. His face is already bruised, one eye swollen shut. My men have been busy.
"Who is he?" I ask, circling the chair slowly.
"Low-level associate," one of my men answers with a shrug. "Works in records management for a couple of families."
Records management. That could be useful. If anyone might know where Yegor went, it would be someone with access to financials.
I stop in front of the man, studying him. He's trying to look brave, but I can see the fear in his eyes. Good. Fear makes people talk.
"Do you know who I am?"
He nods, swallowing hard.
"Then you know I don't have time for games. My men tell me you might have information about Yegor Pushkin."
"I don't know anything," he says quickly. Too quickly. "I swear, I don't know where he is."
I sigh. "That's disappointing. I was hoping we could do this the easy way."
I nod to Matvey, who steps forward and backhands the man across the face. The sound echoes through the warehouse. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.
"Let's try again," I say. "Yegor Pushkin. Where is he?"
"I told you, I don't know!" His voice rises in panic. "He disappeared after the trial. No one knows where he went."
"But you know something," I press. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."
He shakes his head frantically. "I don't. I swear on my mother's grave, I don't know where Pushkin is."
I study him for a long moment. He's telling the truth about that, I can tell. But there's something else, something he's holding back.
"Matvey," I say quietly.
My sovietnik moves with practiced efficiency. He pulls out a pair of pliers from his jacket pocket, and the man's eyes go wide with terror.
"Wait!" he shouts. "Wait, please!"
I hold up a hand, and Matvey pauses. "I'm listening."
"I don't know where Pushkin is," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But… but I might know something else. Something that could help you."
"Go on."
He hesitates, and I can see him weighing his options. Loyalty to the Bratva code versus self-preservation. It's not much of a contest.
"The daughter," he finally says. "Pushkin's daughter. Mariya."
My pulse quickens. I'd almost forgotten about her. She'd been eighteen when Pushkin testified, just a girl. I'd seen her a few times at Bratva gatherings in Russia, always quiet, always staying close to her father. Blonde hair, green eyes, pretty in an understated way.
"What about her?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"She's here," Volkov says. "In the United States. In this city."
3
MARIYA
