Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Gregor

“So, what’s the story behind this charity you had us all donate to?” Sergei, my best friend, flashed his set of movie-star choppers at me as he slid into my passenger seat. Half-melting snowflakes clung to his black woolen overcoat. “This girl a friend of yours?”

“Old lover,” I admitted. “A good person, but poor and in a bad situation. I wanted to help her out.” And I knew that my friends and brothers wouldn’t mind helping out. That kind of money was pocket change to us, but it would change everything for Alissa. I knew she didn’t need a PI, but I’m guessing with all the shit she’s gone through over the last year she might want a fresh start once her daughter was returned.

So why hadn’t I marched straight to her door with her kid? What could I tell her—oh yeah, found your daughter while I was blowing up a pedophile porn ring. I had to figure out a good cover that wouldn’t implicate me or the organization.

“And the kid? She yours?” He laughed as he wiped his narrow, scarred face with the end of his scarf.

That made me pause for a moment. Could she be? The little girl in my guest room was a bit over four. The timing was right. Michelle looked like a miniature of her mother, but… “Nah, you know my rule, no glove no love. I don’t need complications in my life.” Though as the words came out of my mouth, I had to consider that there may be some truth in it.

I was happy enough right now that the shock of realizing Michelle might be mine felt better than it might have on a worse day. Alissa and I had never been in touch. There would have been no way for her to tell me, so it wasn’t like she’d been keeping it secret. I’d say there was a chance Michelle was someone else’s, but I didn’t get the impression Alissa slept with a lot of men. She might even be single now.

That was a surprisingly pleasant thought. And that was dangerous. If we actually shared a kid, I had to be in her life permanently to some degree. But if I got too close, Alissa would start learning things about me. Like what I did for a living.

I had stayed out of long-term relationships to avoid that. And to avoid anyone else fleeing me in fear and carrying a piece of my heart with them. I wanted to trust Alissa not to do that, and she certainly would have more incentive than most to stick around. But what kind of normal woman could love a hitman?

Then again, if the last twelve hours have taught me anything, it was that people could surprise you.

Still, I was a little worried about one thing. Eventually, my little fundraiser would catch Vasily’s attention, and he would have questions. And I would have to figure out what I would say about it all.

“So, let me get this straight. A year ago, the kid gets snatched from her daycare by someone, the cops don’t do shit, she gives up on them and starts a fundraiser to hire her own investigator, you find out about it, and you have us throw in our poker money. What about finding the kid?”

The idea hit me all at once. The way to get Alissa her kid back without tipping her off that I’m involved in organized crime. “I’m going to be the investigator,” I said confidently.

And maybe that was the point where I should have stopped and given myself a damned good talking to. I’ve already disobeyed my pakhan’s orders, I’m going to hide a kid I rescued from traffickers who may or may not be mine, pretend to be a PI so I could get close to her mom, and then redeem myself in her eyes by presenting the kid I’d tracked down—and then what? Hope that she’d fall in love with me, and we’d live happily ever fucking after with me hiding my identity and bratva links and hoping the kid wouldn’t let slip that she’d been staying in my guest room for a few days?

I mean… what could go wrong?

***

Sergei knew a good counterfeiter, and within hours I had an investigator’s license, driver’s license, and concealed carry license under the name G. Dimitri Makarov.

I set myself up in an office twelve blocks from her apartment, got a burner phone as my office phone, and had one of our computer guys make sure my business information found its way into the usual directories. It took under an hour to stage the office to look well-used, complete with paper clutter and a coffee machine.

By dawn and the next day, everything was ready. The cover was simple—me, just with a different job.

The next part would be harder, getting back in touch and figuring out how soon was too soon to return little Michelle to her mom without making her suspicious. I wanted them back together now, as I had since I had realized their connection. But there was no way I could explain to her that I already had the girl without blowing my cover and potentially compromising bratva security. That could not happen.

I’d find a way to make this work. I had to. Alissa, her daughter, and my brothers all deserved it.

***

Traffic was predictably insane, even this early in the morning, as I made my way back to my apartment to check on Michelle. She slept a lot now that I had coaxed her out from under the bed and gotten her to actually sleep in it. I hoped that meant she felt safe with me. She insisted on the door being ajar, not wanting to be shut in, and she still wasn’t talking, but she was eating well, playing with all the toys I’d gotten her, and seemed happy. I still wasn’t entirely sure about my great idea—and leaving the kid alone in the apartment didn’t sit right with me. But I had the security cameras, and the doors and windows were locked and alarmed. If anyone tried to get in or out, then I’d receive an instant notification. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way I could think of getting Michelle back to her mom without involving the bratva. Of course, she might have been so happy to get her kid back that she’d not ask questions, but if she didn’t the cops certainly would.

