Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
There’s a brief pause. I can almost picture Finn’s unhappy frown. “Hold on now. I’m not her personal guard.”
“You’re better. You’re her brother-in-law.”
“Well, shit, you put it that way and I guess I’ll have to keep the girl safe.”
“Eyes on her always.” I hang up the phone. Finn loves to be difficult, but despite everything, he’s reliable. I wouldn’t have put him in this position working directly with my saint if that weren’t the case. If he were older, Dad would’ve given him more responsibility a long time ago.
But Dad still sees Finn as the baby. There’s a six-year gap between him and Seamus, the second youngest of our group. Our parents are a little prejudiced against Finn still. He was a wild man in his youth, and while he’s still only twenty-nine, he’s grown up a lot since then. He’s more than cocky smiles and stupid fucking jokes.
I trust him to make sure Bianca doesn’t get hurt.
Which leaves me with some time to kill.
I head out to Manhattan. New York’s a fucking chessboard. Some spaces are controlled by our pieces while other families have their big fucking knights parked right on their property. The Medvedev Bratva’s primarily out in Brooklyn, centered in Brighton Beach, but they’ve got pockets of control in Sheepshead Bay and Coney Island. But I’d stand out like a sunburned asshole in those neighborhoods, and instead find my way toward the Diamond District.
Jewelry shop windows glow with advertisements. People are moving all over the place. Men in suits and women in heels and tourists gawking at everyone wander down the crowded sidewalks. I find a shady spot to linger outside one of the storefronts and watch the clientele come and go.
Nobody pays me much mind. I’m one of thousands today. Which means I can lurk, occasionally changing position, but always in sight of a particular, nondescript entrance.
Most people don’t have the patience for my job. That’s one of my strengths. I’m good at watching, waiting, and following. I’ve honed my skills over years and years, and now I’m able to keep a tail on almost anyone without them finding me out. I’ve done it so many times that I don’t even have to think about it anymore.
But I’ve also built lists over the years, mostly from keeping tabs on the networks my victims move through. It’s good to know the city, and it’s even better to know the people that populate it, and I’ve become an expert on the criminal underground.
That’s part of why I’m indispensable.
Killing’s one thing, but there are lots of guys that can learn how to murder without getting caught. Especially with clan influence steering the police away.
No, I’m so good at what I do because I know the value of relationships.
Which is how I know to stay near this boring little door with its chipping green paint and its crooked number. Nobody looks at it, nobody thinks twice about it, except for me. Today, that door’s everything.
Because at lunchtime, he comes out of it.
The man’s on the chubby side. Not tall, but not short either. Balding, severe features, very pale. He wears his suit like it’s a rental. His shoes are clean and shining, but clearly very old. His eyes narrow in the sunlight and he pauses before walking off, looking around himself like he might spot danger.
I keep a respectable distance. Fyodor Medvedev isn’t a street-level soldier and he’s not known for his aggression or his violence, but he’s still clever. A man like him doesn’t survive in the Bratva into his late fifties without some worthwhile skills outside of the office. I’m not sure what he’s capable of, and I choose to take him seriously.
Fyodor walks a few blocks to a greasy spoon diner. It’s packed for the lunch rush, but I pass it twice before deciding to go in after him. There are enough people waiting around for tables and plenty of movement from the waitresses to help keep me hidden. He’s sitting at the counter at the far end, a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, a cup of coffee at his elbow, idly scrolling through his phone. It looks like he’s reading a newspaper, but I don’t get close to find out. As I’m watching, the waitress refills his cup. He makes brief small talk with her. It seems like they know him here. He takes a long sip from his drink and goes back to staring at his screen.
I slip toward the back of the building, down into the narrow hall that leads to the bathroom, and wait.
This is the risky part of my plan. Under other circumstances, during a different time in my life, I wouldn’t be caught anywhere near here. Fyodor’s an important member of the Morozov Bratva. He’s not blood, but he’s still practically family. From what I can tell, he and the Pakhan grew up together. Where the Pakhan went into the violence trade, Fyodor decided to take care of the numbers. He’s their money man, the kind of accountant who can turn dirty cash into clean credit. In my world, that’s one of the most important skills imaginable.