Page 33 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“Welcome to our side of the fence, brother.”

“I shake off his words, but Drake isn’t done teasing me. “It started the same exact way for Rafael, Luca, Massimo, and me. You are going to fall head over heels in love and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it. Killer by night, teddy bear by day. Mark my words.”

I’ve already fallen. But I’m not about to admit my weakness. “Fuck you, Drake.”

We walk the perimeter of the yellow tape and blend in with the onlookers gathered along the sidewalk—the usual crowd that forms whenever they see the aftermath of a crime.

I position myself where I can see the alley mouth and the shop front at the same time.

Through the window I can see the hand-lettered sign, the wooden counter she works behind, buckets of flowers that are already wilting. The strobing lights throw blue and red across the mural of climbing vines on the far wall.

I’ve made a life out of reading people and using their weaknesses against them. But there’s nothing about Cora Vale that shows weakness. She’s built a beautiful life full of color and light. My son went and ruined it for her.

I tap the pocket of my overcoat. I’ve try to keep my smoking habit to one a day, but fuck it. I pull out the case from my pocket and pop it open. I slide a cigarette out, tap it on the outside and then light up.

I inhale, hold. Release. My nerves start to settle immediately. Rage and guilt mix a toxic poison in my blood. I force the bitterness back into the pit of my stomach and take another drag of my cigarette. I brought this on myself when I fell in love back when I thought I could have a woman at my side. We were both young, stupid and thought the world would part open for us and do things our way. At least I did.

She died because she loved me and the child we brought into this world paid the price.

And now I am paying it three-fold.

Drake shakes his head beside me. “Old habits die hard.” He juts his chin toward my cigarette.

“Especially tonight, moy brat.” The past has sharp claws and loves to dig into the soul of a man. The wounds never fully heal.

Drake holds my gaze long enough for the silence to say what neither of us will. “Keep them under lock and key, Kasyan. We don't need more trouble tonight.”

He means bodies.

I crush my cigarette out underfoot and pull out another. Kasyan. It’s been a long time since anyone has called me the death god. Drake uses my old name, the one the Bratva elders gave me when I was young, heartless and building a reputation on the Saint Petersburg docks. I buried it when I left Russia. I never wanted to let death touch my life again. How foolish I was back then. Not many men in Chicago know that name and what it cost me to own it. Drake is one of the few.

I put the smoke to my lips, light up and lean my head back to release the smoke. “That reminds me. I left a mess at Cora Vale’s place.”

“Kon is already on it. I called him when we hung up.”

“Spasibo, moy brat.”

Drake gives me his signature single nod that means a hundred words for normal people. To me it says, “you’re welcome.”

As we talk, the coroner's team is loading the body. The stretcher emerges from the narrow passage between buildings, body bag zipped. Two technicians navigate the uneven concrete with the practiced efficiency. They angle toward the waiting van and one of them adjusts his grip to clear a patch of broken glass.

The bag shifts. The zipper slides open a few inches. The face beneath becomes visible for half a second before the other tech notices and tugs the zipper back up.

Half a second is all I needed. My jaw tightens. Fuck me. I know that face.

I step back. I’ve had an uneasy feeling all night and now I know why. “I know him.”

I take a slow drag on my cigarette and then add, “My son is up to something bigger than just a single dead body in a back alley. He’s doing something. There’s always an angle with a Volkov.” Renewed irritation clings to my nerves.

Drake nods. “Let’s start at the top. Who is the dead guy?”

“My contact. The best I had. A high-level operative in the Eastern European shipping network who has been feeding me intelligence for years about my family back home. Reliable. Careful.”

“Apparently not careful enough. Your father must have known and sent your son to take care of the problem.” Drake counters, watching the scene in front of us. Cops are speaking with a few witnesses while others keep the reporters at bay.

I nod in agreement. “Could be. Would be the simplest explanation.” In our line of work information is a commodity that people kill over.

If my informant was behind Cora's shop, he was there for a reason. If he bought roses, he was establishing a routine of normalcy before making contact. If he left through the back, he most likely knew someone was watching or following him.