Chapter 29
29
Chance
W e’ve been zigzagging across upstate New York for hours, trying to figure out where Leo landed.
“We can’t go after Leo directly,” Nico says after he gets off the phone.
“Say what, now?” Booker asks, looking around.
We’re outside a suspected safe house for the Sokolovs, but there’s no one here. It looks deserted, in fact, untouched for at least a few months. Every damn time we get a lead, we hit a dead end. No answers; just bolted doors and boarded-up windows.
“Not right now, anyway,” Nico sighs. “I just spoke to my friend Caleb’s contact at the New York Field Office. Leo was spotted in the city with a big crew. A blonde woman was seen with him.”
“Fuck,” I gasp, realizing what this means. “If he’s already in the city, that bastard has lots of places he can hide.”
“Then we do something else,” Booker says, his brow furrowed. “Clearly, the Sokolov crew were sitting on this place, using it as a base while they combed the area for Zoya Asimova.” He pauses and goes through the files on his phone. “Look. Here. 1435 Pleasant Drive. A property owned by Lev Asimov, Zoya’s husband and Anya’s grandfather, until 1985. It was sold to an Asimov associate. From there, it was sold a couple of more times over the years.”
“It stayed in the family, but under different names,” I reply. “The same goes for the Hamptons place.”
Chappaqua looks good this time of the year: quiet, tidy, and dressed in snow. The woods unravel beyond the edge of town, silent and filled with shadows. Somewhere a few blocks east of here is Zoya’s previous safe house, the place Anya left a few months ago. Leo and his brother picked up her trail from there, while Zoya went to the Hamptons.
Every second that passes makes me think we might never see Anya again.
Nico gives me a hard look. “You’re right, Chance. We can’t keep chasing our tails. We can’t take the Sokolov syndicate down on our own under these circumstances. We need leverage. Zoya can give it to us.”
“She’ll give us anything to save her granddaughter,” Booker agrees.
* * *
Two hours later, we’re in the Hamptons on the northern shore.
Overlooking the marina and nestled between two brutalist mansions is Zoya’s second preferred safe haven—a villa built on two levels with mirrored windows, white walls, and a sprawling front garden likely dotted with security cameras and motion sensors.
“I’ll bet money the windows are bulletproof,” I mutter as we case the place from across the street.
A heavy, cold wind rises, and the sound of sea water lapping at the marina’s edges sends shivers down my spine. The temperature is dropping as we huddle under our winter coats. We’re already big, but these jackets make us look even bigger and harder to go unnoticed.
“Caleb just confirmed,” Booker says, checking his phone again. “This house was also passed through several Asimov-connected owners over the decades. The last listed proprietor purchased this about three years ago.”
“Likely around the time Paul Asimov was getting ready to change the deal with Leo Sokolov,” I reply. “Zoya smelled something rotten coming. I’m sure of it. She tried to cover her tracks, just like she did in Chappaqua.”
“Well, she’s probably inside now,” Nico says, gazing at the villa. “Might as well ask her ourselves.”
I give him a slight nod. “She won’t be alone.”
“But she knows us,” Nico says.
“No, wait—” I try to stop him, but he’s already crossing the street, looking both ways for traffic. “Shit.”
“Give him a second,” my twin advises, his eyes fixed on our brother. “Zoya remembers us well. She knows us. She knows Anya was coming to see us.”
“We lost Anya.”
“Give him a second,” Booker insists.
What other choice have I got against the mounting despair that seems to cloud my judgment? I was sharper, quicker before, but the thought of losing Anya again, of losing our baby, is doing an unpleasant number on my head, and I need to take a deep breath. There’s a reason we let Nico lead this charge.
We both watch as our older brother approaches the iron front gate. camera mounted at the top. I see it moving to better capture him on what is likely a live CCTV surveillance system. Nico presses the intercom button. “Zoya, we need to talk,” he says. “Leo has Anya.”
Nothing.
“Movement inside,” Booker whispers.
We’re both packing underneath our jackets, ready to draw, if push comes to shove. I follow his gaze, one hand close to my back for easy access to my holstered weapon. I see them, too. Two large figures move downward, passing behind the staircase windows—the only windows that aren’t mirrored.
Slowly, we move closer to the front of the house, then cautiously cross the narrow road to join our brother. He might need backup.
“Zoya, we’re not here to cause any trouble,” Nico says into the intercom microphone. “We are carrying weapons for our own safety, and we’re in contact with the federal authorities regarding Leo Sokolov and the Dalton massacre. But we need your help. It’s time to enact your plan.”
Finally, the front door opens and the two big men we noticed mere seconds ago come out. One of them looks slightly familiar. He’s probably been with the Asimovs for a long time, judging by his silver hair and numerous facial scars.
“And what do you think my plan is?” A woman’s raspy voice comes through the speakerphone.
“Get revenge for your family and reclaim the Asimovs’ seat at the big table,” Nico bluntly replies. “We can help you with that.”
The two men come down the front steps, then reach the gates. The elder guard presses a button, allowing the gates to open for us.
“No guns inside,” he says.
“That’s fine. Like I was telling Zoya, they’re just for our protection,” Nico replies.
“In the atrium,” the guard nods, and the three of us follow them inside.
A stern pat down later, and with our guns left on the round table in the villa’s airy lobby, I sit next to my brothers in Zoya’s sprawling living room—a sea of soft whites and creamy beiges unraveling around us. She rests on the main sofa, a vintage tea service within her reach on the sculptural coffee table. The woman is aging with remarkable grace.
