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Even as he asked the question, Lyon caught a glint of knowing.
Tolya Sakharov wasn’t entirely surprised to see him.
His father had told him to trust the other man, but Lyon was distrustful by both nature and the necessity of his position. He chose his words carefully. “I’ve had the sense that someone is working against me, someone I can’t see.”
“It’s common knowledge that Musa Shapiev is in exile. A man like Shapiev won’t go quietly,” Tolya said.
“I’m not referring to Musa,” Lyon said. “He’ll be dealt with.”
Tolya lifted an overgrown eyebrow. “But?”
“Someone is feeding Musa information.”
Lyon hesitated, and Tolya pinned him with his steely gaze. “Continue.”
“There are… inconsistencies.” Lyon was relieved to give voice to the feeling that had been nagging at him for the past few weeks.
How had Musa known about the Lake George house owned by Lyon’s father? How had Musa known Lyon was there with Kira when Lyon interfered with Musa’s deliveries at the Port?
“What makes you think I would know about such a thing?” Tolya lifted his large palms to the ceiling in a gesture of innocence that was almost comical. “I haven’t lived in Russia for twenty years.”
“Are you saying you don’t know what’s going on in the individual organizations? That you don’t have your finger on the pulse of Russia’s international, multibillion dollar organization?”
Tolya’s smile was serene. “I said nothing of the kind.” He took another drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the crystal ashtray. “I’ve heard… rumblings.”
“What kind of rumblings?” Lyon asked.
Tolya shrugged. “Nothing definitive. Rumors of upheaval in the American organizations.” He paused. “Rumors that Mother Russia may want more… involvement.”
The words sunk to the pit of Lyon’s stomach like a stone. The Chicago organization — like all bratva cells — kicked significant sums of cash back to the players in Russia. But theirs had always been a hands-off relationship. The money given to them by organizations outside the country — like the money funneled to them within it — was used to fund more criminal activity, not to mention the extravagant lifestyles of the oligarchy who discreetly supported the bratva’s criminal pursuits.
They’d never expressed an interest in the details as long as they got their cut. Oversight by the Russian players meant a loss of control for Lyon and the pakhans of other American cells.
A loss of control, and potentially, a loss of life.
Why allow ambitious Russian-American bosses to keep the reigns when Mother Russia could install its flunkies instead?
Lyon worked to keep his expression blank. “What kind of involvement?”
“That I don’t know.” Tolya stuffed his cigarettes in his jacket pocket and downed the last of the vodka in his glass. He stood. “I’ll do some digging and get back to you.”
Lyon stood and held out his hand.
Tolya made no move to take it. “I’m not a member of your pride, Lyonya. I’m simply another animal in the jungle, seeing to my own survival. Remember that. And remember to see to your own.”
He turned and walked through the bar’s shadowed interior, then disappeared through the door in a flare of sunlight.
Lyon stood. He had one more stop to make before they returned to the hotel.
17
Kira put the finishing touches on her makeup in the bathroom’s large mirror and returned to the bedroom, her pink silk robe brushing against her freshly scrubbed and moisturized skin. She stopped near the edge of the bed and stared at the black box sitting on the mattress.
It had arrived after her nap, and she’d hurried to open it, daring to think it might be a peace offering from Lyon.
It hadn’t been that. Or she didn’t think so anyway.
She sat on the bed and picked up the box. There was nothing remarkable about the black lace underwear nestled in the tissue paper.
