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There’s no way for me to explain my mixed feelings to my daughter or outline the combination of gratitude and regret. I could never hate my daughter, but it’s true. She brought Emma into my life. She triggered this obsession.
“No,” I told her. “It’s business.”
“The w-war?” she said.
Her voice had that telltale note of fear, which reminded me of Matvei. Matt. The man I’ve never been able to find. I’ve got his description: Russian, tall, wide-shouldered, almost completely bald, muscled, and tattooed all over his neck and arms. Rosa saw him as some intellectual, a dangerous fling with the wild side. Thank God she escaped.
I felt like a failure as a father, but striking the right balance is difficult. She says she needs her freedom and then ends up with scum like him.
My cell phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. Francesco puts up the divider without me needing to ask.
“Leo.” Dario’s panting heavily. “You’ve got to get here now.”
Something ugly tightens in my stomach. For a moment, I entertain the insane notion that this is somehow related to my woman, my Emma. Somehow, Dario has learned about something happening to Emma, even though I told Eddie to call me if there were any problems. So far, none. She’s got nowhere to run.
“Leo?”
I focus, but it’s hard. My thoughts are clouded, consumed with my woman.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Fyodor,” Dario says. “Bastard showed up at Edonismo. At least, the man’s claiming to be Fyodor. He started a fight with the doorman. He’s drunk.”
“That doesn’t sound like the leader of the Bratva.”
“The man says his name is Fyodor. I’ve got him in the basement now.”
Thebasement… Exactly where my woman is, though her basement is far more hospitable than the room my brother is referring to.
“Dario, think. Fyodor isn’t going to show up alone and start a brawl.”
“Then why is he saying he’s Fyodor? Who would be insane enough to walk into our club andclaimto be the man we want dead?”
I sigh. “I’m coming.”
Pressing the button that lowers the partition, I tell Francesco we must change directions.
* * *
Immediately, my suspicion peaks.
The man sitting in the harsh glare of the overhead light is tall, wide-shouldered, almost completely bald, muscled, and tattooed all over his neck and arms. He matches the description of Matvei.
Dario and a few other of our men stand in a circle around the man supposedly called Fyodor, but he doesn’t seem fazed. Even with a bloody lip, he has a hazy smile, almost like he’s high, but his eyes are too lucid. He’s wearing a tank top, showing his muscles. I wonder how many it took to get him down here. Or maybe just Dario, if he was pissed off enough.
“Matvei,” I say, watching for his reaction.
Not a flinch. Not a scared moment of recognition. He just smiles. “One of my many names, yes.”
“What an enigmatic man you are,” I say. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Have you worked it out?” he asks in a calm Russian accent.
“Either you’re Fyodor, and you pretended to be somebody else to play head games with my daughter. Or you’re Matvei, and you’re lying about being Fyodor because you think, somehow, it will help you.”
“I’m Fyodor.” His grin widens. “And I’m Matvei.”
If this were another man, I’d hit him. Not out of anger, but because that’s how you break most men—simple, blunt violence, nothing flashy about it, nothing noble. I can tell it wouldn’t work on this one.
