Chapter Nineteen
MARCO
Aniya and Dmitri Mikhailov return home thirty-two hours after Lucia is delivered to Mikhailov.
I know because six men watch their property in rotating shifts from three separate vehicles.
Dmitri carries two bags into the house. Aniya follows him wearing the same light jacket she wore in Viktor’s photograph.
The next morning, she leaves carrying the same canvas tote and climbs into the car waiting at the curb.
Normal life resumes as though Viktor never uprooted it.
Armando stands on the other side of my desk while I study the photographs.
“Do we move them?” he asks.
“No.”
“Mikhailov could take them again.”
“He will if he realizes we’re interested.”
“So we watch.”
“Quietly.”
Armando nods.
“The others are secure?”
“Yes.”
Angela has two men with her whenever she leaves the property. Dario has moved his family into one of our apartments. Bruno’s granddaughter has a driver and two guards. Armando’s mother is staying with his sister.
Homes, schools, and businesses are covered.
Everyone Mikhailov threatened is protected.
Everyone except Lucia.
I set the photographs aside.
“Call everyone in.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
Armando’s expression hardens.
“Yes, boss.”
The war begins at two o’clock that afternoon.
No one fires a weapon.
No bodies appear in alleys. No windows break. No buildings burn.
Violence is expensive, unpredictable, and difficult to reverse.
Money is cleaner.
Mikhailov has spent years expanding faster than his organization can afford. Restaurants. Warehouses. Trucking companies. Private clubs. Most are profitable. Some exist only to move money from one place to another.
Almost all of them carry debt.
Debt is merely ownership that hasn’t announced itself yet.
James places a stack of financial reports in front of me.
“Four private notes,” he says. “Two secured by warehouses, one against the trucking company, and one secured by the club in Cambridge.”
“Who holds them?”
“Different lenders on paper. The money traces back to Bellucci Capital.”
“Will they sell?”
“They’ve already tried. Mikhailov missed two payments last year, then brought the accounts current.”
“What are the notes worth?”
“Just over six million.”
“And what will Bellucci accept?”
James turns another page.
“Four-seven if they believe we can close quickly.”
“Offer four-five.”
“They’ll counter.”
“Then settle at four-six.”
He studies me.
“If Mikhailov learns we’re behind the purchase, he’ll try to block it.”
“He won’t know.”
James looks at the corporate documents beside my hand. Three holding companies separate the Catenzio organization from the entity acquiring Mikhailov’s debt.
He reads the first name.
“Orchard Street Holdings?”
“Grace chose it.”
“She has a sense of humor.”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you want us to do once we own the notes?”
“Nothing.”
“For how long?”
“Until Mikhailov misses another payment.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He will.”
By the end of the day, Mikhailov has lost two shipping contracts.
The Albanians move their next shipment through one of our warehouses after we offer better terms and guarantee their cargo will clear the port within twelve hours.
Connor Callahan takes less convincing.
“You’re asking me to break an agreement,” he says over the phone.
“I’m asking you to replace one.”
“With you.”
“Yes.”
“Mikhailov won’t like it.”
“That’s part of the appeal.”
Connor laughs.
“What are you offering?”
“Three percent below what you’re paying him.”
“Five.”
“Four.”
“Four and priority unloading.”
“Agreed.”
He pauses.
“You’re starting a war.”
I look at Aniya’s photograph on my desk.
“Mikhailov started it.”
The Callahans move their business before dinner.
The first warehouse inspection happens the following morning.
A city official discovers six violations that have existed for years. The loading dock closes until repairs can be completed. A second inspector arrives at a Russian-owned restaurant before lunch and finds enough problems to suspend its liquor license.
By evening, customs has selected one of Mikhailov’s incoming containers for a complete inspection.
The container holds nothing illegal.
It also doesn’t move for six days.
Storage penalties begin accumulating after twenty-four hours.
Mikhailov makes his first payment on the debt we now own.
Orchard Street returns it because his people used the former lender’s payment instructions. They correct the mistake and send it again.
It arrives one hour after the contractual deadline.
Default.
James places the notice in front of me.
“You can call the full balance.”
“Not yet.”
“He’ll cure it if we wait.”
“That’s the point.”
James studies me.
“You don’t want the warehouse.”
“I want him spending money to protect it while something else disappears.”
The something else is an alliance.
Then another.
Business partners don’t abandon Mikhailov because they develop principles. They leave because his routes become slower, his warehouses unreliable, and his protection increasingly expensive.
We offer alternatives.
Some accept.
Others require persuasion.
A week after Aniya returns home, Mikhailov’s organization has lost three contracts, access to two loading docks, and nearly a million dollars in delayed cargo and legal penalties.
