Chapter 29
YURI
“I’m assuming this isn’t a date,” Astrid says as we walk side by side down Ontario Street, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm.
Two of my men follow half a block behind, pretending to loiter near a newspaper box. A third crosses the street ahead of us, hands in his coat, eyes sweeping the restaurant facades. It's subtle. Barely.
I huff out a laugh. “Only if your idea of romance involves eighty-year-old Bratva royalty and threats delivered over espresso.”
“Sounds charming.”
“Mmm. We’re meeting with Ivan Abramov and his brother Denis. In from New York. Old money. They don’t call meetings just to catch up.”
Astrid glances over. “Abramov. Tatiana’s father? That’s unusual, isn’t it? I thought you said he preferred to keep things at arm’s length.”
“He does,” I confirm. “Which is exactly why this meeting makes me uneasy.”
She doesn’t respond right away, but I see the calculation in her eyes. Always thinking, always ten steps ahead. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
“He didn’t say what it was about?”
“No.” My voice is clipped. “Just that it was important. And that he didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
Her brow furrows. “Could be about the Feds. In one way or another.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Two guards keep pace behind, two across the street in staggered formation.
“If he’s reaching out, it means something’s going on. I just don’t know what.”
She nods. “I suppose you’re about to find out.”
“I intend to.” My gaze lingers on her a beat too long. “In the meantime, I want you going over those documents I found at the cartel warehouse. Anything you can learn will help.”
“Of course.”
“Regardless of whether or not the Abramovs are involved, I’d like to keep them where we want them while we’re still untangling the Spalding situation, see if I can gain access to any useful information. That’ll involve a little diplomacy.”
Astrid glances over, sharp-eyed. “You really think he’s dirty?”
“I know he is,” I reply. “The alias he uses showed up on a set of financials we pulled out of that warehouse. Funds moved cleanly and buried in just the kind of paper trail a Bureau rat would think no one would bother to trace.”
Her lips form a thin line, a storm of thoughts flashing through her mind.
“There’s a cluster of wire transfers like that in those papers,” I tell her as we walk. “Dates, amounts, offshore accounts—enough to suggest movement but not enough to say who’s holding the leash.”
“Maybe the cartel?”
“Could be. Could be that the cartel is a front for someone else. Someone worse.”
A beat of silence.
“And you want me to follow the money.” She gives me the look she does when she’s both nervous and determined. “What about access?”
“Elena can help with that,” I say, glancing at her sideways. “If you hit a firewall, she’s got keys I’d rather not know about. Just ask.”
Astrid nods once, all cool resolve. “Alright. I’ll dig.”
“Carefully,” I add. “If Spalding smells us coming, we won’t get a second chance.”
She doesn't flinch. “Then I won’t give him one.”
We approach the restaurant, my guards breaking off to man the perimeter. I touch her elbow lightly before parting ways. “Be careful. And if anything feels off, call me.”
“Same to you,” she says. “If Tatiania’s any indication, I can only imagine her father.”
I smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
We stop outside the trattoria. The sign is worn, the windows fogged with heat. I spot Ivan’s silhouette at the corner booth—thick neck, white hair, fancy suit.
“I’ll be back at the mansion.”
She turns off toward the black car parked across the street. I watch as she climbs in and the car disappears. My guards shift positions. I square my shoulders and step into the restaurant.
The trattoria is dim, all amber light and dark-stained wood. The scent of garlic, wine, dark secrets, and a bloody history hangs thick in the air.
There are no other customers.
Ivan Abramov is dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, thinning hair swept back like a man clinging to the illusion of youth. His eyes are small, sharp, and always calculating.
Beside him, Denis, his brother and Tatiana’s uncle, looms. He’s broader, balder, and quieter. His suit fits poorly, his hands appearing too big for his wine glass. But his presence does the talking. Denis has that old enforcer stillness—like a dog trained not to bark, just bite.
Ivan rises from the booth with theatrical effort, arms spread like a benevolent patriarch. Denis doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. He just watches me, stone-faced.
Ivan wears a blinding smile. “Yuri, my boy! Look at you—lean, mean, and more like your father every year.”
I brace for the hug. It lands, warm, heavy, and three seconds too long. I don’t return it, just clap him once on the back to make it passable.
