"No. No son. I've known her a long time. She never had a son."
Panic flares, but I try to tamp it down with my anger. "How long?" I speak through clenched teeth. "How long have you known her?"
The addict shrugs. "Few years." She shakes her head with a sneer. "Definitely no son."
I want to attack the stupid addict and tell her she's wrong. I want to scream. To throw things. Burn down this wretched building.
But none of those things will help me find Mika.
If I were honest, I'd recognize that the person I'm really angry at is myself. For not stopping Anya from leaving. For not insisting Mika stay with me.
If I hadn't had my heart broken so many times by Anya. If I hadn't been angry with her for the kind of mother she was, for her addiction and her continued association with the men who'd ruined her, if I hadn't given up on Anya, maybe she'd be alive right now. Mika wouldn't be missing. The idea that he may be completely lost to me terrifies me. I have absolutely no way of knowing if Mika's alive or dead. Where to begin to find him. What happened to him.
But that guilt is far too painful. It's easier to blame the bratva. They started this road to destruction by taking Anya as payment. A few months later, they killed our father, anyway.
It's time I figure out how to pay them back for the evil they bestowed on my family.
I get back in my rental car and program the map for the address of the bratva stronghold. Then I dial the number of my supervisor in Moscow.
"Koslova," Stepanov answers. He's an adequate boss. Fatherly. He made a play for me once but backed off when I shot him down. "You okay?"
"No, sir. My sister is dead, and there's no sign of my nephew. He's missing."
He blows out a breath. "I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "I know you were hoping to bring him back with you."
Tears smart my eyes. "I should have come years ago." I don't know why I'm confessing this stuff to Stepanov. He's not the touchy-feely type. Police don't generally do emotions with each other, but the sense of grief and desperation keeps growing. The helplessness.
"The bratva did this," I say bitterly.
"Yes," Stepanov says. "I have heard the Chicago bratva are the worst of them."
I digest that, a fresh surge of anger piercing my grief. "They have a building here where supposedly all Russians are welcome. I'm going there now."
"I've heard of it. It's supposed to be a fortress. If you can penetrate its defenses, much could be done to bring down this American arm of the bratva."
"What do you mean?"
"I have contacts in America–FBI. They have been looking for someone on the inside. They might be willing to help you find your nephew if you can help them."
"Help them, how?"
"You get in that building. Make friends."
My phone interrupts the call to give me the next direction, and I make the required turn.
When the sound changes back to the call, Stepanov has ended the call.
It doesn't matter, I already feel far less alone. Less desperate.
I'll have Stepanov and the FBI behind me on this venture.
All I have to do is get myself in.
Maykl
Someone's buzzing the bell of the Kremlin front doors. Technically, not my problem. The doors are locked-it's past business hours. It's approaching nine at night, for fuck's sake.
But I have the video feed running in my room because I take security at the Kremlin very seriously, and this one doesn't look like she's going away.
She's holding a suitcase and is hunched against the wind. The long red woolen jacket wrapped around her doesn't disguise how slender she appears. How lovely.
She raises her gloved hand and raps on the glass. "Pozhaluysta." I can't hear the word, but I see her lips form it.
Blyad'. She's Russian.
I'm up and out of my chair in a heartbeat, palming a pistol that I tuck in the waistband of my jeans. I shove my feet in a pair of boots and get on the elevator to go down to the front doors.
I see my share of crazy shit here. I saw when that band kid tried to knock the doors down a month ago to get in. I knew he was here for Nadia, and I also knew Adrian wouldn't approve, so I didn't even bother answering the door.
As it turned out, Nikolai let the kid in.
I've had to field an aggressive visitor for that mudak, too. Before she was his girlfriend, Chelle nearly climbed me like a tree when I tried to throw her out. I guess her brother has a gambling problem that Nikolai helped her out with.
I open the door and stare at the pale beauty looking up at me. Her eyes are ice blue, and her lashes and brows a light blonde.
She takes in my tattoos and the width of my shoulders. "I am Russian," she says in our mother tongue, ducking her head submissively. "I was told I would be welcomed here."
Fuck.
I grunt and open the door to at least let her in from the cold. "Told by whom?" I demand in Russian.
She gives a name I don't recognize.
"What do you need?"
She pulls off her winter cap, revealing a head of pale blonde hair that falls in layers to her shoulders. I get the feeling the submissive act is just that–an act. There's a steely determination behind her eyes that makes me cautious.
"My name is Kira. I just arrived from Russia, and I need a place to stay."
I consider her for a moment. Nyet. There's something off about this.