Chapter Seven: Sophia

His bulk takes up the entire table and his smushed up face is hard to look at. One of his eyes is sleepy, but strangely all his teeth are intact despite all the scarring on his arms and his face. Maybe he was the one pulverizing others and not the other way around.

Today, I sit very uncomfortably in a black fold out chair staring across at an inmate at Forston Yard. One of the most notorious high-risk jails in Chicago. If my heart were beating any faster, it would probably be on the floor of the sterile interview room with all the secrets the place holds. I realize I’m gripping on to my pen tighter than I should, and it’s a good thing I’m not the one asking the questions. I’m only watching from afar.

Internally, I’m in awe of Dr. Perri’s composure and how she’s so easily able to connect with Pavo. She pours a glass of water from the jug in front of her, sipping it with graceful ease. There’s a tape recorder next to her, and a dark mirror to the left of us.

I wonder if they’re watching us from inside the station. I stare at the mirror for a moment, but it gives me the creeps to think officers are on the other side of it, looking in.

I return my gaze to Dr. Perri as she clears her throat. “Okay, Pavo. I want to thank you for taking the time to sit with us today.”

Pavo nods, his palms flat in front of him. “You’re welcome. It’s nice to be able to tell my side of the story.”

“Okay, good because I want to hear it too. I’m setting up the tape recorder next to us, and as soon as I press it, the interview will begin. Okay with that?”

“Yep. Go ahead, Doc.”

“Alright. State your name and where you’re from.”

“I’m Pavo Michelli, but most know me by the name of Engine. I was born in New Jersey originally, in the year of ’68.”

“Engine. That’s interesting. Is it a nickname?”

“Yeah. I got it a long time ago because I used to work on cars a lot, and I could refurbish an engine in no time, even if it was in bad condition.” Engine holds up his chunky hands, which are gnarled and swollen with a hearty chuckle. “These bad boys.”

Dr. Perri humors him with a tiny smirk but continues. “So, if you were born in New Jersey, how did you come to be in Chicago?”

“I… ah… got mixed up with some kids in the neighborhood when I was younger, and because I didn’t get on well with my parents, I decided to leave with them right after I turned eighteen.”

“Who were they?”

Pavo smiles, grinning broadly. “The Bardi gang. Small beginnings back then.”

Shocked, my mouth gapes open as I listen. One of the original members of the Bardi family, an Italian Mafia syndicate who reigned terror on Chicago all through the seventies and eighties, according to my research. Floored that I’m looking at one of its members, I tune in even more.

“Ah. The Bardi Gang. You were quite the gang in your heyday,” Dr. Perri remarks with a veiled smile.

“Heyday?” Pavo raises his eyebrow to the ceiling. “We’ve still got a foot in the door. Barely, but we’re around.” He winks, his gritty smile sending shivers down my spine.

“So, you weren’t born into the Mafia?” Dr. Perri probes. God. She is so good. I love this.

“No. I was initiated, if you will,” Pavo replies casually.

“Right. In your words who were the Bardi Gang?” Dr. Perri asks.

“Badasses. We ran Chi-town. We started off small from Southside to Northside. Drugs, a little money laundering in the casinos, protection services, union affiliations, political gambits. You name it, we ran it.”

“I see. And how long would you say your reign lasted?”

“Umm, a good thirty-five years, give or take. A lot of the older members of the mob started to face jail time and were in and out of here for a while, so that’s when things started to run downhill for us. The cops started trying to penetrate the organization.”

“I see. That is a long run for a Mafia outfit. What role did you play?” Furiously, I rapidly jot notes, watching Pavo’s lively expressions. It’s almost as if he lives to retell the story.

“Ah, I guess you would call me the fixer, you know. The enforcer. Fixing things that didn’t go well. I moved up the ranks to Consigliere eventually, but it took me over a decade to do it. Had to earn my stripes, so to speak.”

“And what did earning your stripes mean?” Dr. Perri pushes as my fingers begin to sweat under the pen. Can he even answer this question without implicating himself?

“Ah, I’m going to have to dance around a few things. I’ve got an appeal coming up, so you know how it goes, Doc. This is supposed to be helping me.”

Frowning, I lean forward, my breath hitching. Helping him? Is she going to help Pavo get off with these interviews? What?

“That’s provided you cooperate, and there’s no guarantees. Tell us what you can, Pavo.”

“It means I had to do a few things. Steal. Set people up. Tie people up and fix a few faces. Maybe pop a few people too, if the circumstance called for it.”

“I think I understand. Thanks, Pavo. What is the current length of your sentence and what are you in here for?”

“My sentence is for twenty years for manslaughter. A hit-and-run.” My stomach curdles when he says hit and run, bringing up old memories of my parents. Fuck. Breathe.

I look down at my pad doing my best not to crack, but nausea is hitting me like a ton of bricks. “Only a hit-and-run? Given your history with the Bardi gang, I would have thought you would have bigger charges,” Dr. Perri pitches.

“Nah,” Pavo says, shaking his head. “Political and police ties. I’ve provided valuable information over the years to law enforcement.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is,” Pavo quips, cracking his knuckles.

“Are there any other reasons the Bardi Gang declined?”

“Sure, there’s plenty. One of them being the Russians.”

“Oh, the Russians. When did this begin?”

“After my first stint in prison in ’98. They came out of nowhere. It was bizarre, to be honest.”