He pulls away, still grinning like a politician. “You’ve been keeping us waiting. But I suppose you’ve earned the right to set the clock, eh? The way you and your family are running things here in Chicago, it’s quite impressive.”
“It’s good to see you, Ivan. Denis.”
Denis doesn’t say a word; he just nods.
I sit across from them. I shake my head to the waiter as he approaches. I won’t be eating.
“Yuri, my boy,” he begins, swirling his wine like it holds some ancient truth.
“I remember when you were just a shadow at your father’s side.
Always watching, always so serious. Not serious like Denis here, though.
” He chuckles then, casting a glance at the silent mountain beside me.
“Denis doesn’t have your patience. Do you remember the dinner at your father’s place, what, fifteen years ago now?
That poor bastard from Minsk made a comment about your sister Elena. ”
He doesn't wait for me to answer.
“Crack! Just like that, jaw shattered. Could only eat through a straw for three months.” He smiles, all teeth.
“Of course, your father, who was in the other room when it happened, didn’t bat an eye when he walked into the aftermath.
Hell, I’m halfway sure he wished he was the one that did it.
That was the order of things back then; respect was expected, not negotiated. ”
I don’t take the bait. He keeps talking, as if he’s simply indulging in fond memories, not circling his real purpose like a vulture.
“You know, I often think about those days. How clean everything felt. You did what you said you’d do.
You didn’t pretend not to know the rules.
And if someone stepped out of line?” His smile sharpens.
“Well. There were consequences. Predictable ones.” He leans forward, folding his hands on the table.
“These days, it’s all paper trails and power plays through banks and shell companies.
Less honor in it, don’t you think? Less blood. ”
He nods, more to himself, satisfied he’s set the tone. The nostalgia’s just a stage curtain. I can feel it. Behind it is the real reason he called for this meeting. Something has been festering, some itch he’s decided I ought to scratch.
“Which brings me to why I asked to speak face-to-face with you and not through lawyers. The old-fashioned way, like your father would’ve done.”
Denis finally moves, nodding toward the waiter and tapping the rim of his glass in a gesture for another.
I set my water down and meet Ivan’s eyes. “Then say what you came to say.”
“Well… it’s my daughter.”
Tatiana. Of course.
“She’s upset,” he says. “Hurt.”
“About what?” It’s a rhetorical question and I already know the answer. But I don’t care. What we had was a long time ago.
“You.” There’s menace in his voice now. “She says you made promises.”
I tilt my head. “Not sure what you heard, but I didn’t make any promises. I never do unless I intend to keep them. I ended it. Clean.”
“Some promises can be made without speaking, my boy. She feels...” He waves his hand through the air as he speaks, as if clearing smoke. “Misled.”
“She feels humiliated,” I correct. “She saw me with someone new recently. That’s not the same thing.”
Denis finally speaks, low and blunt. “You should’ve kept her in the shadows if you weren’t serious. Not parading her around like you two had a future together.”
I turn to him slowly. “I don’t keep women. Not to mention, she was the one who insisted upon all of the fancy public outings.”
The mood shifts. It seems as if Ivan had been heated up and ready to go, but now that he’s seeing reality, remembering how his daughter is, he’s cooling down a bit.
Ivan nods. “We’re not asking for apologies.
But this is my daughter we’re talking about.
I can’t just tell her I walked away empty-handed.
Perhaps a kind gesture. Nikolai, my late brother’s son.
He and Tatiana have always been close. He’s been hoping for an executive role in Ivanov Holdings. Why not let him have a spot?”
I lean back in my chair and take a slow breath. “I know Nikolai, he couldn’t manage a lemonade stand. And you know damn well I don’t hand out titles like that. I already did you a favor by bringing Tatiania on board even after we’d ended things.”
Ivan stares at me like he’s weighing whether to throw his drink or the table. Denis smiles, thin and practiced.
“You’re not your father.”
“I’m not,” I agree.
Silence stretches. My phone buzzes. Astrid. I shift slightly to read the message.
We need to talk. Information about the accounts.
I tap the phone off and slide it into my pocket, heart beating a little faster.
“Well,” Ivan says after a beat, swirling the last of his wine. “If we can’t talk about positions, perhaps we can talk about partnerships. Mutual interests.”