“Thank you for letting us in,” Nico says. “I know it couldn’t have been easy to bring yourself to trust us or anyone outside the family, for that matter.”
Zoya smiles gently. Her white hair is pulled into an elegant bun, her blue eyes bright with fear and familiarity. “In a way, you are family,” she says, briefly lowering her gaze. “So, the inevitable happened. Leo caught up with Anya.”
“He did. But the circumstances were complicated, to say the least,” Nico replies, then goes on to briefly tell her about how we found and then lost Anya. I relive every moment through his words, finding myself growing increasingly anxious. “We were betrayed. We failed to protect her.”
“You failed no one,” Zoya bluntly says. “You gave my granddaughter a fighting chance. We’re just lucky Leo is such an obsessive-compulsive piece of shit who thrives on control and power. He needs her alive to gain both.”
“We think Leo plans to parade her in front of the other families,” I reply. “I assume it’s going to happen during a big council meeting.”
Zoya’s face drops. “I’ve heard chatter about a meeting happening tonight at midnight.”
“Do you know where?” I ask.
“And what will you do about it? The three of you against the whole of the New York Bratva?”
“You seem to forget where we come from,” Nico politely reminds her.
“And you seem to forget there are more of them than there are of you,” she shoots back. “You cannot go in and expect Leo to just drop everything.”
“We won’t,” Nico says. “We need you.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “I’m an old woman. Powerless. Retired. None of the other families have even reached out. No one offered their protection when Dalton happened. I’ve been on my own for a long time, my dears. I doubt my word has any standing among the Bratva anymore.”
“See, this is where you’re wrong,” I say, catching a glimpse of the silver haired guy’s frown as he looks down at his shoes. “What’s your name, sir? Sergei? I remember you.”
He gives me a surprised look. “You do?”
“Sergei has been with our family for twenty-five years, ever since he left Moscow and came to America in search of a better life,” Zoya says. “And Andrei… I took him under my wing when he was expelled from the Abramovic inner circle. They were going to kill him.”
Andrei is in his early thirties, from what I can tell.
“I think I remember. It was the Abramovic Cleanup Operation. That’s what the newspapers called it,” I say, nodding slowly. “It’s when the old man… Ivan Abramovic, right? When the old man learned two ATF informants had infiltrated his crew, he picked out all the younglings, all the new kids on the block, and some he killed point-blank in the street to send a message; others, he made disappear. How’d you get so lucky, Andrei?”
“Mrs. Asimova saw my potential,” Andrei replies.
“He’s an exquisite marksman,” Zoya interjects. “He could give the three of you a run for your money. What is your point, though, Chance? It’s not my mercy or my magnanimity you’re trying to highlight here.”
I can’t help but smile. Older, but sharper than ever. Nothing gets past Zoya.
“We all know you don’t want the Sokolovs to wipe your family off the map. We all know how much you suffered since Dalton. I mean, that grief… it can be like poison. It can cloud your judgment. Paralyze you, right?”
I see a tremor in Zoya’s red lips. “They made me feel helpless.”
“But you are far from it. You kept yourself, and Anya, safe for over two years. You still have people loyal to you, Zoya. Not all of your soldiers are dead. They are merely scattered and waiting to be called back into action.”
“You have to get back into the game and call them out.” Nico picks up on my lead. “Because if you don’t, Leo will. He’ll take Anya and either kill her or force her into a marriage she doesn’t want. He will destroy her. Your legacy, Zoya. Anya is your legacy. You did a good job of keeping her alive, but now you need to help her fight. She can’t do it alone, and you’re right that the three of us won’t be enough.”
Zoya takes a deep breath. She reaches for her cup of tea, but her trembling hand gives away her fear. “Dammit.”
“You’re scared. I get it,” Nico says. “I am, too.”
“I don’t have the firepower to take Leo Sokolov on,” Zoya replies. “What do you expect me to do? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“She’s pregnant,” I say.
Zoya sits up straight, her eyes wide with shock.
“Anya is pregnant with my child.”
Technically speaking, it could be Nico’s or Booker’s, but this isn’t the time or the place for that conversation.
“Does Leo know?” Zoya asks.
“Probably. The woman who betrayed us is still being debriefed by our friend back in Montana,” I reply. “We think he does know, though. He’s likely using her pregnancy as a means to keep her compliant, and Anya is smart enough to play along in order to secure her and our baby’s survival.”
My stomach twists painfully as I say these things.
“What do you need me to do?” Zoya asks again. The determination has returned to her eyes, and her hands no longer tremble. Her posture stiffens with each passing moment as she looks to Sergei and Andrei for some kind of guidance.
“We still have men in and around New York,” he says. “Loyal men who would come in a heartbeat, if you asked them.”
“How many?” Nico replies.
“Maybe two dozen, at most,” Zoya sighs. “They’re in hiding, fake identities, off the grid…but yes, we could reach out.”
“Then do it. Gather what’s left of the Asimov forces,” I say. “Let us lead the charge. And let’s show the Bratva that the Asimovs are not dead or buried. It’s time, Zoya. It’s time, and you know it.”
Yes, she knows it. It’s written all over her face. The dread, the wariness. I can’t blame her. She retired, hoping she’d have a peaceful sunset. Instead, she must stand up to the rising threat of Leo Sokolov after he slaughtered her son, her grandson, her daughter-in-law, and so many of her family.
But Anya’s life depends on it.
Yes, Zoya knows.
And so do we.