Chapter 33 – Poppy
Everything was ready. A traditional Bulgarian dinner warmed on the stove and in the oven. I outdid myself with the roasted lamb, the stuffed cabbage, and the green beans. The fluffy pogacha was the crowning achievement, but the revani—a sponge cake soaked in lemon syrup—was a close second.
It was perfect.
The sheltered, arguably spoilt mafia princess, who’d spent her exile learning and growing, was back with a vengeance. If this meal didn’t convince the developer to build on our side of the highway, the only option left was a gun pressed against his head.
I shuddered.
I wouldn’t put it past Ivan to resort to that if he was desperate enough.
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t get to that point,” I muttered, setting the last artfully folded napkin on its plate.
Looking at the clock, I was just about to order Brady inside to wash up.
While other parents might send their kids away for such an important “business” dinner, I wanted him present.
First, because I liked having the boy around.
Second, I firmly believed children wanted to be involved, not pushed away and told to do their own thing.
And finally, because it might help sell our cause to see a family gathered for a meal.
If the Bulgarians could mind their manners, keep their weapons safely tucked away, and be pleasant, we just might pull off this shenanigan.
The front door banged open. Angry shouts filled the front of the house.
My heart shot to my throat. What now?!
Hurrying into the living room, I stopped dead in my tracks. The developer, who I’d briefly met at Penelope’s dinner party, was tossed in a heap on the couch. His dress shirt was rumpled, dirt streaked his face and sleeves, and there was a hole in his dress pants.
But the most disturbing aspect was the binding tying his hands behind his back.
Fighting back the rolling panic, I found my voice. “What the hell is this?”
Ivan kicked off his boots. “Your dinner guest.”
I gaped at him. “What—” breath “Why—” gasp “How?”
Ivan frowned and shot a look at Rayko, who sauntered in behind him. “You wanted Harrington to come for dinner, right?”
“She’d better say yes,” Rayko grumped. “Otherwise, that was a hell of a lot of work to bring him.”
The captive, because that clearly was what he was, garbled something. I realized his mouth was gagged with a necktie. Hurrying over, I tugged at the silk band.
“Haroldson was supposed to be our GUEST,” I couldn’t help shouting. This was all wrong. This was…a freaking disaster. The truth was starting to become painfully clear. But still, they needed to explain themselves.
“Tell me exactly what you did,” I snapped.
“I’ll tell you,” the enraged developer bellowed. “They came into my portable office on one of my sites and kidnapped me!”
I slapped myself on the forehead. “They didn’t.”
It wasn’t a question, and I was talking to myself.
“Damn right, they did,” the developer raged, flopping over.
I jumped out of his way.
“You messed with the wrong man, Mladenov!” he shouted.
“Mama?” Brady stood in the living room archway. Boris stood behind him, basketball tucked under his arm.
The child’s presence subdued the developer. I took advantage of the momentary silence to think through a solution. The best course seemed to be carrying through.
“Mr. Haroldson—”
“You said it was Harrison,” Rayko muttered to Ivan, who shrugged.
I glared at them. “Zip it,” I snapped. Turning back to our reluctant guest, I took a deep breath. “My sincerest apologies for the circumstances. This was not how I wanted to welcome you to my home.”
The developer glared at me.
Ivan stilled. I shot him a glance, seeing something hungry and feral dance through his black gaze. I was too furious at him to acknowledge the intimate moment, so I let it pass.
“Brady, run and grab me a scissors so I can cut these zip ties off,” I instructed.
“Sure, mama! But…” Brady frowned. “We don’t run with scissors. Right?”
I bit my tongue and counted to five.
“Right, bud,” I said with a forced smile.
He took off. Boris leaned against the archway, taking in the sight. He said something I didn’t understand to the others, and Rayko snorted.
“Enough,” I snapped. “Mr. Haroldson, what these brutes failed to accomplish was inviting you here for a wholesome family dinner so that we could casually discuss our situation. That’s all.
Any violence or threats were just bad manners on their part.
If you’d rather have dinner with just me and my son, we’ll oblige, but I made a lot of food, and I would like the others to be there if they promise to behave. ”
I ignored Ivan’s outburst about being kicked out. He’d messed up, and I was dead serious about the consequences.