Feodor immediately ran up to greet me when I walked through the door, his surprisingly soft meow broken up into a stutter as he bounded across the hardwood. His yellow-green eyes were dramatically wide, and he kept on berating me in his squeaky little voice as I shut the door, and he plastered his big black bowling-ball body against my ankle.

“What is it now? Were you worried I wouldn’t ever come back and fill your bowl?” I went to do so as soon as I’d hung up my coat and shoulder holsters, leaving my boots by the door. As I set down the bowl of fresh water and went to dig out the bag of kibble, he circled me, making little comments the whole time.

“Yes, I understand,” I grumbled at him quietly. “You’re starving, you’re about to wither away right in front of me if I don’t fill this up right this instant. I get it. Poor neglected kitty.” I scooped his portion into the bowl and his meowing got more desperate. “Oh, the drama. ‘Hurry, Papa, if I don’t get kibble soon, I might be able to see my feet!’”

A giggle from the doorway almost startled me into dropping the bowl. I looked up to see Michelle peeking around its edge at me.

“Well, hello! Did I wake you?”

She shook her head.

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded.

“I’ll make us pancakes. You like pancakes?”

She nodded again, more eagerly.

This little tough-as-nails ray of sunshine could be my daughter. What a crazy thing to think about. But it sure made me even more glad I had gotten her out of that Ivanov hell-house. “All right. I’ll make us Russian pancakes. You’ll like them. They’re big and flat and you put stuff in them.”

She tilted her head slightly, then nodded again, giving a tiny thumbs-up.

“Okay, little one. I’ll get started. You go pick out some clothes to wear.”

She nodded and hurried off, little feet thumping on the floor.

I smiled after her, then became aware of increasingly desperate pawing at my knees. I rolled my eyes and set down the food bowl, then turned to the sink to wash my hands.

Having a little kid in my life was a surprise to me. It didn’t disrupt everything, it just changed things. Made me adjust. It wasn’t easy, of course, just stowing everything potentially dangerous out of reach had been a bit of a learning curve.

In any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have left her alone at all. Maybe if Feodor was a rottweiler and not a purry ball of cuddliness and mild narcissism, but as it was, I felt guilty about it, despite the security cameras. Just a little while longer, I thought as I gathered ingredients.

My mother had taught me to make blinchiki as soon as I was old enough to be trusted around a hot stove. These days, I could afford better ingredients, and my pans were big and cast iron, not small and battered from decades of use. But the technique was the same.

I had just finished mixing the batter when Michelle came shuffling back out in her stocking feet, surprising me. She had managed to put on her stripy, pink shirt and matching socks, and even her new purple jeans, but she couldn’t button the front. She frowned and tugged at the two edges as she approached, trying to sort out the puzzle but not quite getting it yet. She looked up at me in frustration.

“Wow, smart kid. I didn’t know you could dress yourself. What are you, four? Not bad.” I crouched down and fastened the buttons for her. “There you go, that part is tougher. You’ll get it. How about you sit at the table and watch me cook these? Not safe to be too close to the stove.”

She nodded and took her seat, watching as I started frying up pancakes. The batter was thin, making nearly crepe-thickness pancakes the size of a dinner plate. I piled them up on the platter, and Michelle’s eyes grew wider as the stack continued to rise.

“Ha, yeah, I know, that’s a lot of pancakes, right?”

She nodded.

“My mama used to say that if you don’t make at least forty of them, you’re not making a meal, you’re making a snack.”

I finished up and brought the stack over to the table, then grabbed jams, honey, tvorog cheese, and a basket of strawberries. I washed and chopped the berries and put them in a bowl for the table, then grabbed some plates, forks, and spoons.

“Here we go. I’ll make up some different ones for you to try.” I rolled them with different fillings, cut them up into fork-sized bites, and then went to fill my own plate.

It was kind of fun watching her try all the different combinations. She didn’t seem picky, though she liked the ones with tvorog and jam better than the one with peanut butter and I wondered if the Ivanovs had been giving her more Russian foods than American. I got us both glasses of orange juice, which she drained even faster than I did.

I could get used to this. I really could. But there was another piece missing. If only I could find a way to get her to fit.

But I was getting way ahead of myself. I hadn’t even called Alissa yet.

“Hey, kid,” I said as she finished one of the last bites on her plate. She looked up at me curiously. “You remember your mama?”

She blinked at me, and then nodded, her expression gone oddly solemn.

“I’m gonna find her for you, okay?” Though, really, all I had to do at this point was to get the number off her donation site and call it. Depending on what happened then, I could ‘find’ her in the next half hour.

Michelle offered one of her tiny smiles and nodded.

“All right, then. You just hold on a little longer while I figure this out, okay?”

Another nod.

“Okay.”