Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I stare out the side window of the Aston Martin, watching the gray brick buildings of Brooklyn slide past in a blurry, monotonous line. My hand keeps creeping toward my pocket, my fingers brushing the cheap plastic of the burner phone just to make sure it’s still there.
New Jersey. Alpine. Bergen County.
The name of the county repeats in my head like an annoying song I can't shake. My son is there. He’s been there for so long, living in some gilded cage while I ran all over looking for a trail that had already gone cold.
"We have company," Mikhail says shortly.
My stomach does a violent, ugly drop. "What do you mean, company? Who?"
"A gray Dodge Sedan. It’s been trailing us since we cleared the estate gates." Mikhail’s face doesn't show any panic, but his hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard his scarred knuckles are stark white. "They’re not even trying to be subtle. They’re just staying three cars back."
I turn in my seat to look through the rear window. "Don't look," Mikhail barks, his hand coming out to grip my thigh, pinning me in place. "Keep your eyes forward. Act like we haven't noticed."
"Act like we haven't noticed?" My voice is rising with panic. "With everything that’s been going on, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a casual drive."
"Oh, I’m not planning on a casual drive," he says.
Suddenly, his foot hits the pedal.
The V12 engine screams. The sheer force of the acceleration slams my back into the leather seat, the wind knocked out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. The tires lose traction for a split second, squealing violently against the damp asphalt before biting down.
Behind us, the gray sedan instantly matches our speed, its nose dipping as it guns its engine to close the gap.
"Mikhail!" I scream, my hand flying to the door handle, my nails digging into the leather. "What are you doing?"
"Shaking them," he growls. “Sit tight, Irina.”
He yanks the wheel to the right. The Aston Martin swerves violently into a narrow side street, the rear end drifting slightly on the wet pavement.
I can hear the metallic scrape of the undercarriage hitting a dip in the road, a sound that makes my teeth rattle.
We’re flying down a residential block now, past parked delivery vans and brownstones, the speed digital readout climbing.
A wild, terrifying panic is clawing at my throat. My chest feels tight, my breathing coming in short, useless gasps as I watch a yellow taxi pull out of an intersection directly ahead of us.
"Mikhail! Watch out!"
He doesn't brake. He downshifts, the engine roaring in protest, and swerves around the front bumper of the taxi with inches to spare. The horn of the cab blares, a long, angry shriek that fades instantly as we blast through the intersection. My stomach feels like it’s floating in my throat, a sick, dizzying wave of nausea hitting me as we near-miss a concrete barrier.
"Hold on," Mikhail commands, his voice completely level despite the chaos.
He reaches for the dashboard console, hitting a button on his Bluetooth display. It dials automatically.
"Lev," Mikhail says into the cabin as the phone connects.
"Boss? Where are you? We lost your signal near the bridge."
"We’ve got a tail. Gray Dodge. They’re aggressive. I’m heading down Grand toward the industrial sector. Set up the blockade near the warehouse gates."
"We're on it. Three minutes."
A loud, dull thud rattles the rear of the car.
I scream, my head snapping back. The gray sedan has caught up, its front bumper slamming into our rear fender. The impact sends the Aston Martin into a dangerous wobble, the tail fishtailing on the wet street.
" Gospodi , Mikhail! They're hitting us!" I’m clutching the seat now, my eyes wide with a raw, primal terror. The buildings outside are a blur of gray and red, and all I can think about is that if we crash, I’ll never see my boy. I’ll die in a crumpled piece of steel on a dirty Brooklyn street.
"Stop the car! Just let them have whatever they want! "
"They want us dead," Mikhail growls, his face a hard, terrifying mask of concentration. "I’m not stopping."
The gray sedan pulls up beside us, trying to force us into the row of parked cars on the left. I can see the driver through the tinted glass—a man in a dark cap, his face completely blank. He yanks his wheel toward us.
Mikhail slams on the brakes.
The sudden deceleration is violent. My seatbelt locks, cutting into my collarbone so hard I let out a choked cry. The Dodge overshoots us, its tires smoking as the driver tries to react to the sudden loss of his target.
Before the Dodge can stop, Mikhail guns the engine again, cutting behind their rear bumper and tearing down a narrow alleyway on the right.
The walls of the brick warehouses are so close I can hear the side mirrors scraping against the masonry.
It’s a dark, wet tunnel of brick, the smell of burning rubber and hot oil filling the cabin through the vents.
We burst out of the alley onto a wide, deserted road near the shipping canals.
Three black Morozov SUVs are already there, idling in a chevron pattern across the asphalt, completely blocking the street.
Lev and four other enforcers are standing beside the doors, their long guns drawn and aimed at the alley exit.
Behind us, the gray Dodge screeches to a halt at the mouth of the alley. The driver hesitates for a single heartbeat, taking in the wall of black SUVs and heavy firepower, before throwing the sedan into reverse and blasting backward out of sight.
Mikhail slows the car, pulling up to Lev’s SUV. He kills the engine, the silence in the cabin sudden and heavy.
I’m shaking. My hands are vibrating so violently I can’t even untangle my fingers from the door handle. My chest is heaving, my forehead damp with sweat, the taste of copper and adrenaline sour on my tongue.
"Are you okay?" Mikhail asks. His hand comes over mine, his grip warm and solid, trying to stop the shaking.
"I’m... I’m going to throw up," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the cracked windshield.
"No, you're not," he says, his voice gentler now. "You're alive. We're clear."
"They almost killed us," I say, my voice cracking as I look at him. "That has to be my father… I can’t believe he is actually trying to kill us.”
