Not So Innocent (Shattered Glass #2)

Not So Innocent (Shattered Glass #2)

By Dani Alexander

Prologue

Eleven years ago

Cai stretched to peek over the dashboard at whoever had blocked Papa from leaving the warehouse lot. Three of Uncle Nikki’s men stepped from the shadows of their car into the headlights with their hands clasped in front of their waistbands. Maksim said something to the other two and then walked towards Papa’s side of the car.

Cai’s stomach twisted into a knot when he saw the gun Maksim tried to shield against his thigh. Papa frowned as if he noticed it too, but then he moved to roll down the window. Hadn’t he seen the gun? Cai clutched Papa’s knee and shook his head. “Don’t. They’re here to kill us.”

“Those are your Uncle Nikki’s men. Be still, Arush.” Be still, little bear. A nickname spoken in the same soft Albanian that Papa usually saved for stories at bedtime. Cai had told him he was too old for those, even rolled his eyes. If he’d known they’d never read together again, he would have listened to Goodnight Moon a hundred more times and painted a picture of the way Papa’s gelled hair looked like a black sapphire. He would have told Mama her hijab looked especially nice today and then hugged her until the smell of her perfume clung to his clothes. He would have told her he loved her before they left.

Why was this happening? Papa and Uncle Nikki were partners! But Uncle Nikki must have ordered the hit because Maksim was his second in command and he had no loyalty to “Albanian dirt”. Cai had heard him say exactly that. Papa said he’d probably misunderstood the Russian term. Cai’s Russian was just fine. He’d understood.

Papa rolled down the window. “Trouble, Maksim?”

“Only little trouble, Kaja.” Maksim smiled into the car. Cai understood that smile just fine, too. “Boss say you need help with Sergei.”

Papa’s white knuckles around the steering wheel gave away that he finally understood. The smell of fear permeated the car. Cai fought more tears while gripping Papa’s pants tight, afraid to let go. Sergei’s blood squeezed onto his hand. He stared at it. Panic pushed the knot in his stomach up to his throat.

Would Maksim shoot them dead or bury them alive in the same hole Papa had buried Sergei? Even after seven hammers to the head, Sergei’s fat fingers had twitched like an invitation for more dirt. Cai’d rather die now than feel those fingers twitching till his last breath.

As if sensing his distress, Papa patted his hand. Cai calmed a little but didn’t let go of Papa’s pants. The fabric in his palm held memories of warm polyester hugs. Papa was a bad man, but he knew how to hug. Tight hugs that went on forever and came with kisses to the top of the head and sometimes an ‘I love you the most, Arush’. Those were good last thoughts. He couldn’t have the hug, but Cai didn’t want his papa’s last words spoken to that Russian pig. “I love you, Papa.”

“T? dua,” Papa said. “Arush.” I love you, little bear. He chucked Cai under the chin and smiled. His crooked yellow teeth shined like silver in the moonlight. “Besa,” he whispered, this time lifting Cai’s chin and holding his gaze.

“Besa,” Cai promised, memorizing the exact shades of Papa’s grey eyes. Besa. Though, he doubted he’d live to fulfill the oath.

Papa climbed out of the car.

“It’s okay, Nika.” Maksim reached in to pull up the lock. The car leaned as he stole the driver’s seat. “You come with me.”

Cai would never give Maksim the satisfaction of seeing the blatant despair and fear in his eyes. He strained to keep looking through the windshield until Papa disappeared behind the headlights. Then his thoughts turned to Mama.

She made Burek tonight. I’ll never get to taste it again. How long will she wait for us? Will she cry into my pillow? Will she hold onto Rabbit in her grief or push him away for being Uncle Nikki’s son?

Cai stared at the dashboard, digging his nails into his jeans. He waited for Maksim’s gun to press against his head. Anger and sadness burned wet trails down his cheeks. He smacked the tears away with the back of his hand. His jaw shook with the effort to control his emotions. He would not let Maksim see him cry.

Besa. If I live, I swear to you, Papa.