I exhale through my nose. My instinct is to walk away.
To let him bluster and pout all the way back to his penthouse and tell Tatiana I told him to shove it.
But this isn’t just about bruised egos. Not if the paper trail Astrid’s following leads where I think it does.
If Spalding’s in bed with the Colombians and the Abramovs are possibly circling the same drain, then I need eyes everywhere.
I lean back, watching Ian over steepled fingers. “Nikolai.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
“He can have a role,” I say. “Something real enough to be respected. Not an executive chair, but not window dressing either. He’ll have a chance to prove himself.”
A long pause. Ivan blinks, slow, satisfied. “That’s very generous of you.”
I offer a thin smile. “Call it loyalty, with a careful eye on my business.”
Ivan knows there’s a hook coming. He’s right.
“However,” I continue, “I want something in return. A show of good faith.”
Ivan straightens. “Name it.”
“There’s a fund. Legacy Holdings. You’ve had it shelved in the Caymans for years, under a nominee director from Bratislava. I want access to those books. Not control, just oversight.”
Ivan’s lips twitch. “You think I’m hiding something?”
“I want to know the terrain before I let your family back on the field.”
A pause. Then, “Agreed.”
We shake on it. His hand is warm. Mine stays cold.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say as I pull away, “this doesn’t mean I admit to Tatiana’s version of events. I’m offering opportunity, not apology.”
Ivan’s smile doesn’t fade, it tightens. “Understood. And appreciated.”
We both stand. We shake again, then we part ways.
Lev is waiting in the alley behind the trattoria, one hand resting on the roof of the car. Rain slicks the concrete. He doesn’t ask how it went. Just jerks his chin toward the car.
I slide in and he follows. The doors shut, sealing us inside the kind of silence only men like us know how to respect.
“Well?” he says finally.
“They wanted compensation,” I reply, watching the water snake down the window. “A job for his nephew. Maybe a seat at the table, if I was feeling generous.”
Lev snorts. “Ivan always did think too much of his bloodline. Compensation for what?”
“Tatiana put on a show. Claimed I misled her. Made it about hurt feelings.” I glance at him. “You think they’re actually insulted, or just using it to leverage?”
“Little of both,” he says. “Tatiana’s got pride. Ivan’s got greed. And Denis,” he smirks, “he’s just got indigestion and a short fuse.”
We drive in silence for a bit as the city blurs past.
“You think they’re involved in this fed bullshit?” Lev asks as the car eases through the gray mid afternoon traffic.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Thought the meeting might give something away—a slip, a tell. Some sign the Abramovs were in bed with Spalding.”
Lev snorts. “And?”
“Nothing.” I glance out the rain-slicked window. “If they’re involved, Ivan’s playing it deep. But honestly, it didn’t feel like that. Felt more like a father trying to protect his daughter’s pride. No angles, no coded language. Just Tatiana.”
Lev’s silent for a beat. “Ivan’s always been halfway decent. For Bratva stock, anyway. A little too doting when it comes to his daughter, maybe, but loyal. Predictable.”
“I still don’t like it,” I murmur. “He came to me playing it soft, hoping I’d throw him a bone. But at least I got something out of him—access to one of the funds he manages. Legacy Holdings.”
Lev raises an eyebrow. “Smart.”
“I’ll throw it to Astrid,” I say. “See if there’s anything buried in it. If Spalding’s tied to any of their movement, it’ll show up somewhere.”
Lev grins. “Comes in handy, having a brilliant woman on the inside.”
“She’s following a separate trail, too. Those documents we pulled from the warehouse, she’s sorting through them. Spalding’s payments, shell companies, all of it. If there’s a tie to the cartel, she’ll sniff it out.”
Lev whistles low. “That’s not just trust. That’s putting the crown jewels in someone’s hands.”
“She hasn’t let me down yet.”
And I don’t think she will.
But the stakes are rising. Every breadcrumb she follows pulls us closer to the edge of something much uglier than crooked business. I want it to be worth it, want this web we’re untangling to mean something, to point us toward the people who’ve been gutting our networks from the inside.
“She’s good for you,” Lev says, more softly now. “That part’s obvious.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And I’m afraid that’s going to cost us both.