Chapter 4

Chapter 4Four years laterViktorIt took four years total to renovate and refurbish the Bratva’shunting lodge up near Salem, and by then, I was ready to sell the damned thing and move on with my life. But I had to admit, the results looked good, and I was considering keeping it.Uncle Mischka had insisted on restoring the place using traditional means—stonecutters, woodworkers, stained-glass artists, antiques specialists, a few of the best even brought in from New York. The lodge had modern amenities, but they were nestled inside timber and tile walls that looked the same as when the big old house had been new, over a century and a half ago. Now that Uncle was gone, the place was all mine—if I could get the memory of what it had cost me out of my head long enough to enjoy it.Now, Boris and I stood in the splash of multicolored light that came from the towering stained-glass windows in the two-story entryway, talking shop while we waited on the others. No hunting today, Mischka had insisted on being buried up here, and we were still in black suits from the funeral.“You’ll be pakhan now,” Boris said unnecessarily, as he fit a cigarette between his lips. He didn’t light it, smoking in the lodge was forbidden, even to the head of my Sovietnik. Boris was more than one of my internal security heads—he was my strong right hand, and I relied on him for much.I grunted my acknowledgement, thinking of Mischka, wondering if he was at peace now after the brain cancer had turned his last six months into hell. I had taken over for him unofficially about a year ago, and everyone was used to me being in that position. My elevation was just a technicality, more for the outsiders we dealt with than for us. “It’s what he wanted.”“And everyone else.” His big hand touched my shoulder lightly.Mischka’s era had brought us to Boston, established us, and made us strong. Now I had to live up to that. But at least Boris and the others had my back, instead of plotting to slip a knife into it, like so many back in Russia.“What about the estate sale?” Mischka had died without a family, aside from us, and he had a lifetime of belongings to deal with. I had taken much of his rare book collection, but there were duplicates, and things that just didn’t interest me among them.He sighed. “The auction houses in Salem are few and booked up. We’ll be going with a house down in Cambridge.”Cambridge. I immediately thought back four years, to the red-haired woman I had met just down the road and spent the night with. Olivia. The one who had vanished.I couldn’t help my regret at that. She must have seen my tattoos and my sidearm lying with my clothes and panicked. It had ruined my plans for the morning, I had fallen asleep thinking of keeping her. I had never had that kind of connection with a woman, not before nor since. I’d asked at reception the next day, but she’d paid in cash and the ledger just required a name. It had crossed my mind to try and look her up, but as always, life took over—and with Uncle Mischka’s illness I had other things to deal with.“Fine, send me the details and I’ll arrange a meeting.” I was curious to see if it was Olivia’s auction house. If that wasn’t who we were using, I’d have to make sure it was.She could have moved on from there a while ago. She could be anywhere. She could be married. It was probably ridiculous of me to even be thinking about her right now. But if she wasn’t married, if she was still in the area, still working at an auction house then I’d find her. I’d see her again. Olivia wasn’t the kind of woman I could easily forget, and what did I have to lose? I had no doubt that she’d remember me. If nothing else, I was the scary mobster she had run away from.I found myself smiling slightly at the thought. I could work with that.“Look…” Boris hesitated. “The men keep talking about the Puerto Ricans. Do you have a plan for dealing with them yet?”My smile slipped. The Puerto Ricans had been steadily eating into our gun-running profits for the last decade. They were a Netas chapter, the single Boston Pueblo, with plenty of support both back home and in the States. Formerly handling parts of the drug trade that we didn’t, they had stayed under our radar for a long time. But once cannabis had been legalized, the bottom had fallen out from one of their businesses, and they had branched out into areas we controlled to make up the shortfall.They were a smaller chapter than our Bratva, and so far, our clashes had been brief and resulted in injuries, not deaths. I was reluctant to call for wiping them out, especially when they were so hard to locate and lock down. El Luchador, their president, was the only one we knew much about at all—and even then, no-one knew his actual name or what he looked like.