29. When the Russian and Irish Mobs decided to play nice
TWENTY-NINE
WHEN THE RUSSIAN AND IRISH MOBS DECIDED TO PLAY NICE
“WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?!”
My roar echoes around the warehouse as I stare at the cowering men whom I call soldiers.
Misha’s the only one dumb enough to offer, “We have every man out looking for her. We’re even goddamn coordinating with the Irish! I’m not sure there’s much else we can do, Maxim.”
Not the right answer.
My brother withers under my rage-fueled stare.
“Who’s following the police scanners?”
“I am, shukher,” Kirill, my left-hand to Misha’s right-hand, states.
“Anything at all?”
“Not in the city.”
“Where the fuck have those bastards taken her then?!” I growl, muscles bunching as I punch my desk and then kick it.
Shit goes flying, but I don’t care. I could raze this warehouse to the fucking ground and it still wouldn’t alleviate the guilt that has me wanting to drop to my knees.
I told her I’d protect her and here we are, the day after we were supposed to be married and she’s still missing!
“Get me Tima,” I snarl at Misha.
“Max, you need to calm down—”
“You calm down, Misha.” I bare my teeth. “Do as I fucking say.” Once he obeys, I snatch his phone from his hands. “Update?”
“I’ve spoken to several cops on our payroll, Maxim, but nobody’s seen her. I’m talking no one. She’s like a ghost.”
I hurl the cell at the wall.
“Max,” Misha warns, flicking a look behind me.
I twist around and find Brennan, Eoghan, and Aidan O’Donnelly standing near the warehouse entrance.
The first two aren’t unexpected. They keep their hands dirty, but Aidan’s presence is a shock. He’s like God. Watching over the city and making everyone dance to his tune.
Their expressions are blank canvases with little painted on them. But an absence of emotion means nothing where family’s concerned.
With urgency I haven’t experienced in years, I stride over to them. “Have you heard anything?”
Jaw working, Aidan studies the collection of men in my warehouse. “All polkóvniks.” Captains. “You have gone to war for our Victoria.”
The addition of the “our” pisses me off even more.
“She’s mine. Of course I have. And she’s only on this goddamn path because she wants to prove herself to you.” I jab him with my finger. “If she’s hurt, it’s on you.”
Aidan lifts his hand, grabs his chin, and cracks his neck. “I agree.”
My eyes narrow in surprise.
“There’s no trace of her in Poughkeepsie and NYC in our territories. I had Conor track the vehicle used to drive her from the drop-off point. Are you sure you got the right license plate?”
I turn to Misha, who forces out a chuckle. “Are you kidding me? He would serve my balls up for dinner if I made a mistake with that number. I took it down as soon as I watched her drive off in it.”
Brennan’s jaw works. “Any clue on the driver’s ID?”
I know Brennan’s been the unofficial head of the Irish for a long time and he’s used to worse shit than this, but there’s fatigue around his eyes, a pinched look that makes me think he hasn’t slept since she was taken.
Good.
Neither the fuck have I.
My only comfort has been Jiu-Jitsu. Annihilating a couple of my men via grappling kept me from tearing their limbs clean off.
The worst part is that her disappearance is my fault.
Not Aidan’s, like I accused.
I failed her. Not him.
“He was young,” Misha describes. “Tall. All-American. You know the type? The kind of face you want to break. I didn’t see much but what I did, I had my girl draw.”
“You should have gone to a professional, Misha.”
“Aspen reads between the lines better and I’m less likely to snap when she asks me a million questions. She’s good, Maxim, so fuck off.”
“We’re talking about my sister-in-law, right?” Aidan inserts.
“Yeah.”
Yet another way the Russians and the Irish are entangled.
“You have a picture?” Eoghan’s gaze tracks my men as if he’s seeking his next kill.
I don’t know the guy that well, but I know he’s screwed in the head department.
Misha strides forward. “Accept the file I’m airdropping.”
Brennan holds out his phone. After the small ding, he’s looking at a decent artist’s rendition.
I gave him shit but his girl, Aspen, did a good job. It’s not like Misha’s the best at describing anything. That he did, though, forces me to realize that I’m being a cunt. A lot of effort went into the drawing—for me.
Brennan immediately sends it off to Seamus and I watch over his shoulder, as do the others, when the ticks turn blue.
Brennan: You know who this is?
Seamus: Yeah. Why? Is this to do with Victoria? Did that fucker hurt her?
Brennan: Who is it, Shay? Just give us a name
Seamus: I can only remember his last name. It’s Carver. Wait a second. He’s on the hockey team. I can find his first name.
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to go out and torture this Carver podonok for information but knowing that if I fuck this up for Victoria when this might be business as usual for the Veronians, she’ll kill me.
I rub my temple where an ache set in the moment she left me at that goddamn gala.
It’s been a nightmare—balancing the belief that all was well as hours turned into days before accepting that something had gone wrong.
I only called in the Irish once there was no sign of her the morning after we should have married.
Brennan announces, “We have a name.”
“Get it to Conor,” Aidan orders.
“I hate to play devil’s advocate,” Misha blurts, “but Victoria seems to want to do this. I’m not saying I agree, but she’s already killed for the cause.”
Aidan’s eyes narrow, but it’s Eoghan who roars, “What?!”
Brennan stands taller. “She had to kill someone?”
“It was kill or be killed,” I intone grimly.
Aidan glances at Brennan, who shakes his head. “She told none of us this.”
“If she told Shay, he’d have looped us in.” Withstanding their scrutiny is child’s play. Brennan eventually ruminates, “But she told you.”
“I was there. I vouched for her.”
“Explain,” Aidan barks.
“You’re on Russian turf, O’Donnelly,” I warn. “This is a coordinated effort because of Victoria, but don’t forget whose land you’re standing on.”
