25. Antonio

Cristiano, Lucas, and our guest are in the conference room when I arrive.

Mikhail appears to be in his late thirties, maybe forty, five or six years older than me. Although he looks like he hasn’t been anywhere near a comb, a razor, or soap and water for some time, so it’s difficult to tell.

“So we’re clear,” I say, pulling out a chair across from him, “I appreciate everything you did for Cristiano, but that was yesterday, and today is a new day. Where’s your boss?”

He folds his hands on the table in front of him and sits back, eyeing me like I’m every bit the arrogant bastard I am.

“You’re as personable and charming as they say.”

I glare at him. “From the way you smell, I’m thinking you’re living on the street instead of high on the hog in an oligarch’s mansion. If you hope to improve your lot, I suggest you skip the editorializing. Where’s your boss?”

“I assume you mean Nikitin, although he wasn’t my boss.”

That’s exactly who I mean.I nod.

“I don’t know where the bastard is. He fled with a handful of his best guards, but I’m sure once they learn that he’s been summoned home, they’ll either disappear or turn him over. Their loyalty to him will only go so far.”

“You don’t have any idea where he might have gone?”

“None. If he made arrangements, it wasn’t through me. His jet is in the hangar, and his yacht is docked in Porto. A logical guess would be that he left the country. Crossed into Spain over land.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“I don’t think he’d leave without at least making an effort to bring you down.”

Fedorov said he was vengeful. “Why is that?”

“The Russian government wants a stronger foothold here. It would serve their interests well.”

“So Chernov and Nikitin got their marching orders from the Kremlin?”

“Possibly. But I wouldn’t go that far. Their fortunes were tied to the Kremlin. I believe that they wanted you gone as a gift to their boss. The Bratva exists as a parallel entity to the government—although in theory, it’s subject to its laws. The oligarchs hold their power at the behest of the president. You’d make a lovely gift.”

This guy has a lot of balls for someone who’s stinking up the room. I can respect that. “You said their fortunes were tied?”

“Chernov’s dead. And Nikitin won’t see another cent from the Russian coffers. They might not have been acting on orders to bring you down, but once they made an attempt, there would be an expectation that it was executed properly.”

There certainly have been a lot of missteps, and more than one event that should have killed me, or someone I care about, but I’m still standing.

What I want to know is why Mikhail came in so willingly, and what his connection is to Fedorov, and if he’s here on Bratva business.

“Who killed Fedorov?”

“Nikitin was responsible, I’m sure. Although it’s possible that the order could have come from somewhere higher. But I don’t think so. Nikitin was small and petty. A vindictive son of a bitch. He would have wanted to punish Fedorov for rescuing Cristiano.”

“Fedorov had a lot of enemies. But he was killed by someone who got close enough to tamper with his car. So it wasn’t just some bloke down the street who he forgot to tip.”

“That’s why I came the moment I heard you were looking for me. I assume you want Nikitin. Even though I don’t know his whereabouts, I know him. I might be able to help.”

Mikhail is Bratva. They wouldn’t help an old lady out of a ditch, if there wasn’t something to be gained for them.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Revenge. Fedorov was my uncle.”

“Your uncle? That’s interesting, because he told me he had no successor.”

“He does not. I’m not his successor.”

“But you’re blood. He trusted you enough to put you in Nikitin’s house. And you cared enough about him that you’re looking for revenge. I don’t get it.”

He eyes me for a moment. “My mother was Dimitri’s youngest sister. Like all good Bratva princesses, she was betrothed to a man from a like-minded family. But before she got married, she met the love of her life and got pregnant. My grandfather turned over his youngest daughter, just seventeen, to her betrothed’s family. But she never made it. Somewhere along the journey, she disappeared.”

Bratva princesses don’t just disappear. Neither do wine princesses, like my Aunt Vera. But Mikhail’s mother got lucky. Her betrothed’s family would have killed her and paraded her body through the streets to teach every young girl a lesson.

“Dimitri was able to get her to the US,” Mikhail continues, “and set her up with a new identity. He wired money regularly, and made sure we never wanted for anything. He would visit me when I was in college, and later—but he never saw her again.” He shrugs. “Not because he didn’t want to, but because it would have put her life in danger. Bad men have long memories.”

We do. And we pass along a list of grievances from generation to generation.

“Is she still alive?”

He peers into my eyes. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about my mother.”

Fair enough.

“How did you end up with Nikitin?”

“My uncle put out the word that he was interviewing a Russian American Ivy League graduate as an assistant. Nikitin hired me out from under him.”

He smiles.

“The oligarchs are different from the Bratva. They’re not trained in our ways. Many of them don’t have useful skills other than schmoozing, and they’re motivated by money.”

“We’re all motivated by money, Mikhail.”

“Not solely by money. Some of us take an oath to something larger than ourselves. Certainly, larger than money. Not the oligarchs. They’re in it for themselves.”

“Fedorov was the leader of the European Bratva. Is there any other arm that would want him dead?”

“With regard to the rest of the Bratva, he was revered and trusted.”

“Do you have a family?”

“No.”

“You’ll stay with us until this is over.”

His brow furrows. “I’m a prisoner?”

“No. Not yet. If you want to keep it that way, I strongly suggest that you don’t do anything that even gives me pause. That would be unwise,” I advise, pointedly. “We’ll protect you. But you’re not to go anywhere without a guard. I mean anywhere. We’ll keep your weapon, your phone, and any other electronics you have with you. Lucas will set you up with everything you need.”

I don’t think this guy is lying, but I don’t trust him, either.

When they leave, I turn to Cristiano. “Are you up for this? He just saved your life. I’m grateful, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kill him if he turns out to be a liar.”

Cristiano looks straight at me. “I already sent his DNA to be tested against what we got from Fedorov’s dinnerware.”

I nod.

“I’m grateful to him, too. And I’ll be even more grateful if he can help us find Nikitin so we can toss his lifeless body in the ocean. As far as I’m concerned, we’re at war.”

Unfortunately, that’s true.

“But are you comfortable with me working closely with Mikhail?”

I get up to leave. “You wouldn’t be working with him, if I wasn’t.”

“Thank you,” he says before I reach the door.

I turn around. “For what?”

“For the other night. For treating me like any other person of suspicion. Every guard, every soldier who works for you understands the weight of the oath they took, better today. Everyone is held to the same standard.”

“Don’t read too much into it.”

“I know it cost you—all of it, from the recording, to the pat down, right down to the cuffs.”

I don’t say anything as I open the door.

“I know you, Antonio. You do what’s required, even as it eats at your soul.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” I say with one hand on the doorframe. “Lucas is the absolute worst sailor I’ve ever run into. Did you hear we lost the damn race?”

My friend’s mouth twitches at the corners. “Next year. We’ll win big.”

Next year. It seems so far away.