“Andrea made contact,” Aleksandr states. “Igor wants to talk to you.”
I nod, starting to tear the tape off my hands.
It must be related to the warehouse we torched last week. Misha identified the two men who stole from our shipment as clan leaders from ’Ndrangheta. Andrea is embedded within Cosa Nostra, so his knowledge will be more limited. But Igor believes—and I concur—that any intelligence is valuable. Finding someone willing and, more importantly, able to work as a double agent is incredibly difficult.
The bruise on my elbow has mostly faded, but the rest of my arm is stiff. Since returning from Rotterdam, I’ve done little except train. Excellent for my endurance, not so fulfilling for my mind. Boxing a bag of sand allows more time to think than a live opponent who hits back, and my thoughts haven’t been pleasant companions lately. No matter how much energy I expend, I remain restless.
Adrian Agapov departed for Chicago two days ago to meet with Malcolm, our main supplier, and to check on our general operations there.
I don’t regret stepping away; it was the right thing to do. But I underestimated how much of a pressure valve those trips served as. They were an opportunity to exist outside the hierarchy here.
I’ve wondered before if Igor arranged the death of both his brothers. Because, speaking from experience, I’ve accepted middle child is a terrible position to be in. I’m not expected to bepakhanone day, like Aleksandr is, or never expected to be, like Maksim. I have to be ready to step into the top spot, yet also content with never being the one calling all the shots.
That’s not new information. But it was easier to deal with when I wasn’t stuck at Serebryanovo for the foreseeable future. Moving elsewhere would be a massive hassle and couldn’t come close to the security set up here.
I wipe the sweat off my face, then swallow some water.
“How is Ilya?” I ask, which has become my default question whenever I see my brother. One he can’t find fault with.
Aleksandr visits Serebryanovo several times a week to discuss business matters with Igor—and often me as well since my travel has become more limited—but he’s hardly ever accompanied by his wife and son. I’m not sure if that’s his preference or Victoria’s. Maybe both.
“Noisy,” Aleksandr says seriously.
“That’s … good?” I don’t know much—anything really—about babies.
Most of our men are encouraged to keep their families far from daily operations. The last child who spent time at Serebryanovo must have been Maksim.
“You should marry.”
The comment isn’t entirely unexpected. I’m practically thirty—a common age to settle down. When Igor summoned me to discuss Victoria’s request, he made it clear he expected me to choose someone else eventually. I’m not opposed to the concept, more apathetic.
“Victoria could use a friend,” Aleksandr continues.
I don’t react, rubbing a sore knuckle. So typical of my older brother, attempting to engineer my life to appease some part of his.
We exit the gym, the waning daylight and cool breeze welcome after the fluorescent lights and sweat-scented air indoors. I glance in the garage as we pass, noting the empty spot where Maksim typically parks his Porsche. It’s possible Igor sent him on an assignment. Far more likely he’s off enjoying himself in some form.
Igor is reclined in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace when we enter his office. I glance at the other chair, then at Aleksandr, and opt to stand.
I don’t want there to be animosity between me and my brother. It just often sneaks in.
Aleksandr sits.
I study Igor. Our father is smiling, staring at the dancing flames, which are entirely unnecessary this time of year. He likes to watch things burn. My preference is to be the actual impetus for destruction, lighting the match.
“What is it?” I ask, an edge of impatience sneaking into the question.
We met for two hours this morning, and I can feel the lactic acid settling in my tired muscles. I skipped my usual cooldown routine in favor of not keeping my father waiting.
“Salvatore Caruso has a daughter.” Igor finally looks away from the fire, focusing on me. He smiles. “Amissingdaughter. She ran. Andrea says the entire Cosa Nostra is looking for her.”
I wait for him to elaborate, not understanding why this was worth a conversation. Cosa Nostra and ’Ndrangheta keep distinct territories, but they’ll collaborate on certain operations. If they’re asked to assist with searching for some girl, they might be less likely to retaliate from the warehouse we destroyed. That’s the only way in which this seems relevant.
“So?” Aleksandr asks the blunt question I was wanting to.
Igor stares at him. Aleksandr holds his gaze for a few moments, then looks away first, at the fire.
“I want her.”
