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She drives while I call everyone I know to ask about Mateo. I trust these people, but I still don’t tell them why I want to know the information or where I’m heading. These people owe me favors, so I’m sure they’re not going to go running their mouths. As we reach lower Manhattan, I direct Anastasia to the apartment building.
As we reach it, I tell her to stop at the intercom. I roll down the window and press my thumb against the fingerprint recognition device, and the door to the underground parking begins to rise.
Once we’re parked, we grab our things, and I lead her upstairs to the first floor. It’s an inconspicuous apartment. Definitely not one you’d think a mobster would use. It’s spacious but not huge. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a balcony.
I lead her to the guest bedroom. “This will be your room. I’ll order clothes and some food to get us settled. You can change into the touristy stuff for now. They’ll at least fit better.”
She nods. “Okay, and then Mateo?”
“I’ll trace him, see where he’s holed up now. For now, just get settled in your room and rest. I promise I’ll give you any information I find.”
“I want to help,” she says stubbornly. “I can help. I’m more resourceful than you know.”
“You need to rest. Your foot is still injured.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” She looks cute with her eyebrows furrowed.
“Change into the touristy clothes and put shoes on, and you can hang around while I work, but stay quiet,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
She nods and walks into the room. She gives me a small “thanks” before shutting the door softly.
I shake my head. Women! I go to the living room, where a little desk is set up and take out a secured private laptop from the kit bag. I open it, and the first thing I do is order us both some clothes and takeout food for lunch and dinner.
I hear her door open, and I glance over my shoulder. She’s still limping slightly as she walks. I know she’s trying to act like it doesn’t hurt.
I start making phone calls, sending emails, and scouring social media. After the two delivery people have come and gone, I finally get some information together. I swing around on my little chair to look at her as she sits on the sofa, eating her Chinese food.
“He’s hiding out in East Harlem. It’s a well-known Mexican community. He’s in the center of it, and I can guarantee that most of those people are loyal to him. If we step one foot into that area, not only are we going to stick out like a sore thumb, word will get out fast, and I’ll probably be killed, and you kidnapped again.”
“So what do we do?” she asks curiously, setting her food on the table.
“Well, we need to try and ascertain his daily travel schedule. It’ll take some time, but I can probably piece it together. We just need to ensure we catch him somewhere we can kill him without being killed or seen.” I get up from the sofa and go to the kitchen. I grab my takeaway, which is only kind of warm now, and take two beers from the fridge.
I sit one beer in front of her and sit on the armchair to her right. “Were you there when your mother died?”
Anastasia stares into the food, and I know the answer before she quietly answers, “Yes, I was there. My father pulled me off a ride to protect me. My mother was already dead.”
“How?”
Chapter 13 - Anastasia
For a moment, I look at the sweet and sour pork and noodles in front of me, and then I sigh. “It’s vague, almost like a dream that goes in and out. I remember being on the ride, and I remember loud bangs. My father shouting. My mother on the ground in a pool of red.”
I look up at Luigi, fighting back the tears. “I had insisted we go to the carnival that day. We could have gone any day, but I wanted to that day. I know I was little, but still, I feel as though if I hadn’t asked, my mother wouldn’t have died.”
“It’s not your fault,” Luigi says, but that’s what everyone says. “In our line of business, there are always casualties.”
I shrug. “My mom dying, Mila Volkov, broke my father in ways I’ve never seen someone break. For the longest time, he was a shell of the man he had been. He became cold and overprotective, and every time I mentioned my mother, he’d look at me with this crazy expression. Maybe he blamed me too. I don’t know. But one day, it just came to a point where we knew we were never allowed to speak of my mother again in our family. We couldn’t mourn her, celebrate her, we couldn’t mention her because every time we did, we broke my father all over again.”
I didn’t want to continue but nodded slowly, clearing my voice, “I’d already been holding myself responsible for my mother's death. I didn’t want to torture my father anymore.”
“He must have loved her very much,” Lugi says quietly, and I shrug.
“I don’t remember much about her, but I see how fiercely he loves Tori, and I realize that when my father gives himself, he gives his whole being, which is dangerous.” I pick up my food and stab at it with the chopsticks. “That’s why I wanted vengeance. I started researching a couple of years ago, and after some digging. I found out Mateo Catalan pulled the trigger on my mother.”
I look at Luigi, feeling stronger. “Maybe if I get my revenge, that part of my father can heal.”
“It’s not that easy,” Luigi says. “It’s somewhat wishful thinking, Ana. You grew up in a Bratva family. Mob bosses know what they’re getting into. You know the dangers that come with dealing with other families, with dealing with us. Sometimes you have to lose someone you love, sometimes at your own hands. Also, your father is the head of one of the most powerful families. He is watched and scrutinized. His every decision is measured against whether he is a good leader or not. He’s almost been killed once because of someone in his own family. He can’t show emotions or weakness the way you want him to. That can be used against him in the worst possible ways.”
