Chapter 6 #2
I give him the address to the alley behind Petals & Thorns.
“Give me fifteen.” And with that the line goes dead.
The highway opens ahead of me, dark asphalt ribboning toward the city's glow on the horizon. I use the drive to think. My mind works systematically over what I know, piece by piece. And then I focus on what I don’t know.
The first thing that comes to mind is what my son could be after.
Territory? Not likely. He’s Bratva and I know he won’t be in this country much longer.
Maybe someone took advantage of him and he made them pay.
Cora could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Everything is one big coincidence. But I know people.
Men who grew up at the knee of my father learn to never do anything without a reason.
Wasted energy is wasted life, my father had a habit of saying.
We have a limited time on this rock and why use that time on anything that doesn’t benefit the family?
It's where we butted heads. He saw my relationship with my deceased wife as a waste of time. I did not. He killed her. I nearly killed him. I learned too late that he didn’t land in the grave I intended for him.
Shit like that causes big rifts in families and I’m still paying for his mistakes and mine.
I scrape my nails through the thick bristle on my jaw.
But none of that tells me why my son is still in Chicago. There’s no way he could be after anything the Syndicate has. He’s stupid, but not suicidal. He knows my brothers will defend our territory no matter the cost.
So why the dead man?
I slam an open palm down on the steering wheel. “I don’t fucking know, but I’m going to find out.”
I mentally circle back to what I do know: Cora Vale witnessed a murder. Nikolai pulled the trigger. Nikolai's men hunted her like an animal for what she saw. She dropped a wish at Scarlet Thorn and it landed in my lap.
Those are the facts I can organize and act on.
I turn the ring on my finger. A familiar grip of guilt tightens around my guts as my head and heart seesaw between wanting to keep her and knowing I have to resolve this quickly so we can both get back to our lives.
The city rises around me. Streetlights streak past the windshield and the familiar rhythm of late-night Chicago fills the silence.
I arrive at the alley behind Petals & Thorns and the scene is active.
Cop cars line the street, their red and blue strobes painting the brick walls in alternating color. The forensic van takes up nearly the full entrance to the alley with their back doors propped open. Yellow tape is strung across the alley entrance and across the front door of her shop.
Drake pulls up next to me and slides out of the driver seat to meet me.
I reach back in for my overcoat and slide it on while he takes a call.
He always had a flair for the dramatic and tonight is no different.
He has on a black coat with the collar turned up against the cold.
Slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket, he falls into step beside me without a word.
“All good?” I ask.
“Rafael. He says to call if you need him and to make sure the girl stays alive.”
“Cora Vale,” I offer.
“Welcome to our side of the fence, brother.”
“I shake off his words, but Drake isn’t done teasing me. “It started the same exact way for Rafael, Luca, Massimo, and me. You are going to fall head over heels in love and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it. Killer by night, teddy bear by day. Mark my words.”
I’ve already fallen. But I’m not about to admit my weakness. “Fuck you, Drake.”
We walk the perimeter of the yellow tape and blend in with the onlookers gathered along the sidewalk—the usual crowd that forms whenever they see the aftermath of a crime.
I position myself where I can see the alley mouth and the shop front at the same time.
Through the window I can see the hand-lettered sign, the wooden counter she works behind, buckets of flowers that are already wilting. The strobing lights throw blue and red across the mural of climbing vines on the far wall.
I’ve made a life out of reading people and using their weaknesses against them. But there’s nothing about Cora Vale that shows weakness. She’s built a beautiful life full of color and light. My son went and ruined it for her.
I tap the pocket of my overcoat. I’ve try to keep my smoking habit to one a day, but fuck it. I pull out the case from my pocket and pop it open. I slide a cigarette out, tap it on the outside and then light up.
I inhale, hold. Release. My nerves start to settle immediately.
Rage and guilt mix a toxic poison in my blood.
I force the bitterness back into the pit of my stomach and take another drag of my cigarette.