As Maksim exited the lot, they drove past the other car. Inside it, Rabbit sobbed in the passenger seat, his red hair black as shadowed blood. He never looked up. In the back, squeezed between two of Uncle Nikki’s men, Papa attempted a reassuring smile. This time the moonlight painted his whole face grey.

* * *

Uncle Nikki had the football game on loud. During the commercials, he spewed whiskey drenched tirades at the television, complete with rancid belches. The smell drifted over to the sofa and churned Cai’s stomach, but it also gave him the satisfaction of knowing Nikki drank every drop.

“Soon, Petya come home and then…” Nikki made a gun out of his finger and thumb and waved it around while slurring Russian slang for ‘kill’ along with an unfamiliar word. Must have been a nasty one because Cai spoke fluent Russian and he’d never heard it before. “You not make Petya weak anymore. Nikki the Nail’s son is no weak bitch. My son is the man who killed Kaja the Hammer.” Uncle Nikki’s sloppy lips smacked together as he tried to enunciate in English. Cai had to struggle to understand half of what he was saying. It was like trying to decipher a drunk toad.

You know nothing about Rabbit. Rabbit isn’t weak, he’s just not bad. And he hates being called Petya.

“He’ll be ready,” Nikki continued. “Maybe I have him use hammer, uh? The Nail needs new hammer.” The wheezing laugh that rumbled out of Nikki turned into a cough. Yet, he thought his joke funny enough to keep laughing up phlegm.

Laughing about papa’s murder. They had been partners for nine years! Cai had been named after Nikolai. Had called him ‘uncle’ his whole life. Called his wife Mamatoo. His son brother. But Nikki had murdered Papa, even if he’d made Rabbit pull the trigger. Tonight, Cai was gonna kill him. And, if it wasn’t for how it would affect his brother, he’d enjoy it, too. He did feel awful about that part. Rabbit loved his papa, same as Cai, even though he was a bad man, too. This would hurt him a lot.

Cai used his spit to dissolve another of Mamatoo’s Valium tablets in his palm. Three glasses of whiskey, three pills but no way to be sure if the slurring was because of the whiskey or drugs. Drunk people could stand up and stop you from opening the door. A Valium sleep would be safer. But safest of all was the 9mm Ruger he’d found next to the bottle of pills in Mamatoo’s nightstand.

Nikki had let him roam upstairs freely. It took all of five minutes to find the gun and another ten to rack the slide with his small hands. But he’d done it. Pinched his skin in the metal but done it. Nikki hadn’t even asked about the wound’s sudden appearance. Like everyone else, he underestimated Cai. All he saw was an eight-year-old.

That’s all a jury would see, too.

With the fourth pill ready, he waited for the order to refill. Wouldn’t be long. The drunker Nikki got, the faster he drank.

“Another,” Nikki slurred, holding the crystal glass up.

Dutifully, Cai jumped off the sofa and took it. From behind the bar, he poured the amber liquor into the glass, then scraped in the pill paste and stirred. He laid the stirrer next to the empty prescription bottle and then tiptoed over to hand Nikki the drink. An explosion of profane Russian sent him scuttling backward to his corner on the sofa. He huddled there, digging into the knee of his jeans with his fingernail.

What felt like forever-later, the glass finally dropped on the carpet and rolled to a stop behind the foot of the armchair. An excruciating five minutes passed until a snore blasted out of Nikki’s nose. Cai quickly scrounged in the cushions for the gun.

With the Ruger hidden behind his back, he untucked his feet and stood up. After every step, he stopped and waited, the gun heavy and bulky in his small hands. His legs shook with fear and the struggle to keep still and silent. He’d have to shoot aimlessly if the man woke up suddenly, and the recoil, he knew, would be more painful if he couldn’t brace. The snores got louder as he approached the armchair. He nearly pulled the trigger when Nikki’s arm and head flopped over the side. Drool dripped onto the shag carpet. Cai released a slow exhale. He flicked the safety and held the grip with both hands, widening his stance. Anger boiled inside him. He wished he could make Nikki suffer. Use the hammer like his papa. But Rabbit couldn’t find his papa in a pulpy mess. The gun would be quick. He held it close to the top of Nikki’s head, dead center. “Besa,” he whispered, and squeezed the trigger.

