Chapter 18 Matysh
Chapter eighteen
Matysh
“There's no sign of Petrov at his house.” Nikolai rubs his brow as we sit together in his tech cave, buried beneath Queens. “He’s not where he should be. They have to be hiding out somewhere.”
“While they wait for me to die,” I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. “Could Catarina have had some part in this?” The thought is meant to stay internal but slips out, a rare issue for me.
“Doubt it.” Nikolai scans the screens in front of him. “We’re going to need backup, and you’ve lost most of your men.” He peers up at me, to where I’m standing in the corner, nursing a bourbon.
“Yeah, I know.” My gut twists. I know there’s a call I need to make, although it’ll require a fucking apology with it. But fuck, I’m in a predicament. Boris Petrov is out to whack me…
The very same man who demanded I marry my brother’s widow.
However, as much of a mindfuck as it is, it is a relief to know that he's responsible because that means Catarina is more than likely safe.
She was taken from my house because he wanted her.
And I want her back more than I want to breathe, but there's slight comfort in knowing she's not in harm's way.
That being said, as soon as I lay eyes on Boris, I'll make sure every drop of blood is drained from his body. Nobody fucks with me or my wife.
If it weren’t for Nikolai’s footage, I’d be running blind. To think I might have ordered a strike against the Vitales for this if Boris’s men hadn’t slipped up on the footage... I’m sure that would’ve played into his hand beautifully.
And he would’ve won.
“Who do we call?” Nikolai turns to me. “I don’t have enough dealers to put together an army to fight a man like Petrov.”
I take a deep breath, my tongue sour as the words come out. “Then we strike a deal with the mischief-maker.” I push off and grab Nik’s car keys, gesturing for him to follow me.
“This is gonna get so messy,” Nik grumbles under his breath. “Merry fucking Christmas to me. I’ll be fucking lucky if I don’t get out of this with a bullet in the head for a gift.”
“That makes two of us,” I agree with him. “Just call the mischief-maker and tell him where to meet us—but not that I’m coming.”
“Fuck,” Nik breathes out, but then agrees, quickly confirming a meeting place with Mauricio.
We get in the car, with me behind the wheel this time. I drive us all the way into Italian territory, my stomach lurching as we pull off into an empty parking lot. The city is alive with Christmas Eve celebrations, and this entire situation only makes it more ironic.
This could easily become the worst day of my life. All I know is that if Boris can come into my house uninvited, then I can burn his to the ground.
“There he is.” Nik points to a blacked-out Escalade pulling in beside us. “He’s always early. I don’t know how you want to handle this…”
“Just keep his attention,” I command, gesturing to Nik.
He nods, slipping out of the car and walking up to the driver’s side window, where Mauricio sits behind the wheel. I note that he’s alone.
He trusts Nikolai. And while that works in my favor, it might end up harming Nik later. I purse my lips and slip out, knowing I’ll have to make this worth my friend’s time later.
Especially for distracting Mauricio to the point that I can slip into the passenger seat, Glock pointed at the mischief-maker of a mob boss.
“What the fuck is this?” he demands, whipping his head around to see me. “What are you doing, Russian boy? This is the wrong turf for you.”
“I’m aware,” I grunt, and then nod to Nik. He slides into the back seat behind Mauricio, our threat clear. “And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a damn good reason.”
Mauricio narrows his eyes at me. “I’m listening.”
“You bought arms from Nik, then gave them to Petrov.” I state the theory, which I’m pretty sure is fact.
His expression doesn’t move. “I do what I can to secure my territory. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t have the paperwork to prove who my father is. Yet.”
I nod, knowing that he’s talking about merging into something powerful and dangerous. “I hear you,” I say, very carefully. “Which is why you owe me now.”
He raises a brow. “Why the fuck would I owe you? You’re in bed with the Petrovs. The guns were probably for you.”
I fight the urge not to pull the trigger and kill him right then and there. “They were used to gun down every fucking man in my house. On Christmas Eve.”
Something flickers in Mauricio’s eyes. “That makes no fucking sense. You have a wife and heir—”
“Exactly. I needed to be out of the equation.”
“Oh, fuck.” Mauricio lets out a defeated sigh that sounds like he’s ready to take lead to face over it. “I had no fucking clue of the plan.”
“And that’s why you owe me your men today.” I give him a smile as his expression fades to concern.
