Chapter 17
MATVEI
The neon lights coming from the diner on the south side look cheerful against the damp night.
There aren’t many people here at this hour.
The air is thick with the scent of frying oil.
A few teenagers sit in a corner booth, there’s an older couple at the table next to them, and a guy with a beanie pulled over his long, stringy hair occupies the other corner.
He’s drumming on the table while he watches something on his laptop, his eggs and hash browns long forgotten.
And there’s the police officer, raising an arm and waves when he sees me.
“Are you ever not in a suit?” he asks. “Relax. It’s midnight, for Christ’s sake.”
“Frank,” I greet him, slipping into the booth across from him, making sure I’m facing the door where I can see everyone coming and going.
The waitress sets my coffee down abruptly on the Formica table, the dark brown liquid spilling over the sides. I wipe away the spots, neatly folding my napkin and taking a sip. It’s bitter and watery, as always. I push the coffee away and adjust my cuff.
“Where did you get those?” Frank asks, pointing to the cufflinks I’m wearing—a tiger outlined in gold and diamonds that glint subtly in the yellow fluorescent lights.
“They’re an heirloom.”
“No kidding. Something from the old country?”
“Something like that.”
Frank’s small talk is getting annoying. All humor leaves his face when he says, “That was a nasty blaze. We heard about it over the radio. Your warehouse?”
“Yes.” I swallow the anger that burned as hot and heavy as the fire. I watched my warehouse collapse in on itself while the flames appeared high enough to turn the low clouds a hazy orange. “It and everything inside of it has been destroyed.”
Frank’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head slightly. “Anyone going to find anything they shouldn’t in the cleanup?”
“No.” I meet Frank’s gaze dead-on. “Everything in there was entirely legitimate. It was full of product that was supposed to ship out to the buyer tomorrow. It was important.”
What the hell is going on? That’s the question pounding in my head since the warehouse foreman called me in a panic and told me everything was on fire.
The worst part is, the product in that warehouse was truly and entirely legal—an enormous shipment that was supposed to be the cornerstone of my bid to turn more and more of our business dealings legal.
I’m so angry I can barely see straight. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. You don’t hit a fully legal shipment without expecting to make a statement. You don’t hit me at all without expecting deadly retaliation, and there are very few who would want to risk that.
“You have the tip I sent you?” I ask Frank.
The only thing one of my men remembered was seeing a dark green sedan he didn’t recognize. He managed to fire at it and get half the license plate as it was speeding off, which I’d sent to Frank.
“Here’s what I found.” Frank slaps down a piece of paper and slides it over to me. It’s the full license plate of a car that matches the description of an old, green Buick.
“That mean anything to you?” he asks.
I study the information. “Nothing.” Even the name the car is registered to doesn’t ring a bell.
“Okay, well, one of my guys spotted it a couple of blocks down from here. Feel like taking a drive?”
I follow Frank’s cruiser to a block of faded brick apartments. The street is quiet, our breath coming out in thick clouds as we walk around to find the car.
When we come upon it, Frank leans down to check the license plate. “This is it.”
I feel the hood. The engine is still slightly warm, despite the frost creeping up the windshield. Even more damning is the bullet hole in one of the doors.
“This is from one of my men. He managed to get a few shots in as they were driving off.”
That’s all the information I have. I’ve never seen this car in my life, and I’ve never heard the name it’s registered to.
“Did someone report it stolen?”
“Nope.” Frank scratches under his hat, perplexed. “This is the address it’s registered to. The owner has no priors or history other than a drunk and disorderly and a minor theft a few years back. Nothing since. I don’t know if he’s cleaned up his act or just managed to hide it.”
Or gone deeper into something that kept him out of the view of law enforcement.
This is all too clean. Why would some random guy in a random car come after me?
Not that I haven’t made enemies—I have far more enemies than friends—but something about this particular one feels off.
Why now? Why that warehouse? Nobody knows the business is legit except for Evgeny, myself, and the lawyer who helped me draw up the deal.
“Which of your officers found the car?” I ask.
“Preston.”
I can’t quite stifle the groan, which causes Frank to raise his eyebrows in question. “She responded to the shooting outside of the Mancini wedding,” I tell him.
Frank’s eyes study me for a moment. “Did she actually approach you? She’s got more balls than I thought.”
