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19
Lyon walked along the winding pathway, glad he’d worn a coat and scarf. It was almost November. The Chicago wind had turned biting in spite of the sun that shone overhead, and the trees had already divested themselves of their leaves.
The park was small and obscure, chosen for its location in the southeast corner of the city, as far from West Town as possible. Lyon was still mindful of a potential tail — the bratva, which had for years sailed along in relative harmony, had turned into a tinderbox almost overnight — but he’d seen no sign of company.
He came to a small pond, still and gray, and continued around the next bend. An iron bench came into view along the pond’s shore, a large man in a black wool overcoat sitting on the bench and staring out over the water.
He didn’t turn to look as Lyon approached, and Lyon lowered himself onto the bench and followed the man’s gaze to a family of ducks swimming serenely along the shoreline. Ivan reached into a paper bag in his lap and tossed a handful of bread crumbs into the water.
The ducks converged, quacking happily as they plucked the bread from the surface.
Lyon waited, knowing Ivan would speak when he was ready.
“It was Musa of course,” Ivan finally said, clearly speaking about the fire.
“Did he admit it?” Lyon asked.
“Not in so many words,” Ivan said. “But it’s known.”
“What will the Spies do about it?” Lyon asked.
“Nothing.”
Lyon turned to look at him. “Samara was an organizational holding.”
“Given to you as part of your arrangement with Viktor,” Ivan said.
“But still part of the organization.” The arrangement with Viktor allowed Lyon to retain the share of profits once kept by Yakov Vitsin. Another portion was still kicked up to the Bookkeeper, who then kicked it to the Spies, who distributed it as they saw fit in the absence of an acting boss.
“Yes, but the fire was clearly retaliation,” Ivan said calmly.
“A punch to the face — one that was earned after a comment about my wife — doesn’t rise to the occasion of the fire at Samara,” Lyon said.
Ivan chuckled, his eyes still on the ducks. “See how the male tries to keep the babies from eating?” he asked, clearly amused. “He does that often. Watch what happens next.”
Lyon checked his annoyance and forced himself to be patient. A moment later, the mother flapped her wings and pecked angrily at the father, forcing him to fall back so the babies could get the last scraps of bread.
Ivan laughed uproariously and spoke quickly in Russian.
Never be fooled by a docile woman.
Kira’s face flashed in front of Lyon’s mind. He pushed it away.
“Ivan,” Lyon said.
Ivan turned to look at him. “You were going to be sanctioned for your strike against Musa. Earned or not, you did not have permission. This is how it must be. Musa did you a favor.”
Lyon thought of Samara, a total loss. “I find it difficult to see it that way.”
Ivan nodded. “I understand. But you see, the Spies have agreed to call it a draw.”
“Neither of us will be sanctioned,” Lyon said.
“No,” Ivan said, “and I believe this means it’s a good time to make a bold move, something unexpected.”
“The Spies — ”
“Let me handle the Spies.” Ivan’s eyes were sharp and knowing. “You’re at war, Lyon.”