“Man, they’re all celebrating—”
“And because of your arms deal with my father-in-law, I no longer have my wife and unborn child to celebrate with,” I cut in, monotone and cruel. “You’ll give me the backup, or I’ll take your fucking kingdom by force.”
Mauricio eyes the pistol in my hand. “You know what,” he pauses, pressing his lips together. “I’ll do you one better. You help me get rid of Boris Petrov, and you have my protection while you rebuild your crew.”
I take a deep breath, and then lower my gun. “Deal. Let’s go.”
Mauricio shakes my hand. “He’ll never see us coming.”
I sure as hell hope so.
***
“Ishchite vezde (Search everywhere). Ne ostavlyayte nichego bez vnimaniya (Leave nothing unturned),” I demand as we reach the Petrov estate.
There’s just one fucking problem.
I already know it’s empty.
But we all spread out, looking through every room for clues as to where Boris might have run off. Boris has been in the business for a long time, and he has properties all over the country. He could have fucking flown to Panama by now.
Still, I'm on a warpath as I storm through every room, ripping through drawers, reading every document I find.
My movements are calculated and calm, but there’s an urgency to them that pushes my aching body far beyond its limits, considering everything it’s been through today.
I need to find her. I need to find them. My wife and my baby.
I rip desk drawers open, scattering the papers everywhere. There has to be something here that indicates where he went. Men as old-school as Boris don’t usually leave a paper trail, but I'm hoping for any minor oversight.
Anything could lead me to them.
Searching his office, I find records of some of the warehouses he owns in Red Hook as well as various other places nearby. These would be quick places to hide out if he were in a rush, but he knows I would look there.
And he’s bound to know I’m still alive.
I find other property listings that appear to be more warehouses in port towns where he ships goods. I highly doubt he has Catarina holed up in one of those.
While searching in his desk, I see a stray photograph, like it once belonged in a picture frame but had been taken out at a certain point. It's a photo of a much younger Boris standing in front of a snow-covered cabin with a version of Catarina that looks like she's just been shrunk down.
Seeing her wide smile in the photo makes my heart ache. She can't be more than ten years old. The same blue eyes, honey-blonde hair, and smile. I grip the photo, wondering if this is what our child might look like.
The thought of it makes my blood run cold. Our child. Catarina is out there somewhere, afraid and alone, our child at risk wherever she is.
I won't let anything happen to them. I’ll burn every blade of grass between me and her to the ground if I have to.
I grab the photo and walk out of the office, searching for Nikolai. “You’re tech savvy. Do you think you can find where this cabin is?”
“It might take some time, but I'll try,” he says, grabbing the photo and setting off without waiting for another word.
None of the properties I saw in his ledgers gave any indication that they were a cabin or vacation home of sorts. They were all warehouses and investment properties. I look again, just to be sure, and I start rifling through more of his office.
I find a couple of other photos with the cabin, but they provide no more information.
Eventually, at the bottom of a filing cabinet, I find a business card that looks promising. It's for a cleaning and upkeep company in the Adirondacks. It's about four hours away from here, and I could see that being a suitable place for a snow-covered cabin.
Please let this work.
I dial the number. It's Christmas Eve, and I know there's a strong chance this business isn't open. But it’s worth a shot.
“Adirondacks Cleaning Solutions, how can I help you?” a voice answers, and I swear I almost fall to my knees and praise the heavens.
“Hi, I was wondering if you keep invoices on file,” I say, holding my breath.
“We do, but only for a certain time span. How recent are you looking?”
I don't have an answer for that question. I don't know when the last time Boris was at this cabin, or if he even still owns it. I didn't see it anywhere on his ledgers, so he could have sold it off years ago for all I know.
“Well, I don't have a time span in mind. I'm actually planning on selling the place to someone and they want to know the average upkeep cost, so I figured I'd try and get a hold of my old invoices,” I explain.
“What’s your address?” she asks, and all the excitement I had about progress disappears.
“Oh, hold on just a minute. I don't know it off the top of my head, I think I have a paper around here with it somewhere,” I say, trying to play it off.
“What's your name? Maybe I can find it that way.”
“Boris Petrov,” I promptly say, holding my breath while I wait for any information.
“I've only got two invoices on file, but I can email those over.” I let out the breath and grip my knees tight as I give her my email address, explaining that it's my son-in-law's who's going to print it out for me.