I crouch beside the bullet hole to inspect it. “She did more than approach me. She lectured me.”
Frank laughs. “No shit? That mouth of hers might get her into trouble someday, but she’s got more guts than half the guys on the force.”
I’m about to reply when something hits the car to my left. I duck instinctively. We’re being shot at.
Frank drops down as another bullet hits the car and reaches for the radio on his shoulder. “Shots fired at the police!” he yells, adding our location.
More bullets rain around us. I pull my gun from its holster as I stare into the frozen darkness, waiting to see a flash from a muzzle.
“There.” I point to a window with the curtains drawn back.
“See if you can get closer,” he says. “I’ll cover you. Do not fire unless fired upon, understand?”
I nod, swinging around wide and keeping to the shadows as I get closer to the window.
I’m nearly there when a searing pain steals my breath.
I duck behind a low wall, knowing without looking that I’ve been shot.
I let out a string of curses and check my shoulder.
Even in the darkness, I see the first hints of a stain against the white of my shirt.
I have to take a deep breath to steel myself. I hear Frank fire a few rounds and sirens in the distance. I stand and fire at the window until I’m almost out of bullets.
The curtains wave in the breeze and a sudden silence falls. I creep up to the window. There is no movement, and when I cautiously peer in, I find the room empty.
“Is he in there?” Frank calls out.
“I doubt it,” I respond, clamping a hand to my wounded shoulder.
He runs up beside me, breathless. “I’m waiting for backup to go in.”
I shake my head. “I’m guessing he’s long gone.”
As Frank talks into his radio, I look at my wound under the streetlights. A red stain is rapidly spreading across my shoulder.
“Fuck,” Frank says, his eyes wide. “Don’t you guys wear bulletproof vests?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. I’m calling for a bus.”
“I’m fine,” I bite out the words. “It’s a through-and-through. It’ll stop bleeding soon enough.”
“Yeah, when you bleed out.”
I have to bite back a groan of pain as I strip my jacket off and tear the sleeve off my shirt, tying it around my shoulder as a temporary tourniquet. The police sirens are getting closer.
“I’ll be fine, Frank. Let me know what else you find.”
His expression turns to defeat. He knows there’s no use arguing with me. “If you’re still alive, I’ll let you know.”
I give a nod and slip carefully into my car, letting out the groan I’ve been keeping in only when the door is closed. The force of it makes my throat raw.
I drive home, avoiding the cops and angry the shooter, whoever he is, got away, along with my only lead.
Sonya wanders into the bathroom while I’m digging out my first aid supplies. She’s sleepy, her eyes are half-closed, and her hair is a mess in a way I would find adorable if I weren’t in such pain.
“Matvei?” she says, confused and frowning at me in the mirror. “Did you just get home?”
Having someone waiting for me is an entirely new experience. I realize I never told Sonya where I was going or when I would be back. I’m not used to anyone caring outside of Evgeny, who always knows where I am.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, glad my suit coat hides the blood. “Go back to sleep, Sonya. You need your rest.”
“So do you. Since I’ve been here, I’ve barely seen you sleep at all.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“It’s just the lighting. Go back to sleep.”
Sonya stares at me. For a moment, I think she really is going to go back to bed and leave me to patch myself up in peace.
But she’s looking at my face, where I can’t hide the creases of pain.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been shot, and it’s easy to forget exactly how much it hurts.
The wound at the wedding was only a graze.
“Alright,” she says, her tone suspicious, and I know she’s not going back to bed. “What’s going on? Something’s off about you.”
Leaning against the counter and trying to breathe through the pain, I dip my head. “I’m fine. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. Please, just go back to bed.”
The words come out harsh and impatient, sounding like an order. Her eyes widen, and she takes a step back before noticing something on the floor. She gasps.
“You’re bleeding.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to snarl at her to go away, especially as she tries to grab for the hand I have clamped to the wound.
“What the hell, Matvei, you’re hurt. My God, look at all this blood! Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“I’m not going to the hospital. I’ll be fine, I just need to patch myself up.”
Sonya’s eyes dart to my face, then back to the wound and the bloodstain on my shirt. “Are you kidding me? This is not something you patch up by yourself. Can you let me freaking see it?”