"I’m going to kill that bastard," he growls. He opens his door and steps out, gesturing for Lev to take the wheel. "Get into the back, Irina. We’re heading to Artyom’s house."
The estate is a fortress today. There are men on every corner of the block, their hands tucked into their heavy coats, their eyes scanning the street with a quiet, lethal focus.
The living room is crowded. Artyom is sitting on the leather sofa, a thick wool blanket draped over his legs, his face still pale but his gray eyes sharp and clear.
Kira is standing right behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder.
Calina and Milana are sitting near the fireplace, while Konstantin Belov stands by the window, his arms crossed, looking like a gargoyle carved out of gray stone.
"Who hit you on the way here?" Artyom asks as we walk in.
"A Dodge Sedan," Mikhail says, tossing his keys onto the side table. He doesn't look like he’s just survived a high-speed chase. He looks like he’s ready to go back out and find the driver. "They tried to run us off the road near the canal. Boris is getting desperate."
"That’s because he the warehouse losses are catching up to him," Konstantin says from the window. His voice is smooth, devoid of any warmth. "He’s losing his grip on the Council. He needs the Morozov routes to survive the winter."
"It’s more than that," I say, stepping into the center of the room. My voice is quiet, but it carries through the quiet brownstone.
Everyone looks at me. Milana’s eyes are wide with worry, while Calina’s face is a hard, unreadable mask.
"Irina," Kira says gently. "What is it?"
I take a deep, ragged breath, my hands tucked into my sweater sleeves to hide the lingering tremor. I look at the sisters. I’ve spent years hiding my shame, hiding the secret that my father used to turn me into a ghost.
But as I look at Mikhail, who is standing right behind me, his hand resting on my lower back, I find the strength to speak.
"M-My father is blackmailing me," I say, my voice steadying. "That’s why he’s hitting you. That’s why he’s trying to force his way into your business. He’s using my son."
Milana gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "A son?"
"When I was sixteen, I got pregnant," I say, the words feeling heavy but clean as they hit the air. "By an older, married man. My father was furious. He saw me as a ruined asset. He locked me in a house in New Jersey until I gave birth, then he took my baby and forced me to sign adoption papers. He told me the boy was lost to the system. But he lied. He’s had him this whole time. He’s keeping him in New Jersey. "
I wait for the judgment. I wait for them to tell Mikhail that his wife is damaged goods, a Petrov embarrassment that brings nothing but rot into the family.
Artyom’s gray eyes turn to flint.
"A father who uses his own grandson as a hostage is a coward," Artyom says, his voice a quiet, flat rasp that carries the weight of a Pakhan’s decree.
Kira steps away from the sofa, walking over to me and wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a brief, tight hug. "We’re going to find him, Irina. I promise you."
Calina stands up from her chair, her arms crossed over her chest, a harsh, angry grin touching her lips. "I’ve always hated your father, Irina. But this? This is disgusting. I hope Mikhail lets me watch when he takes his head off."
"Calina," Milana murmurs, though her own eyes are bright with tears as she looks at me. "I’m so sorry, Irina. You should have told us sooner."
"I was afraid," I admit, my throat dry.
"Fear is a waste of time," Konstantin says, stepping away from the window.
His unreadable face doesn't show any emotion, but his eyes are fixed on the map on the coffee table. "We have the location narrowed down to three estates under Verona Holdings. We’ll have the exact house by tonight. But we need Boris’s men out of Jersey before we move. "
"How?" I ask.
"I have to make the call for the fake weapons relocation," I say, my stomach turning at the prospect.
"You have to make him believe it," Mikhail says, his hand tightening on my waist. "He has to think you’re terrified enough to actually betray us. He has to think he’s won."
I look at the burner phone in my hand. "I’ll make him believe it."
I walk to the far corner of the room, near the window, and dial the number. The phone rings three times before the line clicks open.
"Irina," Boris’s voice is a smooth, oily purr that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "I assume you have the information I requested. I don't like being kept waiting."
"I have it," I say, my voice shaking with a practiced, frantic panic. I lean into the fear from the car chase, letting the ragged edges of my breath show through the line. "Papa... Mikhail is going crazy. A car hit us on the way to Artyom’s. I’m terrified. If he finds out I’m doing this..."
"He won't find out if you do your job," Boris says, his tone dismissive. "Where are they moving the Queens inventory?"
"Newark," I say, swallowing hard. "There’s an old warehouse near the ironbound district. On Ferry Street. They’re moving the crates tonight at midnight. Mikhail said the guard shift rotates at exactly twelve-fifteen. There’s a ten-minute window where the back gate is unmonitored."
"The security codes?"
I read him the fake codes Konstantin wrote down for me, my voice trembling on the numbers. "Please, Papa. You have to promise me. Once you have the warehouse, you let me see Oleg. You tell me where he is."
Boris let out a dry, satisfied chuckle. "You’ve done well, Irina. Don't worry about the boy. He’s safe. For now."
"Papa—"
"I’ll contact you when the inventory is cleared," he says, his voice cold and final. "Don't do anything stupid."
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down on the windowsill, my chest rising and falling in a long, shaky breath. He believed me. He believed me because that’s exactly what he’s always thought I was—a broken, compliant daughter who would sell her soul to save her child.
I turn back to the room. Mikhail is watching me, his blue eyes dark and burning with a pride that makes my throat tight.
"He’s taking the bait," I say.
"Then the war is on," Mikhail says, his voice a low, terrifying whisper.