Chapter 15

15

Ivan

I t was only a matter of time before Lyric would be harassed by Polina. She’s trying to hurt and control us. Max warned about this. Artur knew it would be coming. I did, too, I just didn’t think I’d react to it the way I did.

I’m not the share-your-feelings type of guy, yet Lyric tapped into that side of me the other night.

We have work to do if we’re to build a future with Lyric, if we’re to steer the Bratva away from the old ways without the city of Chicago swallowing us up whole.

Matthew Phelps needs to be knocked down a couple of pegs. Either we completely destroy him, leaving Bowman and Smith without an important political voice in the media, or we turn him, getting him to give us all the information he’s got on those bastards. Either way, Phelps isn’t jumping into that senate seat anytime soon.

With Artur and Max both busy with errands of their own, I take a long drive around downtown one afternoon, attempting to lose my federal tail before I switch gears and delve deep into the south side. I meet with an associate at a boxing club close to one of the last surviving community centers in the area. It’s a beat-up dump, but kids and adults still come here to blow off steam, to steer clear of the gangs, and to do something better with their spare time.

“We could’ve met somewhere else,” Paul says. We’re sitting on one of the wooden benches next to the boxing ring, two tweens going at it while their coach barks directions at them. “This isn’t our usual cup of tea.”

Paul Kozlov once ran bets for my father. A small man with beady eyes and one too many knife scars, he made a living by getting to know people’s deepest, darkest secrets. Now, Paul is one of our best hidden and most dangerous weapons against anyone we might deem adversarial.

“It isn’t, but I’ve got Feds watching my every move,” I tell him, my gaze wandering around the room. “How’ve you been, Paul?”

I slip him an envelope with an obscene amount of cash in it. Once our accounts were unfrozen, we took everything out and switched back to good old-fashioned paper, just in case Smith is able to bamboozle another judge before we can take him down.

“Better now,” Paul nods and grins with gratitude, putting the envelope in his inner jacket pocket.

“I’m glad to hear that. And the kids?”

“Ten and twelve, Ivan. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God for giving me boys. They’re easier to deal with, believe me,” he says. “My sister, the poor woman, she’s dealing with three adolescent girls. It’s chaos at her house, all day, every day.”

“I can imagine,” I chuckle softly, still scanning the room.

“You weren’t followed?” Paul asks me.

I shake my head slowly. “It took me thirty minutes to lose my tail.”

“That’s a long time. You’re getting old, Ivan.”

“Fuck you, Paul. I’m still younger than you.”

He chuckles dryly. “You’re past forty, brother. We’re all old past forty. Law of nature.”

“By the same law of nature, we’re still alive in our forties and still active in the Bratva. What does that make us? Really good mobsters or really pathetic ones?”

“We’re fucking geniuses because we get to watch our children and grandchildren grow up,” Paul replies, his brow furrowed as he watches the tweens spar. “Which is why I’m here, brother. I admire what you, Max, and Artie are trying to do. I’m with you, one hundred percent.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“If you fellas lose leadership, Larionov will jump in. That fucker is too old school for this day and age, Ivan. He’d throw us all back into the dark sixties, and like I said, I want to watch my boys grow up. I want to sit at Markie’s wedding and criticize the menu. I want to poke fun at Lee’s future wife the minute she gets pregnant and starts complaining that she’s fat.”

It’s my turn to laugh. Paul has a way of laying it down that makes him seem both ridiculous and hilarious, briefly making me forget about how shrewd and dangerous he actually is.

“You said you could get me intel on Matthew Phelps,” I say after we finish catching up.

“I did say that, yes.”

“And?”

“Well, what do you want to know? That two-bit politician thinks he covered his tracks, but he and his cohorts were no match for yours truly.”

I give him a long, curious look. “I need dirt, Paul. The worst kind of dirt. I can’t let him win that senate seat.”

“Which means you have to tank his polls. The only way you’re going to do that is if he winds up in jail, or if you reveal something about him so awful, it’ll keep the news cycles busy until election day.”

“So what do you have?”

Paul smiles and takes out a small thumb drive. “Courtesy of one of my many little birds scattered across the city. One of my guys knows a guy who knows a girl. Heard a whisper there. Logged anonymously into a few social media accounts to verify and double check certain details. Paid off a hooker or two, you know, the usual. Anyway, this right here is gold.”

“What’s on it?” I ask, slipping the drive into my coat pocket.

“Most of what I got is pretty circumstantial and likely easy to spin with a good lawyer and a PR team. It would bury him eventually, but you need to move fast with this guy. What I can give you that shows short-term promise is Annie Knowles.” He looks at me as if I’m supposed to know who that is.

All I can do is shrug in sheer ignorance.

“Annie Knowles is a former employee of Phelps’s city council campaign. A disgruntled employee, might I add. She was Phelps’s PA during that time. Her contract ended abruptly and she tried to go to the press with her issues on the matter. Only one obscure publication had the balls to print something, the others buried the story. That obscure publication was quickly bought by a massive media corporation and shut down. It took a while to get my hands on that article.”

“What does it say?”

“Nasty stuff,” Paul sighs. “About Phelps. But you need to talk to Annie Knowles yourself. Somebody scared her out of Chicago. She’s now living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I tracked her down and got all the information available on this chick. Legal filings state that she has an active NDA with Phelps’s campaign, so tread carefully and see how much it costs for her to break it.”

“What are the odds that she’ll want to break it?” I ask. “As far as I know, NDAs can destroy a person’s life if they’re broken.”

Paul glances around, a smile testing his thin lips. “I have it on good authority that Annie Knowles’s son is knee deep in shit with one of my bookies. Knee deep. And apparently, she hasn’t been able to reach Councilor Phelps, although she’s been trying for the past couple of weeks. This might be your chance to swoop in, Ivan. Find out how much she loves her son. Maybe she’s willing to sacrifice that NDA in exchange for—”

“Saving her son from your bookie.”

“That’s right.” He flashes a cold grin.

He’s as ruthless as ever. Always happy to work in the shadows and squeeze money out of people. I need all the help I can get, and as unpleasant as this whole business with Annie Knowles may be, it seems like both Paul and I stand to earn something if I play along.

Paul gets his money back through me. And I get the information that I need to destroy Matthew Phelps.