Three years ago

Riley grabbed the lint roller from the top drawer of his desk and ran it over his clothes to catch any stray puppy hair. He straightened his tie and buttoned his blazer on his way down the hall to the Assistant Special Agent in Charge’s office.

“ASAC McCleary?” Riley knocked on the opened door.

“Have a seat, Agent Cordova,” McCleary said without looking up from his computer screen.

“Thank you, sir.” Riley sat down with a forced ease while thanking God for keeping his hands steady. Summoned to the ASAC’s office six months out of Quantico? He wracked his brain for any reason he might be promoted or fired. Nothing came to mind. He resisted the urge to double check if he’d buttoned his suit jacket. His foot itched to tap nervous energy into the floor. He clasped his hands in front of his stomach and thumbed over the button of his blazer.

McCleary turned his chair and fixed his attention squarely on Riley. He was an imposing figure, heading into his fifties with the bulk of a body builder. “Agent Cordova, I have a classified assignment for which you’re…” He hesitated before finishing with, “uniquely qualified.”

Riley had a fleeting moment of relief before confusion replaced it. Uniquely qualified? What singled him out among two hundred agents? An accounting degree? Spanish? Neither were particularly unique in the Denver office.

“The assignment,” McCleary continued, “requires a commitment of at least eight weeks with twelve-hour shifts beginning at twenty-one hundred hours. That won’t pose a problem for you, will it?” Silver-white eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, daring Riley to decline the assignment.

No one would be that stupid, especially him. This was the fast track to the Hostage Rescue Team. Maybe he could apply before he turned thirty. “For a special assignment, I’d sort through classified cigarette butts for twenty-four hours a day, sir.”

McCleary barely cracked a smile. “Nikolaj Strakosha. You know the name?”

Everyone who read, watched, or listened to the news knew that name. “Yes, sir. The eight-year-old who killed a mobster down in Sunny Isles, Florida a while back. Arrested recently by DPD for killing a trafficker. Press calls him ‘Baby Capone’.”

“He’s sixteen, now,” McCleary said. “And he hates that nickname, so don’t use it around him.”

Around him? That’s the case? What the hell uniquely qualifies me to deal with a teenage murderer?

“What else do you know about him?” McCleary asked.

Most of Riley’s knowledge came from the TV news, but he rattled off what he felt were ‘safe’ facts. “His father was an Albanian mobster named Kaja Strakosha who ran a Russian outfit along with Nikolai Dyachenko. The two were better known as Nikki the Nail and Kaja the Hammer, ostensibly due to their favorite method of torture and murder. Both deceased.” He sifted through more information but could only add, “The kid disappeared after calling 911 to confess to murdering Dyachenko. Until he was arrested, the working theory was that Dyachenko’s son killed Nikolaj in retribution.”

“What do you know of Rosafa Strakosha? Nikolaj’s mother.”

“She disappeared around the same time as her husband and kid.” Damn. Was that all he had? There was zero opportunity here to impress McCleary. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be a hundred percent on this case, sir.”

“No need. I’ll brief you.”

Riley struggled to keep his expression neutral. An ASAC didn’t have the luxury to explain a high-profile case like this to an agent who still had a training mentor. Yet here they were. Again, he wracked his brain, this time for whatever uniquely qualified him for this kind of assignment.

McCleary angled his monitor toward Riley. A digital passport of a woman filled the screen. Olive complexion, a black hijab, prominent nose, mid-thirties. “This is Rosafa Strakosha. She’s thirty-eight. A strict Sunni Muslim. For seven years, Mrs. Strakosha has been part of the WitSec program and has testified on behalf of the State in fourteen trials. Her testimony resulted in the conviction of sixteen high-ranking Russian and Albanian mobsters and, indirectly, put away hundreds of smaller players. She is scheduled to testify in eleven more trials. As you can imagine, she has become rather vital to the DOJ.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Until recently,” McCleary continued. “Mrs. Strakosha also believed Pyotr Dyachenko had killed her son. However, what we now know is that Nikolaj took on the alias Nicholas Cotton and has been living with the Dyachenko boy pretending to be his brother.

