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Roman chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder. “No sense in whining about it now. Let’s just get the job done.”
Samuil cracks his knuckles, as well as his neck, the pop of all his joints like a sudden bubble wrap explosion. “I don’t get why you want us to bring him in alive. Do you really want to make peace with the Antonovs that bad? We’ve taken more land from those bastards in the past two weeks than anyone could have predicted. Why stop now?”
“You know as well as I do we’re running out of manpower,” I grumble under my breath. “We’re being spread too thin. Knowing your limits is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I catch Damien giving me the side eye, but he doesn’t say anything. Do I feel good about concealing the real reason I want all this to end? No, of course not, but there’s frankly too much on my plate to worry about telling them everything. Damien is the only one who knows the truth. The reasons I’ve given are still sound. Until things change, it’ll remain that way.
“Let’s get this done,” I snap, grabbing my things from the trunk. “Roman, stay with the car. Keep the engine running. The rest of you, with me.”
We approach the house. It’s really more of a shed given its pitiful size. It’s well-hidden behind a thick line of trees, boasting nothing more than a single woodshed, chopping block, and a gravel driveway. A dumpy old car sits out front, covered in leaves. A clue that it’s probably been there a while.
Through the dirty windows, I detect no movement. If Ivanovich is inside, we’ll have to be careful. He’s a slippery bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him to have boobytrapped the whole place. Signaling Leo and Samuil, I tell them to circle around back in case the detective tries to slip out one of the windows. Damien remains with me, poised and ready to strike.
I kick the door, my grip on my Beretta tight. The frame splinters, the door swinging back so violently it hits the wall behind it and shakes the whole house. I move with purpose, ready for anything that might come my way. I’m fully braced for a fight.
Imagine my disappointment when I find the detective just…sittingthere. He’s dressed in a humble pair of jeans, baggy sweater, and a thick, old, work jacket despite the warm weather.
The inside of the house, much like the exterior, is run-down. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, the hardwood floors are smooth from years of being tread underfoot, and there’s an almost musty quality to the air. There are no family photos to be found, save for the small frame above the brick fireplace. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a picture of Ivanovich, his wife, and young daughter. It was probably one of the last ones they ever took together.
“What took you so long?” Ivanovich asks around the rim of his glass. Vodka, by the smell of it. Strong, too.
“Stand up. This doesn’t have to be painful.”
“Can’t a man enjoy one last drink?”
“After all the trouble you’ve caused me? You’re lucky I don’t kill you on the spot.”
“Relax, Nicolaevich,” the detective says with a heavy sigh. “I won’t put up a fight. Come, sit. Let’s talk this out like men, hm?”
Damien and I exchange a look. We both lower our weapons, albeit slowly. I take the chair across from the detective and study him closely. I’m on edge, ready to leap at a moment’s notice. I underestimated this madman before; I won’t make the same mistake again. I rest the butt of my gun on my knee, pointing it at him in clear view—a warning.
“The boy you shot,” I mutter. “From what I understand, he has next to nothing to do with the Bratva. He’s an innocent young man.”
Ivanovich scoffs. “He’s the son of Mikhail Antonov. Makes him guilty by association.”
“That’s a terrible way to view the world.”
“Don’t preach from the moral high ground, Andrei. It doesn’t suit you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as bad and you’ll get what’s coming to you too.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You hacked into our phones and lured us outside of the hotel. How long have you been watching us?”
“Weeks. Pushing a month.” Ivanovich takes a heavy drink of his vodka. “You weren’t as discrete as you thought you were. It’s frankly a miracle the Antonovs didn’t find out about your late-night rendezvous. Or, maybe, it’s a testament to how sloppy they’ve become. All the more reason for me to make my move.”
“So you shot Frederick Antonov on purpose?”
“I briefly considered killing Sandra. You know, a daughter for a daughter? But I figured the boy would be an easier target. Her personal security team is far more intense. I doubt I would have gotten within ten feet of her. All I had to do was ensure you showed up so I could add fuel to the fire.”
“I’ll agree it’s tragic, what happened to your wife and daughter, but to go to such lengths…”
Ivanovich slams his glass down on the table, liquid sloshing and spilling onto the wood surface. “Teresa was the love of my life,” he says, pain clear and harsh in his voice. “And the day my daughter was born, Marlena became the most important thing in my world. Have you ever felt that kind of love, Nicolaevich?”
I set my jaw. My thoughts immediately turn to Sandra. If anything ever happened to her, I don’t know what I’d do. If Ivanovich had harmed her instead of her brother that night, would I not go to the very ends of the Earth to deliver his comeuppance?
“I pity you,” I say calmly. “You’ve spent all this time living with your hate. Wouldn’t your wife and child have preferred it if you moved on?”
“Save your speeches,” he replies tiredly. “I won’t be lectured by a criminal.”
“Why didn’t you leave Moscow after the shooting? If your goal was to start a Bratva war, it would have been smarter for you to leave.”
