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14
Lyon stood in the street, apart from the locals rubbernecking at the scene of the fire. He knew what his eyes were seeing, but his brain couldn’t seem to register it as real: Samara, the entire top half gone, the rest of it still burning in spite of the four fire trucks on the scene and the thousands of gallons of water being poured into the place.
“It was him,” Alek said next to him. “Musa.”
Lyon nodded. It was the first thing he’d thought when he arrived.
“This is retaliation for hitting him in the face?” Alek asked, his eyes riveted to the fire. “If he thinks violence between brigadiers is against the rules, what is this?”
“It’s not a bad move actually.” Lyon hated to admit it, but it was true. “Property damage, no injuries. That we know of.”
In the absence of an active pakhan, the Spies would decide who should be punished for their infractions and what that punishment should be. Lyon’s strike was against Musa’s person, one of the gravest moves one brigadier could make against another.
The fire had been set in the morning hours, before anyone arrived for work, and would damage only Lyon’s financial interests. Still not technically allowed, but not on the order of magnitude of physical injury to a brigadier.
On the other hand, the money that was laundered through Samara would now come to a halt, and that affected the business interests of the whole organization. Worse, the fire had brought attention to them, and that was something the Spies wouldn’t like.
All things considered, it was hard to say whether Lyon or Musa would come out ahead, but of all the things Musa might have done to retaliate, setting fire to Samara was one of the smartest.
“I’m sorry, boss.” Lyon looked over to see that Stefan had joined them. He’d been in a panic when Lyon arrived, but he’d calmed down when he realized Lyon wasn’t going to shoot the messenger. “I called 9-1-1 first.”
“I know you did,” Lyon said. “This isn’t your fault. You did everything right.”
Stefan nodded and returned his eyes to the inferno. “I really liked that place.”
“Me too,” Lyon said.
It had been a place to work when he didn’t want to drive out to the warehouse and a place for the men to congregate. Camaraderie among thieves was important. He would have to find a new place for them to drink and gossip.
A man in a white shirt smudged with soot under a navy jacket approached them. When he got closer, Lyon saw that he had a badge pinned to his chest.
He held out his hand. “I’m Chief Ryan. You the owner?”
Lyon shook his hand. “Yes. Lyon Antonov.”
A flicker of interest passed over the fire chief’s eyes. It was no surprise. Anyone in Chicago with an Irish or Russian name might be involved in organized crime. Most weren’t of course, but anyone connected to law enforcement would know it was a possibility.
“It’ll take us a few days to get a full report,” Ryan said. “Got to let things cool down a bit so we can take a closer look. But at first glance, I’d say I’m ninety-percent sure this was intentional. You got many enemies?”
Lyon shook his head, kept his expression even. “Not that I’m aware of. I’m simply a businessman.”
Ryan clearly didn’t buy it, but he nodded anyway. “One of the investigators will be over in a few to ask you some questions and get your contact info.” He reached into his pocket and removed a card. “You can call me if you have any questions about the report.”
Lyon took the card. “Thank you.”
He wouldn’t call. The report would show it was arson. Lyon would make the accusation against Musa within the privacy of their organization, an accusation which may or may not turn out to be supported by evidence.
Hopefully not, for the bratva’s sake.
After that, it would be handled by the Spies, probably with some input from Viktor.
The chief headed back to the fire. Lyon thought it might be burning a little lower, closer to being out, but even now he could see that Samara was a total loss.
A black Mercedes pulled up next to the curb on the other side of the yellow warning tape. Lyon recognized it immediately, although he’d only seen it a handful of times in the previous two weeks.
What was she doing here?
The driver’s side door opened and a woman stepped onto the pavement in jeans, an oversize black sweater, jacket, and sneakers. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, her fair hair pulled back into a ponytail. It was such a departure from her usual appearance — slacks and blouses, dresses, hair and makeup always done — that he didn’t recognize her at first.