“Okay, so who would you say the power players in Chicago organized crime are?”

“Again, the Russians. Especially after they got hold of the Omerta Files from Luca. That was the beginning of the end.”

“The Omerta Files?” Dr. Perri asks as I keep listening.

“Yeah. Serious information on all the gangs, Mafia outfits, the political players. It’s like the little black book of crime syndicates. Names, photos, files, embezzlements, pictures, evidence galore. It’s a big deal, and now the Russians are almost unstoppable because of it.”

“Can we clarify which Russian outfit? There’s a few known in the city, also New York too. Do you have a name?”

“Yes. The Bratva—The Utkins. They’re the ones. The Untouchables,” Pavo provides, a glint of fear skipping through his pupils.

“Thank you so much, Pavo. I’ll bring the guard in. I appreciate you speaking with us today.”

“No problem. I don’t think I did much, but hey, if it’s helpful for your little paper then good,” Pavo says, his large bulk rising. Dr. Perri stands and shakes his hand as she opens the door, the guard waiting on the outside.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“Sure am,” Dr. Perri replies quickly, shutting the door and turning to me. I can’t believe what I just heard. The Utkins. Fiona’s husband Ruslan Utkin. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fiona told me he was involved in many things, and from what I understood, they were legitimate companies, not covers for Mafia-affiliated activities.

Shaken to my core for many reasons, I gulp hard as Dr. Perri stares at me for a moment. “Do you need a glass of water?”

“Umm… yeah. I just… wow. That was fascinating,” I tell her, recovering. I don’t want her thinking I can’t handle criminal interviews, and I can. But just thinking about Ruslan being the Utkin who’s at the top of the criminal underworld is crazy.

“That’s nothing, Sophia. We’re only just scratching the surface. I barely got into the details with him. He’s up for appeal, and we’ve already spoken once before.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. This is my second visit to Pavo. On the first visit he divulged much more, but he’s clammed up a little. These Omerta Files have everyone shaken up somehow. I’ve never seen such a change, but what he’s saying is correct. The Utkins are controlling many aspects in Chicago right now.”

“Yeah, it’s piquing my curiosity about the Utkins,” I confess succinctly, not wanting to get into the nitty-gritty as to why.

“I can imagine it is. You’ll get to meet the next one. Sit tight.” Nervously, I read over my notes, wondering which one it will be. Please tell me it’s not Ruslan. Maybe he’s not involved, and it has nothing to do with him. Innocent until proven guilty? But if he does have someone in the family tree that’s part of the Bratva, then surely, Fiona would be aware.

My mind ticks over and back to the wedding. The groomsmen, but I wasn’t paying attention at the time. I was still caught up in the fact Fiona had gotten married so quickly.

While collecting my thoughts, Dr. Perri’s phone buzzes. “Shoot! He knows I’m interviewing. What’s going on? I’m going to have to put him on speaker. Here, Sophia, can you hold this?” Dr. Perri fumbles around with the papers and notes in her hand giving it over to me. I manage to hold on to the stockpile of items she shifts into my hands.

“Okay, I’ve got it.” I’m a research assistant after all, and this is a chance to showcase all my talents.

“I’m rushing Marcy to the hospital. She’s puffed up like a fish and she can barely breathe. It’s bad this time. So bad. How quick can you get to Memorial Hospital?”

“What?” Dr. Perri shrieks, her cell phone jumping in her hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent her on that excursion. The teacher didn’t even look like she was taking me seriously when I told her.”

“Hey, honey. When can you get here?” her husband replies, clearly distraught on the other end of the line.

“I can get there now. Hold on.” Dr. Perri looks in every direction. It’s almost as if she’s not considering I can help her. “Hey, I have to go, Sophia. Marcy’s in a bad way,” she explains.

“You should go check on your daughter. Go be with her. I’m sure I can conduct the last interview. We’ve already done two. I’ve got the list of questions down. I promise,” I tell her in a pleading tone, wanting to prove myself. This is the best opportunity I’m going to have to prove myself as her research assistant.

“Okay, okay. All the files are in there,” she says, swirling her hand around the pile in my hand. “They’re in there somewhere.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find them. Thank you.”

“Marcy must have forgot her EpiPen or whatever.” And in a matter of seconds, Dr. Perri emerges from her cool, calm, and collected composure to flustered in a few seconds flat. “I trust you, Sophia. Get as much information as you can. Good luck!” And just like that, I’m left alone in the interview room. Slowly I place all the folders down on the desk as well as my notes.

I pick up the corresponding file, reading the name typed in black on it. Andrei Utkin. God, I must have residuals of this guy on the brain because here’s his name popping up again. Groaning, I shake my head at the coincidence, opening the manila folder and noticing how thick it is.

Obviously, he’s a dangerous man, but if I’m going to work in criminal law, this is a process to get used to. I can do this.

A knock at the door makes me skittish as I snap the manila folder shut. I’m of two minds about seeing the face on the other side of the door.

“Are you ready for the next one?” the officer asks.

“Yes, send them in,” I reply, wanting to sound professional, but it comes out more like a chipmunk sound.

As the door creaks open, I’m unprepared for the person who walks through it. A tall man dressed in khaki with sharp, piercing eyes enters, and my stomach twists.

A generous smile covers his handsome mouth. “Hello, Sophia. We have to stop meeting in strange places,” he replies, a deep husk in his tone.

This is the Andrei I slept with. Holy. Shit.