I brought this on myself when I fell in love back when I thought I could have a woman at my side.
We were both young, stupid and thought the world would part open for us and do things our way. At least I did.
She died because she loved me and the child we brought into this world paid the price.
And now I am paying it three-fold.
Drake shakes his head beside me. “Old habits die hard.” He juts his chin toward my cigarette.
“Especially tonight, moy brat.” The past has sharp claws and loves to dig into the soul of a man. The wounds never fully heal.
Drake holds my gaze long enough for the silence to say what neither of us will. “Keep them under lock and key, Kasyan. We don't need more trouble tonight.”
He means bodies.
I crush my cigarette out underfoot and pull out another.
Kasyan. It’s been a long time since anyone has called me the death god.
Drake uses my old name, the one the Bratva elders gave me when I was young, heartless and building a reputation on the Saint Petersburg docks.
I buried it when I left Russia. I never wanted to let death touch my life again.
How foolish I was back then. Not many men in Chicago know that name and what it cost me to own it. Drake is one of the few.
I put the smoke to my lips, light up and lean my head back to release the smoke. “That reminds me. I left a mess at Cora Vale’s place.”
“Kon is already on it. I called him when we hung up.”
“Spasibo, moy brat.”
Drake gives me his signature single nod that means a hundred words for normal people. To me it says, “you’re welcome.”
As we talk, the coroner's team is loading the body.
The stretcher emerges from the narrow passage between buildings, body bag zipped.
Two technicians navigate the uneven concrete with the practiced efficiency.
They angle toward the waiting van and one of them adjusts his grip to clear a patch of broken glass.
The bag shifts. The zipper slides open a few inches. The face beneath becomes visible for half a second before the other tech notices and tugs the zipper back up.
Half a second is all I needed. My jaw tightens. Fuck me. I know that face.
I step back. I’ve had an uneasy feeling all night and now I know why. “I know him.”
I take a slow drag on my cigarette and then add, “My son is up to something bigger than just a single dead body in a back alley. He’s doing something. There’s always an angle with a Volkov.” Renewed irritation clings to my nerves.
Drake nods. “Let’s start at the top. Who is the dead guy?”
“My contact. The best I had. A high-level operative in the Eastern European shipping network who has been feeding me intelligence for years about my family back home. Reliable. Careful.”
“Apparently not careful enough. Your father must have known and sent your son to take care of the problem.” Drake counters, watching the scene in front of us. Cops are speaking with a few witnesses while others keep the reporters at bay.
I nod in agreement. “Could be. Would be the simplest explanation.” In our line of work information is a commodity that people kill over.
If my informant was behind Cora's shop, he was there for a reason. If he bought roses, he was establishing a routine of normalcy before making contact. If he left through the back, he most likely knew someone was watching or following him.
And my son killed him.
But who was my informant meeting? We didn't have anything scheduled, but that isn't really how it works. A source has something, he finds a way to get that intel to you. I’m not under any illusion that I am the only one he supplied information to. These men work for the highest bidder. Was he playing both sides of the fence? Did he have something for me and was trying to get to me? He knows I’m on the hunt for the person behind the strategic moves against Syndicate shipping operations.
Normally he would have called and set up a meeting. “With Redthorne Holdings only three blocks away, I have to think he was trying to get to me.”
It’s all an assumption. The only cold hard fact I have is my son killed my informant and I want to know why. That fact also points toward my son being the man I’ve been hunting for months and isn’t that a twisted piece of irony.
Son against father.
Fire rumbles through my veins. I hate assuming.
“I can already tell where your head is going.”
I flick the long tube of ash off my cigarette and take the last drag on it before crushing it underfoot. Leaning my head back I blow the last of the smoke out and just stare up at the sky. “When in our line of work is anything ever simple?”
Drake gnashes his teeth before he speaks. “It would be a miracle,” he deadpans.
“Exactly.”
My gut clamps around the poison gurgling in my stomach.