Page 17 of Beguiled

CHAPTER 4

Stash

Mikhail Chertov.

A man we all wanted dead.

The traitor of the family, the brother I’d barely gotten to know before he’d betrayed all of us, almost getting Kazimir killed in the process. The reason Mikhail had turned against the family seeking revenge no longer mattered. The fact that he was still alive, still planning a vendetta was. To the Pakhan’s wisdom or his lack of judgment, he’d decided against killing Mikhail when he’d had the chance. The son of the bitch had come back swinging, almost taking out Kazimir’s second in command and the woman he’d married.

A nasty tale of dark family secrets.

I offered my full attention. “Where?”

“Here. In New York.”

“Substantiated?”

“Not yet, but the source is trustworthy.”

Exhaling, I threw my head back. “Have you told Kazimir?”

“I have a call in less than an hour.”

“Make certain every soldier has his picture. We are not going to fuck with this son of a bitch again.”

Dimitri laughed. “You’re getting more like Kazimir every day. Already done and also why I wanted to share another potential problem with you.”

What a day this was turning out to be. “That is?”

Leaning forward, he slipped the file across his desk. “Does this asshole look familiar?”

Before I flipped open the file, I noticed he was more agitated than usual. When I did, I immediately recognized the man’s face as I had a photographic memory. However, in his case, it took a little longer to realize where I’d seen him.

“Assistant manager of housekeeping at Chateau Elegance. David Petro.”

His nod was purposeful. “You have a good memory.Mamin obzhoraidiot.”

As soon as he threw out the harsh words, I broke my usual reaction, finding myself smiling. “I think you meangrobanyy debil.”

“Huh?” He was completely confused. He’d been in the United States long enough, immersing himself in the culture that he’d lost almost his entire accent and was losing his mastery of our native language.

“I think you meant motherfucking moron,” I continued.

“That’s what I said.”

“No,” I countered, already growing bored. “You said mother feasting moron.”

“Same damn thing. His real name is Davit Petrosyan.”

“David. Davit. Are you suggesting he has something to do with Mikhail’s possible sighting?”

“Since Mikhail likes to play games, anything out of the ordinary deserves a second glance. Now, look at the other pictures.” He fidgeted in his seat.

He was right. Mikhail was masterful at playing games, his penchant for making family members suffer topnotch. People thought he was nuts. I thought he was a cunning sociopath.

After donning my glasses, I did as he asked, flipping through some very detailed black and white photographs. “You’re suggesting he’s an Armenian mole.” The pictures were taken inside a restaurant, from the looks of it one of the twenty-eight thousand Mom and Pop eateries blanketing the city. Davit was at a table with a woman, the man Dimitri believed worthy to note holding court at a table a few feet away. It was obvious the two men were engaged in a conversation.

Not necessarily a smoking gun in my opinion.