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Being that she was Russian and secretive, my guess was that she was Bratva and probably the daughter of a high-ranking member too. But my reach was limited. I’d moved to Brighton only because my time in North Brooklyn had been so successful that the boss appointed me over Jimmy’s turf when he died.
I heard voices outside my office; Carol, my receptionist, was talking to someone. I’d sent for Isabella to come in for a chat. I knew she was Russian, though I knew little about her. Only that Jimmy and Dante, my predecessor and his direct report—now my direct report—both vouched for her. She was on our side, and for that I was grateful. By her help we’d almost singlehandedly taken out the Russian slave trade Brighton.
There was a tap on the door and Carol popped her head in. “Sir, Isabella is here.” Carol smiled and opened the door wider, stepping back so Isabella could enter. She strolled in confidently, Carol shutting us in to our nest of privacy.
“So glad you could come.” I rose to greet her and gestured at the seats across from my desk. Isabella sat, crossing one leg over the other. Her brilliant platinum hair and ruby lips contrasted with her white wool trench coat, fur collar and cuffs hugging her cool complexion. She unbuttoned the coat and let it slide off her shoulders.
“No problem, Leo. I’m here to serve.” She clasped her hands in front of herself, leaning on one elbow rested on the arm of the chair. I could see why Dante was so smitten with her having challenged the enter organization to work with her after she defected from the Bratva. Her eyes scanned the desk in front of me, and I thought I saw recognition in them, maybe a hint of emotion. But she had complete control over her facial expressions—yet another reason she was perfect for this family.
“This woman… Do you know her?” I pushed an image toward her, turning it around so she could see the girl’s face clearly. Isabella blinked hard, pursing her lips and then staring me down like I was a dog after her bone.
“What do you want with her?”
Very pointed question. Well done, Isabella. She would not give up information about someone she cared about, and based on her reaction I could tell she cared a great deal for this woman. How they knew each other, I did not know, but I would stake a bet on the fact that it was a close relationship. Perhaps lovers? Friends? Not sisters, the bone structure was too dissimilar.
“I have only good intentions, I assure you. I met this young woman during a shooting that took place at one of my restaurants. She left this behind.” I produced a woman’s clutch containing only a tube of lipstick, a few dollars, and a key. This was not at all related to the woman in the photos, but Isabella didn’t need to know that.
She eyed the clutch, picked it up and opened it, rifled through its contents, snapped it shut and tossed it on the desk. “It’s not hers.” She had assessed my statement a lie so quickly, I knew now I was correct. Isabella knew and was fond of this woman. “So let me ask you again, what do you want with her?”
She sat back in her chair so smoothly I wondered if I was dealing with a trained killer or an ex-Bratva runaway as I’d been told. Her stare was calculating, her posture firm.
I chuckled. “Isabella, I do not wish to harm Yaya.” This statement brought tears brimming in her eyes, though only briefly, and never a change of her expression was detected.
“Then answer me what you want of her and I will tell you what I know,besstrashnyy lider.” The Russian compliment slid off her tongue as her eyebrows rose.
“I admit I’m attracted to her. She, like you, spoke of bringing peace to the city and stopping the senseless violence. I am not a man of war, Isabella, though I know I’m quite good at it. I have taken a strong fist in the wake of Jimmy’s death, but it’s time to let the city rest a bit.
“I’d like to know this woman a bit better, see where her heart lies. If she has influence with the Bratva, then it is possible we could combine our efforts and do just that.”
She eyed me as if testing my sincerity, and I softened my expression to let her know I was serious. For a moment she remained silent. Then she pushed the photo back at me.
“Anya Shukhov… And if you harm her, I will kill you myself without blinking.”
“The daughter of the Pakhan?” My mind raced… Shukhov had a daughter? No one knew this. How had he kept her so hidden?
“Yes, and my beloved sister in blood. I am serious, Leo. You do not harm a hair on her head, or your neck will be at the end of my blade.” She stood, picking up her coat.
“You have to help me meet with her. I insist. I must see her.” My desire to learn more about this woman deepened as I rose to see Isabella out.
“I will make a plan and send you details. I know where she will be, and when she will be there.” Isabella opened the door herself and let herself out, and I watched her strut over to the elevators, wondering who she really was. She turned and gave me a serious expression as she donned her coat. “Not a hair on her head.”
The instant the elevator doors closed, I was back at my computer searching for any information I could about Anya and her father. This was better than I expected.
3
ANYA
Mom took a bite of a roll and smiled, the warm butter glistening on her lips. Dad was having a good day, so she invited me to have a late lunch with her at our favorite place across town. It was a cold day, but perfect for hot soup and this little dive had the best lentil and bean soup in the city.
“I’m glad you brought me out here. I have been so starved for interaction with Papa being so demanding of my attention.” I sipped my hot cocoa then set it down. Mom swallowed her food and smiled at me before wiping her mouth clean.
“He trusts you, Anya. And that is a good thing. He had no sons to take over his place in the family when he dies. This sickness has given him a lot of confidence in your ability to lead in his stead.” Mom talked about Dad’s cancer as if it were an everyday topic, though she hardly interacted with him in the home, as if she thought it were contagious.
“I think his trust is misplaced, but who am I to judge?”
I watched in slow motion as the waiter for the table next to us, spun around, his tray balanced precariously on his arm. A stray spoon slid from the tray, dropping into my soup and splashing it all over my arm. It scalded me, causing me to leap to my feet with a shout, and to make matters worse, he bumped into me, making the entire table jostle and the soup bowl spill. The hot broth ran across the table and dribbled to my feet.
I cursed myself for wearing heels instead of boots. It was too cold to wear heels, but I wanted to feel attractive, not like I was a caveman escaping my habitat for a jaunt out for lunch.
