10. Nat

To the general public, the hard-working citizens of this city, Mayor Kolanski is a benevolent man. He has been responsible for many good deeds, such as funding several shelters for abused women, setting up a scheme to help homeless kids get off the streets, and introducing programs to rehabilitate drug addicts.

It all sounds wonderful on paper.

The mayor is a kind, generous man, people say.

He wants what's best for this city.

If I hadn't met Marie, I might believe the spin that comes out of the mayor's office, courtesy of his talented PR department. But Marie's story showed me a different side of the man in charge of this city. And the emails I've been trawling through for the last week tell me things are far worse than I thought.

I've read messages between him and someone called Anatoly Uriov, where they discuss shipments from the Baltic states. Most of the messages are fairly ambiguous, but reading between the lines, it isn't difficult to see that our jovial mayor is up to his neck in criminal activities.

I'm not sure who Anatoly Uriov is. Google came up with dozens of suggestions, which were no help whatsoever, and I don't have the tech skills to start rooting around on the Dark Net. But I know a guy who does.

Micky is a classic example of a male who doesn't get out much. His basement apartment smells of pizza, unwashed socks, and stale farts.

I've known Micky most of my life. While my friends and I were dancing in clubs, getting drunk, and dating boys, Micky was playing World of Warcraft and trolling people online. He's not a bad guy; he just lacks social skills.

I'm probably the only female he talks to in real life. Other than his mother, who happens to be my aunt.

"Brought you some pepperoni pizza," I announce.

His nostrils flare with interest as he steps aside to let me in. Blackout blinds cover the windows but there's enough ambient light from the bank of monitors to show me a path through to the kitchen area.

I ignore the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. His mother can deal with that mess when she makes her weekly Pilgrimage of Doom.

"What do you want?" Did I mention Micky's lack of social skills?

"I need some help."

Micky opens the pizza box and pauses while he counts the pepperoni discs. If there's an even number, he won't touch the pizza. Luckily for him, I removed one before I came here. I'm used to his little quirks.

He dives in once he's finished counting. For several minutes, I get to listen to my cousin eating pizza and trying not to grimace when melted cheese slides down his chin and sticks to his tee.

Along with a lack of social skills, Micky has the table manners of a chimpanzee.

Once he's finished eating three slices - three is his lucky number - he closes the box, wipes his hands on a paper napkin, and turns to look at me.

Micky is a good-looking guy. Or he would be if he paid more attention to his appearance. Despite rarely leaving his basement apartment, he isn't grossly overweight. His dark hair is long and he has deep brown eyes, courtesy of our Italian heritage.

I feel sad sometimes that Micky's life is so insular, but he's happy. He has online friends of a sort and his mother takes care of the practical things for him, like making sure he eats and showers occasionally.

"Help with what?" Micky stares at me without blinking. It's disconcerting.

"I need information on someone. A guy who's popped up in my investigation on the mayor."

Micky nods and turns to his keyboard. I watch as his fingers dance over the keyboard. Windows open and close, code appears and disappears. I have no clue what programs he uses, but the guy's a genius. "Name."

"Anatoly Uriov." I spell it out and he taps a few keys.

"It may take a while," he tells me. Messages pop up on the screen, small chat windows, but I'm too far away to read them.

"Want me to go?"

He shakes his head, still watching the screen. Micky is three years older than me but it sometimes feels like he's my kid brother. I love him to bits. Always have done, even though he's never affectionate or seems to give a shit about anyone other than his mom.

When we were at school, some of the other kids used to taunt him for being different, as kids do. He had a hard time, even though he was far and away the smartest kid in school.

It used to break my heart when I saw him sitting alone every day. But over time, I realized he preferred being alone.

He didn't want or need friends like I did. He was perfectly content reading math textbooks.

And he sure as shit didn't care what his peers thought.

Now, away from the rigid framework of the education system, he's even happier. I have no fucking clue what he gets up online to but I know he earns money from doing it. Hopefully, it's not illegal, but who knows?

Something pings on the screen and Micky leans forward.

"Mafia," Micky delivers in a deadpan voice like he's telling me Uriov drives a BMW and lives in suburbia.

"I need more than that, Micky!"

He ignores me while tapping away on his keyboard. Chat windows ping. Information appears. Several more minutes pass before he speaks.

"Uriov is head of a mafia group operating out of Tiarnia. He runs a site that streams violent content. Pay per view."

Bile churns uncomfortably in my stomach. "What kind of violent content?"

"Not sure, but there are references to women and kids."

"Jesus Christ," I mutter.

Something pings on Micky's screen and he tenses. "Fuck," he mutters.

"What's wrong?"

"Someone knows I'm searching for information on this guy. They're tracking me."

I'm trying not to panic about this unexpected development, but it's hard. The last thing I want is to put Micky in danger. Or my aunt.

Micky types furiously and I watch as strings of code cascade down his screens. I'm half expecting armed men to kick down the door but after a short while, he relaxes.

"Amateurs," he says with a smirk.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to look into this guy." I sometimes forget my cousin doesn't have the same perception of risk as I do. Growing up, cocooned in books and now his small basement studio apartment, he's lived a sheltered life.

"It's fine," he shrugs.

My phone blips and I open up the group chat.

Jane: Drinks later?

Me: At Aunt Lucia's. Not tonight.

There's no sign of Amanda. The lifeguard is lasting longer than we expected. The guy must have hidden depths.

By the time I look up again, Micky is deep into a game. I move the remains of the pizza into the refrigerator, kiss his bristly cheek, and leave.

"Bye Micky," I say.

He grunts. "I'll carry on looking into Uriov."

"No! It's too dangerous."

"Not for me. I'll let you know what I find."

I know from bitter experience that nothing I say will divert my cousin from his chosen path. Once he gets his teeth into something, he's like a dog with a bone. Relentless.

Honestly, I could kick myself for my stupidity.

Judging by what just happened, digging into Anatoly Uriov is dangerous. If Micky gets into trouble because I asked him to help, I'll never forgive myself.