Brady skidded to a halt beside me and handed me the scissors. I gestured to the developer’s wrists. Haroldson glared at me but turned his body slightly so that I could reach the bindings at his back. The audible snip filled the room.
“It does smell good in here,” Haroldson grumped, shooting unspoken threats in Ivan’s direction. “I suppose a bite or two would be fine, since you went to all that trouble.”
“Thank you,” I breathed. Handing Brady the scissors, I bid him go wash up. “You three idiots join him,” I ordered, planting my hands on my hips.
Ivan jerked his chin, a silent command for his men to listen to me. The beast stayed put, hovering near the front door, watching for trouble.
“Can I fix you a cocktail or grab you a glass of lemonade?” I tried to make my voice sound breezy and light. Inside, I was a writhing mess of nerves. Sweat coated my palms, and my fingers shook.
“Scotch?” Haroldson rubbed his wrists.
“On the rocks or neat?” I asked, already escaping to the kitchen.
“Rocks.” Haroldson followed, probably not wanting to stay anywhere close to Ivan. He let out a short whistle. “This kitchen is incredible. How long ago was it done?”
I paused to look around at the new cabinets, countertops, and appliances. “Just a few weeks ago. I forget the exact date.”
The developer hummed. “I started in my dad’s construction business with my brother. We built houses all up and down the Elk Grove area. But once I got the hang of it, I started remodeling older places. Breathing fresh life into the things that had fallen into disrepair.”
He took the scotch and muttered his thanks.
“I love what they’ve done to the place,” I agreed. “It was a wreck when we first moved in, but now it feels like home.”
I didn’t meet Ivan’s gaze as I spoke.
The more times I said it, maybe the kingpin would finally hear and believe me.
“You work with your brother, right?” I added, keeping the conversation flowing.
Haroldson nodded. “I run the business side of the projects, Jeff runs our crews.”
Half listening, I reorganized the disastrous situation.
My plans for appetizers on the back patio seemed out of place.
How were we supposed to sit out back with the bumbling goons who were currently traipsing out of the bathroom?
Plus, Haroldson was clearly uncomfortable, which made me decide to just have everyone sit down.
It took a good thirty minutes for the smell of distrust to lift a fraction.
It lingered, like a piece of rotten fruit stuck in the back of a fridge, but I forced everyone’s attention on the meal.
Brady was instrumental for carrying the conversation.
He jabbered about our plans to homeschool, regaled the developer with tales of life in the cozy cottage and the family ranch, and then chatted about how he hoped to make lots of friends here in Chicago.
“Let’s take a walk,” Ivan suggested when the slices of sponge cake disappeared.
I winced, shooting a worried look outside. “Is that such a good idea?”
Ivan frowned at me. “It’s part of the plan, no?”
The developer looked between us, brows knitting together as the easy vibes of dinner dissipated and that bad stench grew stronger.
“No, of course it is,” I said quickly. I was not going to let the mistrust poison the air I worked so hard to clear. “I was just checking that we had enough time.”
Legs shaking, I followed the men outside.
As we walked, Ivan began to tell stories about each house we passed.
There was old man Miroslav. He was tortured by the KGB but escaped to find his family murdered.
Here in America, he met a lovely Scottish woman, and they had seven grown children, twenty-one grandchildren, and were expecting great-grand baby number eleven by Christmas.
On the next block over in the pumpkin-orange house was a family from Nigeria.
The parents fled the political unrest and came here impoverished, but they worked their asses off to send their kids to the private school, and now their son was doing a medical residency and the daughter was a junior professor of philosophy at Loyola.
The cottage with a well-kept garden was tended by a Filipino lady named Fally.
Her son was the store manager of the grocery store I shopped at.
Each house had a history.
Ivan knew the stories of every single person on the mile trek to the rundown shopping center.
“And this is the best we can offer this neighborhood,” Ivan sighed, pointing at the dilapidated structure.
“There’s no money here. Everyone commutes to work.
But what if the jobs stayed local? What if there was plenty of employment to offer these people, and anyone else who wants to call this portion of the city their home? ”
The developer gazed over the scene with a critical eye. “It’s going to take a hell of an investment to tear this down and rebuild.”
“Money has never been an issue,” Ivan said in a clipped tone. “I told Commissioner Dallas that on multiple occasions.”
Haroldson scoffed. “That prick has no sense of right and wrong. He’s stalled more than one project and given my company a good share of grief.”