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“He’s been running drugs up the east coast,” Kir said in a flat tone and I swallowed hard. “He did not listen to my father, then kept it a secret. My family agrees with the Michaelsons — leave that filth to the cartels. It brings only sorrow.”
“When did this happen?” I asked. “We saw Ivan, what, a few months ago?”
Kir shrugged massive shoulders. “I have no idea. That’s part of what I need to figure out. In trying to hide the drug business from Russia, my uncle became less communicative. The last time we heard from him was two months ago.”
“Two months, Jesus,” I said and eyed Daniel. “And you knew?”
“I guessed,” Daniel replied. “A few weeks ago, or so. But we had a lot going on, so I had no time to confirm it. There's been chatter, though. Fights in territories where there'd never been fights since Ivan kept it locked down.” He shrugged. “Had to be a hostile, sloppy takeover.”
“Yes, yes,” Kir said. “I would have come here sooner, but there was an issue back in Russia then in the Czech Republic…” Kir waved his hand. “This is irrelevant. Now I am here to sort this out.”
“We didn’t kill Ivan,” I said. “Even if I found out he’d been running drugs, I wouldn’t have murdered an East Coast Bratva boss.” I rubbed my forehead, already wondering how much hell had broken loose in Ivan’s absence that Daniel wasn’t telling me about, let alone how much more would come once word got out. “Killing Ivan doesn’t get you his territory; his men are too loyal. All it would do is create a power vacuum, unleash chaos and bring down the Feds on all of us. Who the fuck would make such a stupid—”
My eyes closed as Daniel made an affirmative sound. My cousin had probably figured out who did it the second that he realized Ivan Volksov was dead.
In a low murmur, I asked, “Pensi che il poliziotto abbia informazioni su questo?”
“Forse,” Daniel responded.
“A policeman has information on this?” Kir asked and I blinked while Daniel barked out a surprised laugh. “I speak many languages, my apologies.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “We’ll get back to you.”
“You already have a name in mind, though,” Kir said.
“Yeah but no proof,” I said.
“I vill find the proof,” Kir said in a deep voice, his accent increasing, but I still hesitated. “You should not worry if you have nothing to hide.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said dryly. “It’s not that.”
No – if itwasdrugs – that connected to only one dirty name in this town.
“Caleb Hendrix,” I said out loud.
A deep frown appeared on Kir’s face. “Ah. The man who is your noted enemy. So, how do I know this isn’t to get a hit out of the way?”
“You don’t,” I said and gave him a humorless smile. “That’s the business, isn’t it?”
Kir nodded. “If you are right, or maybe kill Hendrix, I will owe you a great debt. If not and I find out it was you Italian fucks who killed Ivan, my friendship with Luca means nothing.” Kir stepped forward and stared me down. “I will kill you.”
I grinned at the bastard. “You can certainly try, Drago.”
“Russians, Feds, cops and Hendrix fucking around with drug runners?” I asked as I climbed into my black Escalade and slammed the door.
For a moment, I let myself relax into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of clean car, pine air freshener and the faint tang of Daniel’s cigarettes wrapping around me.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever felt safe since I found out who my father was and what the Michaelson last name meant. Hell, sometimes it still jarred me to wake up and remember that my last name wasn’t Anelli. That this had been my mother’s name and her attempt to hide me from my father.
My father, Tommasino “The Rhino” Michaelson had been one of Boston’s most infamous Mafia bosses. When my mother died, he’d learned of my existence and claimed me as his heir apparent.
That had meant leaving the regular, normal world and plunging into a shadowed existence, a place where blood meant everything — and was spilled just as easily from Michaelson enemies.
It was a world where my father and uncle had been determined to initiate us into – mold both Daniel and I into more brutal copies of themselves and they’d had unleashed hell when we’d tried to resist.
At least for me, my father had tempered his savagery with hard logic. He’d been tough on me to ensure that I would survive, that I could carry his legacy forward and build the Michaelson empire up to new heights. It was a cold, pragmatic way to give a damn about your only son but that had been Tommasino to the bitter end.
But Sal “The Reaper” Michaelson had been cruelty personified. He’d wanted his son to be a butcher after his own heart. I only knew half of what he’d done to Daniel in attempts to try and shatter his very humanity. To this day, I still had no idea how Daniel had survived Sal.