Not enough.
Nothing will be enough until Lucia is home.
The word enters my thoughts without permission.
Home.
The house has returned to silence.
This time, everyone notices.
Angela speaks to me when necessary.
Dinner is at seven.
Someone is waiting on the telephone.
A package arrived.
She no longer enters my office with coffee. A tray appears outside the door, usually carried by someone else.
She still makes sure I eat.
She simply doesn’t want to look at me while I do it.
Dario and Bruno follow my orders without hesitation, but the ease is gone from their voices.
Armando has remained beside me through every move. He hasn’t mentioned the drive to Beacon Hill once.
Gio barely speaks to me outside meetings.
When he does, Lucia is present in every sentence.
“She would hate this tie.”
“Lucy said that restaurant was ugly.”
“Don’t let Angela throw out her tea.”
Lucy.
He calls her that now even when she isn’t here to hear it.
I don’t correct him.
Lucia’s belongings remain where she left them. No one seems willing to move anything, as though admitting she isn’t coming back might make her absence permanent.
Late at night, I sometimes stand outside her room.
I never enter.
The last time I did, Gio found me sitting on the edge of her bed with the photograph of her mother in my hands.
He told me to get her back.
I promised I would.
Promises have become dangerous things.
The first report from inside Mikhailov’s organization arrives on the ninth day.
Armando brings it to my office after midnight. Rain darkens the shoulders of his coat, and his suit is creased from a day spent moving between meetings.
“One of Mikhailov’s drivers talked.”
“For how much?”
“Five thousand.”
“Cheap.”
“He has gambling debts.”
“Less cheap.”
Armando puts a folded sheet of paper on my desk.
The report is brief.
Lucia is confined to the second floor except for meals approved by Viktor. Yevgeny has replaced Ivan as her guard. The windows have been alarmed, and additional men remain on the stairs whenever her door is open.
Mikhailov has hosted three dinners since her return.
Sergei Antonov attended two of them.
“He’s choosing a husband,” I say.
“That’s what the driver believes.”
“Antonov is married.”
“His wife filed for divorce yesterday. After seventeen years.”
“Mikhailov arranged it.”
“Most likely.”
Lucia has refused the jewelry and stylists sent to her room. She attends the dinners because Viktor gives her no choice, but she has made no effort to please the men.
At the last dinner, she insulted Antonov in front of everyone.
A brief laugh escapes me.
Armando raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
At the bottom of the report, someone has added a handwritten note.
Mikhailov wants an engagement announced before the trust transfers.
Less than two weeks.
I fold the report.
“We’re moving too slowly.”
“We’ve taken almost a quarter of his Boston business.”
“He can still force an engagement tomorrow.”
“Not without her agreement.”
I look at Armando.
He doesn’t appear convinced either.
Mikhailov doesn’t need Lucia’s willingness.
Only her signature.
There are ways to obtain one.
I stand and walk to the window.
The kitchen terrace is dark, its stone surface shining beneath the rain. On the security monitor beside the door, moonlight catches on the glass roof of the conservatory at the far side of the house.
“Bring Gio in.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“He isn’t sleeping.”
Armando leaves.
Gio arrives ten minutes later wearing sweatpants and a black shirt. His hair is disordered, but his eyes are alert.
“What happened?”
I give him the report.
He reads it once.
Then again.
“Antonov?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Mikhailov will replace him.”
“Then we go into the house and take her back.”
“He has a fortified townhouse in the middle of Beacon Hill. A firefight brings the police before we reach the second floor.”
“We wait until he takes her somewhere.”
“He hasn’t.”
“We force him.”
“How?”
Gio looks at me.
I wait.
He has no answer.
“We’re hurting him,” he says.
“Not quickly enough.”
“Call the debts. Take the warehouses and the club.”
“He’ll retaliate.”
“You knew he would.”
“Yes.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
“A way to end it without trapping Lucia inside a burning house.”
Gio looks back at the report.
“He’ll marry her first.”
“That’s what he intends.”
“Then we have less than two weeks.”
“Maybe less than that.”
Gio braces both hands on the desk.
“What do you need?”
The question surprises me.
Not What are you going to do?
What do you need?
My brother is still furious with me.
He is also ready.
“Every obligation Mikhailov has,” I say. “Business and personal. I want to know who he owes, how much, and what they’ll accept to turn on him.”
“I’ll talk to Connor.”
“He’ll know about the Irish loans.”
“And the Italians?”
“James is tracing them.”
“We call everything.”
“Not yet.”
Gio’s expression darkens.
“What are you waiting for?”