22. The Enemy of My Enemy
THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY
The blaring music cuts out suddenly. I jab the bag twice more, then glance at the culprit.
Aleksandr is unsmiling, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway. I’d guess he’s been standing there for longer than the past few seconds of silence. He’s wondering if he could beat me, and he’s worried about the answer.
Igor had two brothers, like us. Like me, he was the middle child. His younger brother died from poison found in his older brother’s possession. Igor killed our surviving uncle, who had claimed the chemicals were planted.
That story has haunted me from the moment I first heard it, wondering if I would believe my brother or trust the evidence in a similar situation.
I think it haunts Aleksandr too.
People act as though history is linear. In my experience, it’s more of a circle.
“Andrea made contact,” Aleksandr states. “Igor wants to talk to you.”
I nod, starting to tear the tape off my hands.
It must be related to the warehouse we torched last week.
Misha identified the two men who stole from our shipment as clan leaders from ’Ndrangheta.
Andrea is embedded within Cosa Nostra, so his knowledge will be more limited.
But Igor believes—and I concur—that any intelligence is valuable.
Finding someone willing and, more importantly, able to work as a double agent is incredibly difficult.
The bruise on my elbow has mostly faded, but the rest of my arm is stiff.
Since returning from Rotterdam, I’ve done little except train.
Excellent for my endurance, not so fulfilling for my mind.
Boxing a bag of sand allows more time to think than a live opponent who hits back, and my thoughts haven’t been pleasant companions lately.
No matter how much energy I expend, I remain restless.
Adrian Agapov departed for Chicago two days ago to meet with Malcolm, our main supplier, and to check on our general operations there.
I don’t regret stepping away; it was the right thing to do. But I underestimated how much of a pressure valve those trips served as. They were an opportunity to exist outside the hierarchy here.
I’ve wondered before if Igor arranged the death of both his brothers.
Because, speaking from experience, I’ve accepted middle child is a terrible position to be in.
I’m not expected to be pakhan one day, like Aleksandr is, or never expected to be, like Maksim.
I have to be ready to step into the top spot, yet also content with never being the one calling all the shots.
That’s not new information. But it was easier to deal with when I wasn’t stuck at Serebryanovo for the foreseeable future. Moving elsewhere would be a massive hassle and couldn’t come close to the security set up here.
I wipe the sweat off my face, then swallow some water.
“How is Ilya?” I ask, which has become my default question whenever I see my brother. One he can’t find fault with.
Aleksandr visits Serebryanovo several times a week to discuss business matters with Igor—and often me as well since my travel has become more limited—but he’s hardly ever accompanied by his wife and son. I’m not sure if that’s his preference or Victoria’s. Maybe both.
“Noisy,” Aleksandr says seriously.
“That’s … good?” I don’t know much—anything really—about babies.
Most of our men are encouraged to keep their families far from daily operations. The last child who spent time at Serebryanovo must have been Maksim.
“You should marry.”
The comment isn’t entirely unexpected. I’m practically thirty—a common age to settle down. When Igor summoned me to discuss Victoria’s request, he made it clear he expected me to choose someone else eventually. I’m not opposed to the concept, more apathetic.
“Victoria could use a friend,” Aleksandr continues.
I don’t react, rubbing a sore knuckle. So typical of my older brother, attempting to engineer my life to appease some part of his.
We exit the gym, the waning daylight and cool breeze welcome after the fluorescent lights and sweat-scented air indoors.
I glance in the garage as we pass, noting the empty spot where Maksim typically parks his Porsche.
It’s possible Igor sent him on an assignment.
Far more likely he’s off enjoying himself in some form.
Igor is reclined in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace when we enter his office. I glance at the other chair, then at Aleksandr, and opt to stand.
I don’t want there to be animosity between me and my brother. It just often sneaks in.
Aleksandr sits.
I study Igor. Our father is smiling, staring at the dancing flames, which are entirely unnecessary this time of year. He likes to watch things burn. My preference is to be the actual impetus for destruction, lighting the match.
“What is it?” I ask, an edge of impatience sneaking into the question.
We met for two hours this morning, and I can feel the lactic acid settling in my tired muscles. I skipped my usual cooldown routine in favor of not keeping my father waiting.
“Salvatore Caruso has a daughter.” Igor finally looks away from the fire, focusing on me. He smiles. “A missing daughter. She ran. Andrea says the entire Cosa Nostra is looking for her.”
I wait for him to elaborate, not understanding why this was worth a conversation.
Cosa Nostra and ’Ndrangheta keep distinct territories, but they’ll collaborate on certain operations.
If they’re asked to assist with searching for some girl, they might be less likely to retaliate from the warehouse we destroyed.
That’s the only way in which this seems relevant.
“So?” Aleksandr asks the blunt question I was wanting to.
Igor stares at him. Aleksandr holds his gaze for a few moments, then looks away first, at the fire.
“I want her.”
The comment is directed at me—both to illustrate his displeasure with Aleksandr and because I’m the one asked when it’s a task that requires leaving the country (Aleksandr is too valuable to risk; plus, he has dependents now) or he decides it needs discretion (usually disqualifies Maksim).
I frown, taken aback by the request. “Do you want a war with the Italians? Kidnapping the girl they’re looking for will draw a lot more attention than burning down a building.”
I don’t say so, but I’m also less than thrilled about targeting a child. The warehouse hit was different—they had attacked first. The only casualties were trained soldiers. I understand offense is as important as defense. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“You were right about the warehouse,” Igor states.
I carefully avoid looking at Aleksandr. You were right are words our father rarely utters.
“They never should have stolen from us in the first place. We have been too complacent. They see us as weak. We need to strengthen our position in Europe. The Italians will make that more difficult. If we have something they want … well, that will make for an interesting negotiation.” He smiles, no doubt savoring the prospect of that advantage.
I glance at Aleksandr, who appears impassive. Possibly peeved by Igor’s dismissiveness. Or he might truly not care; he’s not the one being tasked with chasing a stray down so we can establish more shipping routes.
If he won’t disagree, I will.
“It doesn’t seem worthwhile to me,” I state. “And a trip to Italy isn’t—”
“They’ve tracked her to Paris.”
Impressive, if she’s being hunted as ardently as Andrea implied. And smart—two million people live in Paris. One girl won’t be easy to find.
“How old is she?”
“Andrea didn’t know much. She hasn’t spent much time in Italy. He shared the photo that’s being distributed.” Igor nods toward his computer.
I sigh, walking over to the desk. Contemplating how else I can convince my father this is a waste of time. I shouldn’t have advocated for being so aggressive before. I should have anticipated that strategy would backfire in some form.
The screen has fallen asleep. I tap the keyboard to wake the computer.
“Twenties, I’d say,” Igor comments. “Old enough to know better.”
I don’t reply. I can’t.
I recognize the woman on the screen. I could tell Igor a lot more about her than her age—twenty-eight.
“I’ll go.”