“This is Nikolaj.” A few more taps on his keyboard and McCleary produced a mugshot of a teenager with messy black hair and grey eyes. He shared the same olive skin and prominent nose as his mother.

McCleary tapped once more. “And this is Pyotr, AKA Peter, age twenty, now.” A surveillance photo of an auburn-haired, freckled man who looked like he belonged on the cover of Vogue.

Next to him was a young man with long wispy blond hair and a sharp elfin face. “This one is Darryl, age twenty-two, who has also lived with the two since they left Florida.”

How had these two teenagers managed to hide and take care of a child for eight years? More importantly, were they the case or was the mother? US Marshals operated WitSec, and the District Attorney prosecuted homicides. Where did the FBI fit in? “Sir, are we intervening on behalf of the DA or US Marshals?” Not that Riley would complain about grunt work for either organization.

“Nikolaj Strakosha is on house arrest at the home of a Detective Austin Glass of the Denver Police Department.” McCleary picked up a paperclip and attached it to a stack of papers on his desk. “Against advice, threats, and at the risk of her own life, Mrs. Strakosha has flown into Denver to stay with her son.”

Riley’s jaw dropped. He snapped it closed. “How?” That covered all his questions. How did a double murderer get house arrest? How did the US Marshals allow their star witness to put herself in an unsecured location?

“Nikolaj’s barracuda of a lawyer,” McCleary answered. “She had him released into Detective Glass’s custody. Extenuating circumstances.” Before Riley could ask what extenuating circumstances would involve allowing a double murderer out on house arrest, McCleary said, “The man he murdered sexually assaulted him. That is the official version. Unofficially, the US Marshals intervened to approve the request at the behest of Mrs. Strakosha.”

“I don’t understand, sir. Why would they allow an important witness to be placed outside a safehouse?”

“Because she threatened to leave the program. There is less danger of the press finding her if she’s agreeable to protection and stays locked in a secure location, but make no mistake, she has put herself in grave danger. Which means everyone around her is in that same danger.”

“Understood. Where do I fit in?”

“As of now, the Marshals have secured Detective Glass’s home, but they need someone on the inside for night detail.” McCleary paused so long that Riley thought he’d never get an answer to why he, specifically, had been chosen. “Detective Glass and Peter are intimately involved. And Nikolaj Strakosha is also of that pref—… orientation.”

The other ‘whys’ fell into place. Why McCleary had taken such care to brief him, personally. Why he, with the least seniority and experience, was being assigned to this case. He was openly gay. That was his ‘unique’ qualification. “We don’t all know each other, sir,” Riley said, with a half-smile. “We don’t even all like each other.”

McCleary chuckled exactly twice, as if his diaphragm refused any more amusement. “Rosafa Strakosha has insisted that agents inside the house at night be either homosexual or female. She has also demanded approval of each one. None of our female agents can commit to the hours at this time. Agent Cordova, this is an opportunity, regardless of why you got it. It’s certainly more prestigious than sorting out cigarette butts.”

“I’m in, sir.”

“This isn’t a plush assignment. Russians and Albanians have contracts out on Rosafa Strakosha and her son. Additionally, the man Nikolaj recently killed ran operations for the Jiménez cartel. There may be retribution on that end.”

“I’m in, sir,” Riley repeated.

“Good. You’ll have an informal meeting this afternoon with Mrs. Strakosha and her US Marshal detail. Pending their approval, you’ll start at twenty-one hundred hours.” McCleary stood and handed the paper-clipped stack to Riley. “Familiarize yourself with names and faces. I will answer any other questions on the way.”

* * *

The half-hour with McCleary proved less nerve-wracking than this slight woman with the narrowed eyes. Rosafa Strakosha rattled off questions like a drill sergeant. Most were about his experience with the FBI which didn’t impress her, but she seemed pleased by the answers to the last four.