“I want to try for talks with El Luchador as soon as possible. See how reasonable he is.” Or how easily intimidated, if it needed to come to that. “We’ve shared the city without these problems for decades.”“Yeah, but they weren’t running guns then. And we weren’t getting into fights.” Boris had close-set, dark eyes that made him look duller than he actually was. Right now, they stared at me probingly.“They will answer for their offenses against us,” I reassured. “But the last thing we need is them calling in reinforcements from downcoast and touching off an actual war.” I considered the issue for a moment. “Perhaps we should get them in our debt.”“How?” He had gone from wary to intrigued.“We have far more power and influence in the region than they do, even in New York City. We control Boston’s ports. They’ve had to truck things in overland from downcoast this entire time. If we offered them port access, we could take our cut that way, while they congratulate themselves on fixing a decade-long problem.”“Some of the men may see that as being soft on them,” Boris warned.I sighed. Nobody from within our Bratva would ever have dared to challenge me, but if my own men had doubts about my plan, outsiders definitely would. I was trying to prevent any more funerals, but if that didn’t make me look hard enough in the public eye, I would have to change tactics.“They are getting this one chance to remember who runs Boston,” I said firmly. “If they do not take the matter seriously, we will send them back downcoast. In boxes.”***I liked Cambridge. It was a breezy college town, dominated by the university and all the businesses that had grown up around it. Students mixed with residents young and old, crowding the streets three seasons out of the year. Classical architecture mixed with ultramodern. Parking was a pain in the ass, but I didn’t mind.I found the auction house, Grant & Meriweather, and spent another ten minutes finding a space within easy walking distance. I had my briefcase with me and looked like any other businessman walking through the square, if a bit better dressed.My head was full of thoughts of the auction arrangements, of Uncle Mischka, of the Puerto Ricans, and how badly I didn’t want there to be a war for Boston’s streets. I didn’t want to look soft in front of my men or anyone else, but the last thing I needed was a bloody conflict just to preserve my reputation.My uncle had groomed me to become his successor since I left prison back in Russia and came over in my twenties. I knew I could do the job. He would never have had such faith in me otherwise. But now, it was time to step into his shoes. And I still hoped to do so without shedding any unnecessary blood in the process.I was a block from the auction house when I saw an unforgettable head of wavy red hair coming out its door. I paused for a moment to look. Yes, it was her. Olivia. As beautiful as ever, if not more so—bright blue eyes full of merriment, hair escaping from her French braid beneath a burgundy beret. Time slowed as I watched her step out, the curve of her hips sparking a muscle memory beneath my fingers of the way she had felt. All the hazy recollections of that one night sharpened in my mind, and as I watched her turn to hold the door open for someone else, smiling down with a look of adoration on her face that I absolutely wanted directed at me, I could almost smell the faint, floral scent of her shampoo again.Then a small boy, perhaps three, came skipping out and ran into her legs, wrapping his little arms around them and beaming up at her. She laughed and reached down to scoop him up. I couldn’t hear her from where I was standing, but I could see her. This was her auction house, the one she had been working for the day I’d met her. And now she had a little boy, one with jet-black hair, pale skin, and dark brows.And green eyes. Pale green ones, very striking. Very distinct, as he looked at me curiously over her shoulder as she started walking away.Now I found myself frozen to the spot for a different reason altogether.I saw eyes like that in the mirror every morning. And I had never seen them elsewhere before.I almost dropped my briefcase.That boy. Three years old, perhaps a little older. Black hair, pale skin, pale green eyes. Like mine.My brain did the math as I stared after them in astonishment. Could it be?Had she taken something of me with her after that wild night together? Was I staring at the results across the distance, laughing and clinging to his mommy as she carried him?I let my breath out in a rush and tightened my grip on my suitcase. My priorities had just been reordered. I still had an auction to discuss with whoever was left in the auction house while Olivia went to lunch with her—our?—son. But once that was done, I was going back to my men, and setting those skilled at information gathering to find out every single thing they could about her.