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Ivanovich flicks the lights on, the sudden difference in brightness making my eyes sting. It takes my vision a couple of seconds to adjust to the contrast. Before me, the detective looks downright unhinged. His hair is a mess, his face rough with stubble. There are dark circles beneath his buggy eyes.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, detective?”
“I’m suspended with pay,” he hisses. “And I know you had something to do with it.”
“Withpay?” I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “That’s incredibly generous, considering the shit you’ve been up to behind my back. I found your little tracker, Ivanovich. Consider yourself lucky that all I did was report you to your superior officer.”
He sneers down his sharp nose. “A real Bratva leader wouldn’t be caught dead talking to the cops.”
I stiffen, but I keep my expression perfectly neutral. If Ivanovich has figured out my connection to organized crime, this could throw a major wrench in my plans. Everything hinges on being able to fly under the radar. I should have known it was bad news when I caught him sneaking around the taxi depot. I have no way of telling what kind of evidence he has on me—or if he has any at all—but one thing’s for certain: the stakes just got a million times higher.
So much for not drawing attention to myself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say easily. “In fact, I’m rather insulted that you’d accuse me of being a gangster. I’m an upstanding citizen. A humble business owner.”
“Then why are all the trunks of your taxis made with reinforced steel?”
I work my jaw. “I don’t know what to tell you, detective. They came that way from the dealership.”
“Oh, did they now?” he asks dryly. “You honestly expect me to believe that?”
Annoyance licks the back of my neck. I’ve had enough of this. If Ivanovich thinks he can intimidate me in my own home, then he has another think coming. I rise from my seat, unconcerned with the gun he waves around in my face.
“Sit back down!” he snarls.
“Or what? Are you going to shoot me?”
“I might.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do here,” I say. “You’ve already crossed the line by planting a tracker on me—”
“You have no proof it was me.”
“—but now you’ve broken into my home, as well. You’re either incredibly stupid, or suicidal.” I continue to step forward until his gun is pressed directly against my chest. I don’t fear him or his jumpy trigger finger. “Which is it, detective?”
“Neither,” he answers gruffly. “I’m just a man looking for answers.”
“To what?”
Ivanovich lowers his weapon. “I think you can help me, Nicolaevich. That’s why I’m really here.”
“Why the hell would I ever help you?”
“Because it has to do with the Antonov Bratva.”
My ears are burning. What the hell is going on here? Apparently, the dear old detective has connected one too many strings, which begs the question—why?
“Again,” I grumble, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, kindly leave my home before I shoot you between the eyes and call it self-defense.”
Ivanovich puts away his gun and has the audacity to clap me on the shoulder. “Hear me out, friend. I have useful information. Information you can use against the Antonovs.”
Officially, I’ve had it up to here with the detective’s antics.
Unofficially, I’m intrigued as hell.
His face darkens. “You don’t have to confess to anything. I get that you want to be careful, so let me do all the talking. A little over twenty years ago, my wife and child were caught in a drive-by shooting.”
I clench my fists, already sensing where this conversation is going.