“You are gay? Real gay?” Mrs. Strakosha had a way of narrowing her eyes that conveyed suspicion and challenge.

Is she asking if I’m bisexual or if I’m faking being gay?

“Yes, ma’am.” Riley didn’t get the feeling she’d appreciate a prostate joke.

“You believe in God?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are Christian?”

“I’m Roman Catholic, ma’am,” Riley answered.

“How are you feeling about Islam?

“I will respect any adherence that you require unless it breaks the law, ma’am.”

She pursed her lips, scrutinized him for an uncomfortable amount of time and then smoothed down her hijab. Apparently satisfied, she called for her son. “Nik?, come!”

Nik?? Another name to remember. It’s not even noon.

Nikolaj Strakosha bounded out of a door in the hallway under the staircase with one strap of his paint-splattered overalls swinging loose. The untied laces of his sneakers clicked along the wooden floor. He seemed smaller than six foot two, but that was likely due to his thin build and the way he huddled into himself while picking at his fingers. Black hair hung in different lengths over his forehead. Every time he tried to shake the strands out of his face, they fell back in place. He blew upward from the corner of his mouth and a tuft flew up to reveal clear grey eyes which landed on Riley and refused to let go.

“This is Agent Riley Cordova, Nik?.”

“Cai,” he gently corrected his mother, but his gaze never wavered from Riley. He didn’t come off like someone who’d murdered the head of a Russian crime family. Nor did he exhibit behavior consistent with someone who shot a man execution style just a few days ago. He seemed like a hormonal teenager whose erection would pop up if Riley happened to cough in his direction. He’d been ogled less at the beach on Fire Island. Luckily, an argument upstairs drew everyone’s attention to the ceiling where doors slammed, and feet stomped around like they were crushing grapes. As the voices raised, the words became clearer, but, without context, the argument made no sense.

“Because you won’t ask for help? Is it money?”

Is that Detective Glass or Peter?

“Oh, it’s always about money with you, Austin, isn’t it?”

That one is definitely Peter with a southern accent straight from Florida.

Rosafa’s mouth pinched, then she nodded toward the noise and said, “Nikё, please to tell Detective Glass that the FBI are here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cai moved with unexpected grace, his soft steps barely registering except for the laces clacking as he took the wooden stairs two at a time.

“You’re lucky my ass hurts,” Detective Glass shouted. “Or I’d throw you on the bed and show you exactly how much it isn’t about money with you!”

Riley scratched his brow and lowered his face to hide a wince. He held out hope the kid would get to them before it got worse.

“And if your ass didn’t hurt, I’d fuck you so hard into the mattress you’d forget every word except ‘more’ and ‘please’!” Peter’s reply nearly shook the floorboards.

In the dead silence after that, Nikolaj’s small voice carried downstairs. “Oh, um… yes… well… there it is.” A tiny whimper followed before he tried to relay what he was told. “I— there’s— they—” His return was less graceful as he bounded down the stairs, red-faced, and then plopped in the armchair. “Um. They’re com—” His mouth snapped shut as he realized what he’d almost said.

Riley turned his head, this time wiping his mouth to conceal his grin.

The argument continued upstairs with only a slight reduction in volume. The room remained in uncomfortable silence until McCleary cleared his throat and tapped his watch. Riley turned to Rosafa, intending to ask her expectations of him. She cut him off the minute his mouth opened.

“You are not here for me, Agent. I know this is what they told you, but you are to look after my son. Understand?”

Riley glanced at McCleary. He rolled his eyes and flicked a subtle, dismissive wave that indicated not to argue.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t sleep,” Nikolaj said, with an apologetic shrug.

“Superpower?” Riley teased.

“Maybe,” Nikolaj whispered back. “Yours?”

“I grew up with six older sisters, Mr. Strakosha. My superpower is getting to the bathroom first.”

Riley couldn’t help but match Nikolaj’s conspiratorial grin.

“Call me Cai.” He crossed his legs. An ankle monitor blinked under his knee.

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