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“Keep watching, Kostya.”
Domenico starts to limp towards the steps heading down, but he suddenly stops. Turning around, he walks over towards Olivia. My breath goes still as I watch.
He raises his hand up and beckons her towards him. She does. And then he does something unexpected. He caresses her cheek, as if they’re old lovers, and leans in close to her. At first, I thinkhe’s kissing her on the cheek, but when she nods, I realize that he said something to her.
There’s a tenderness in the way they’re acting, and I feel like a voyeur spying on an intimate moment I’m not supposed to be witnessing.
“There’s more.”
The video changes. I look at the timestamp. It’s a week after Alisa first arrived at the apartment, and a full week before I showed up.
The door to the building opens, and Alisa is the first person to walk out. Her arms are wrapped around herself, and there’s no mistaking that she’s crying.
My hand balls into a fist around the phone, but I force myself to keep watching.
A man places a blindfold around Alisa’s eyes and marches her forward.
Squinting, I press the phone closer and press play again, doing my best to ignore Alisa’s fear as she is shoved into a waiting car.
A few moments later, Domenico walks out, flanked with several men.
This time, I don’t see Olivia.
“There was no chance that Alisa Yurevna was ever there by the time we arrived,” Sima says.
“Is that supposed to be the bad news?”
“No,” Sima answers. “The bad news iswhogave me this footage.”
Unease creeps into my chest, and I clear my throat before I ask. “Who?”
“Alexander Vorobyov,” Sima says. “One of Gennady Starukhin’s brigadiers.”
Fuck!
“Did he say anything else?” I start. “Does the rest of the East Coast Bratvas know about this?”
“We can only assume that they do.” Sima sighs. “This is starting to get out of hand. I told you it was a bad idea to go to New York.”
“I hope the good news you have outweighs this.”
“It doesn’t, but it’s still good news.” Sima nods. “Augusto is dead.”
The news hits me like a clap of thunder, and glee pours through my body. But at the same time, I feel disappointment running through me at the thought that I won’t have the satisfaction of killing him myself.
I glance back at the still image on his phone, and feel any remaining elation evaporate. Sima’s right. It doesn’t outweigh the bad news so far.
“How?” I ask.
“Heart attack if you can believe it,” Sima says. “I asked Zampa if it’s true, and he doesn’t seem to think so. He’s under the impression that father and son might’ve had a little disagreement. One thing led to another, and here we are.”
“He thinks Domenico murdered his own father?”
“That’s the theory so far.” Sima starts playing with the lighter again. “He wouldn’t share any details with me beyond that. Most likely because he doesn’t know the specifics.”
I rub my face. “Did Zampa say anything else?”
“Nothing more other than the fact that Augusto’s untimely death is shaking things up in New York,” Sima replies. “Zampa says there’s a lot of commotion right now. Tempers are running high, and everyone’s jockeying for favors for the transition period.”