Though I see a nerve twitch in his eye, his annoyance clear, he lifts a hand. “I apologize.”
Bowing my head in acceptance, I tell Brennan, “We can at least scope out the situation once we have more on the guy who took her. I doubt she’d have reckoned on this game of theirs running this long.
“As for the other, I looked into the Veronians when she told me her plan.”
“There isn’t that much to find,” Eoghan argues. “It’s why her becoming a member would be useful.”
“I’m not going to surprise anyone by suggesting that the high-class girls in their stable have cameras in their rooms?”
Aidan frowns. “Of course.”
“The more interesting individuals, I’ve been harvesting info on for a long time. They were ex-Bratva customers.” That sparks their interest. “I cultivated them. Cheaper rates to keep them loyal, the best of the stock, you know the drill.”
“They could have been playing you. Feeding you fake intel.”
“You give these arrogant men more credit than they’re due,” I concede. “They were born thinking they were better than everyone else. They die with that same belief. I do, however, check their intel before actioning it. Does that pass your approval, Eoghan?”
He scoffs.
“One of these men, Harrington Sr., is a regular of mine. The fucker talks in his sleep. Even before Victoria told me about her desire to become a Veronian, I already had him earmarked as potential if I needed an outside source.
“The second she came to me, I had his Domme call him to tell him she had a client cancel. He nearly tripped through the door in his haste to get to her.
“The problem with masochists is they have a pretty high pain tolerance. But we found our in and he sang like a canary.”
“So, you knew what was going to happen during the rites? Why the fuck didn’t you warn her?”
“The shit isn’t the same every time and I told her what I could as and when he broke.
That intel is why I was there. They partner off the women with a brother.
Literally. It typically ends in marriage.
” Or death. “I vouched for her and put my name into play. As for this bullshit, they place them in high-pressure situations and watch the fallout. I told her as much.”
“High-pressure… like a hostage situation?” Eoghan exclaims.
“What did you want me to do?”
“Protect her, dammit.”
“I DID. I have. I’ve been protecting her. Making sure that people in this city know she’s mine. There’ll be repercussions—”
“No one’s untouchable,” Brennan rasps, and I can see memories in his eyes. Memories I share.
I saw his wife when we went looking for her and Victoria after my enemies had taken them. Abramovicz wanted Victoria. That dirty cunt wanted a fourteen-year-old girl. I still regret letting Brennan have that kill.
Aidan grabs his shoulder. “We’ll bring her home, Bren.”
“In how many fucking pieces?” he booms.
His words have me breaking out in a sweat. “I’ll burn that society to the ground if they hurt her.”
“Consider it a fucking party because I’ll string them up by their balls,” Aidan vows.
Eoghan seethes, “Not before I’ve picked them off like pigeons.”
Dipping his chin at his brothers, then me, Brennan swipes a hand through his hair. But when his phone lights up, he nearly drops it in his haste to read the message he’s received.
Conor: Alec Carver’s involved in Victoria’s disappearance? He’s a senior on track for a major in marketing. Son of Desiree Carver—she saved Fetch Bank from crashing during the ‘08 recession.
“Ask Conor to see if he can access the NYPD’s surveillance system. Track the vehicle’s movements the last couple of days?”
When my cell buzzes inside my jacket pocket, I immediately accept the call.
“Maxim?”
Pressing a hand to the nearest wall, I use it to prop me up. Then, knowing she needs me, I snarl at her family, “It’s her.” Endeavoring to keep my tone calm, I put the phone on speaker. “Victoria, where are you?”
“I need a lawyer.” Her voice turns syrupy. “Excuse me, officer. Which police precinct am I in?”
“We’re in Mt. Palisades, miss. There’s only one here.”
“I’ve never been in this kind of situation before, officer,” she murmurs, that syrupy sweetness turning gooier than taffy. It’s so unlike Victoria that all of us share a bewildered look. “What happens when my lawyer comes? Do they ask for Detective Bordeau’s name or for mine?”
Brennan’s already typing out the detective’s name and sending it off to Conor.
“They can ask for either.” He clears his throat. “I’ll stay by the entrance and make sure that your legal counsel makes it to you.”
“What’s your name again, officer? You’ve been so kind during this difficult time.”
“Oh, it’s fine, miss. But, erm, my name’s, erm, Brady Niven.”
“Thank you so much.” To me, her voice still that butter-soft coo, she continues, “Rachel Laker, Wynter’s mom. She’ll help.”
I can tell she’s close to hanging up so I rumble, “Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“You are my business, pchelka.”
Her swift inhalation is the only answer I get before she cuts the line.
My jaw works as I find Rachel Laker’s name in my contacts. “She used names for a reason.”
“They arrested her?” Eoghan snaps. “What the fuck is going on?”
“This is better than a hostage situation,” Misha points out. “Real-life consequences that someone like her wouldn’t be used to handling. Good way of measuring her strengths and weaknesses when she’s backed into a corner.”
I hate that he’s right. But, mostly, I just appreciate that we know her location. Something is better than nothing.
When Rachel Laker’s number rings off, I try again.
“Bordeau,” Brennan reels from his phone. “One of Mt. Palisades’ most decorated cops, according to Conor, but also one with the highest number of complaints against him.” His jaw clenches. “By women defendants.”
“I’ll end him,” I rage.
Misha grabs me by the arm. “Later. Let’s figure out what the fuck’s happening first.”
I shake off his hold on me. “Of course.”
But that bastard has received his last complaint.
“Wait, did you say the guy you’ve been pumping for information was a Harrington?” Brennan demands. At my assent, he continues, “His son was found dead in a Mt. Palisades’ country club on Friday night.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s the fucker she killed.”
“Hello? This is Rachel Laker speaking.”