I push back the mountain of grief that threatens to crush me. Now is not the time to mourn Anya. I don't have the luxury to grieve yet. And dealing with Anya's body is the least of my worries right now. "Okay. I'll figure it out. Thank you."
My next visit is to the police station to meet with the officer who signed the paperwork when Anya was brought in.
"I'm a police officer, too," I tell him in hopes he'll be more helpful than the one who called me in Russia. I produce my Politsiya Rossii identification to show him. "You have no idea where her son might be?"
The graying cop, Officer Green, shakes his head. "The 9-1-1 call came from another female junkie in the crack house where she was living. We haven't investigated, as the cause of death was obviously an overdose."
"May I have the address of the crack house, please?"
"Of course. You say she has a son? How old?"
The emotion that was absent from seeing my dead sister suddenly floods me at grief for the loss of Mika. My sweet nephew. The boy I bounced, fed, and taught to walk. The child I raised when I was just a teenager.
"He'd be… fifteen now."
"And the father?"
I shake my head. Who knows which bratva mudak actually sired Mika. It could have been any one of them who passed her around as payment for our father's debt.
"No father."
A junkie mother. And this kid on his own, living in a foreign land. It's horrible. I've been trying to find both of them since I lost contact with Anya over four years ago, but even with my police ties, I found nothing.
Guilt tightens my gut. I should have done more.
This time, I'll make it right. I won't leave until I find my nephew.
I work hard to keep the wobble out of my voice. "I've been searching for my sister and nephew for several years. I'd like to file a missing person report on the boy."
"Okay. We can check the database for any information on him, too. See if he's popped up in the system," Officer Green offers. He leads me to his desk where he sits behind a computer to enter the report.
"Thanks."
I already know it won't show anything. I've had a data request on them both for years, which is how they contacted me when they found my sister dead.
Officer Green fills out the missing person report and writes down the address of the crack house.
"Your sister's tourist visa expired years ago. What brought her over here to begin with?"
I draw in a long, steadying breath. "The bratva."
"Russian mafiya?"
"Yes."
The cop grimaces. "Could the boy be with them? He's old enough-he might be part of the organization by now."
I nod. "My thoughts exactly, but most of those men turned up dead several years ago in a mass shooting."
Officer Green frowns and nods. "I remember it. Some kind of mafia turf war with the Italians."
"Do you know if any of them survived?"
He shakes his head. "No idea. But the bratva stronghold is down on Lake Shore Drive. They own an entire high-rise building–the neighborhood calls it the Kremlin. You could start there. I understand it's sort of an embassy to any Russian in need, so you might show up and play dumb, you know? Hide that badge of yours and tell them you need a place to stay. I heard they only rent to Russians, and for a subsidized rate." He shrugs. "Just an idea."
I'd rather barge in with a gun in each hand and search every room until I get an answer, but I know I wouldn't last a minute. Officer Green is right. If I want to succeed, I may have to go undercover.
Find Mika and get enough information to tear this whole operation down. If not through the American police, then through the bratva in Russia. I can pit them against one another and incite a war.
"What sort of crimes are they into, do you know? Prostitution? Drugs, I presume?"
Officer Green takes off his police cap and scratches his head. "I'm sure they're into everything, but other than an arson charge last year, they've stayed squeaky clean." He takes the paper he wrote the flophouse address back from me and writes the address for the bratva building and a phone number.
"That's my number. If you find anything worth reporting, call me. Don't put yourself in danger. I know you're a cop and can handle yourself, but I'm sure you understand these men are extremely dangerous. Plus, I should remind you that this isn't your jurisdiction. Any arrests will have to come through my department or the FBI. We clear?"
I nod. "Understood."
He hands the paper back to me. "Good luck."
"I appreciate it." I stand and hold out my hand to clasp his.
His concerned gaze holds mine. I know what he's thinking. What the bratva would do with an attractive woman like me if things went sideways. "Be very careful."
"I'm not afraid," I tell him.
I'll use my beauty to my advantage, if necessary. The way the bratva treats women, they will see me as nothing more than an object, anyway.
I toss my hair out of my eyes. "They should be afraid."
Maykl
I stand watch behind my desk as strangers off the street wander into our building for Kateryna's open house. Her studio, Kremlin Clay, has a once-a-month open house where she and a handful of other potters sell their wares.
I head up security for our building, so I have men stationed all over the first floor to make sure nothing goes wrong.
My pakhan, Ravil, has Leo, a seventeen-year-old Russian-American who lives in the building, serving as a doorman while I keep a close watch on everyone from behind the desk.
"Welcome to the Open House." Leo speaks flawless English, having moved here as a child. He's not bratva–at least, not yet. He lives in the building with his single mother.