CHAPTER ONE

Semyon Novikov, head of the Chicago Bratva—the Brotherhood—knew how to throw a birthday party. From what Alex could see, the man had spared no expense.

His primary targets—Yuri Petrov, Nikolai Lebedev, and Semyon Novikov—were deep in conversation at the end of the bar set up in Novikov’s backyard oasis, throwing back shots of vodka and French Cognac, and puffing on Yuri’s very expensive and very smuggled Cuban Maduro cigars. A gold-plated cocaine tray rested on the bar. Novikov did most of the talking, while Yuri and Nikolai, both top Bratva brigadiers, occasionally gave deferential nods.

Despite being a party for Novikov’s young granddaughter, bottles of Beluga vodka and deep bowls of red and black caviar lined every table. Any remaining space on the tables was taken up by gilded platters heaped high with smoked and pickled fish, Olivier salad, herring with potatoes, beef stroganoff, bowls of borscht, and every other Russian specialty known to mankind. The rich, hearty smells only made him crave a thick, juicy cheeseburger, fries, and a cold beer.

From a corner of the garden landscaped with fountains and white marble statues of half naked men and women, Alex sipped vodka from a crystal tumbler that probably cost as much as the tailored Armani suit he wore, courtesy of the FBI’s hefty undercover expense account. Looking the part was essential. Wearing a cheap, off-the-rack suit would never do.

That was the way with Russians, always having to top each other and buy the biggest, most expensive thing out there. Not to be outdone by any other organized crime leader, Novikov’s palatial estate in the Gold Coast section of Chicago was one of the priciest historical mansions on Astor Street. The four-story brick structure was furnished with all the fancy trappings organized crime could buy. Including 14 karat gold-plated sink fixtures in every bathroom.

Nearly all the chairs at the tables were filled by Novikov’s extended family which, naturally, included not only children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles, but judges, teachers, priests, and local business owners—well over a hundred people. Russian folk music filled the air, along with so much chatter, he doubted even the high-tech, virtually undetectable wire he wore would be capable of picking up any one voice.

Alex took another sip from his glass, letting the expensive vodka burn a trail down his throat. He’d gotten in deep with the Bratva, particularly with Yuri Petrov. Though he’d finally made it through the doors of Novikov’s inner sanctum, there were still some meetings he wasn’t invited to.

After two years, his assignment was nearly over. It was a job he’d been given as a very young agent, because FBI headquarters had determined no one else was qualified for it. At least, not without the high probability of becoming fish food at the bottom of Lake Michigan. It was also one that required being separated from spouses, significant others, and kids. Things he didn’t have at the moment and didn’t want again. Not with his history of hurting anyone close to him. For him, this assignment was self-inflicted penance.

For hurting those he’d loved most.

Another burning slug of vodka yanked him back to reality.

While he’d been proving his loyalty to the Bratva, committing enough crimes of sufficient risk and getting vouched for by two other members of the Brotherhood, he’d managed to gather rock-solid evidence on a host of crimes, including racketeering, drug, weapons and human trafficking, loan sharking, money laundering, and corruption of public officials.

The only intel yet to nail down was that of a kidnapping-murder scheme Yuri Petrov and Nikolai Lebedev were rumored to have orchestrated. The kidnappings were documented—six affluent Russian businessmen, so far. Millions of dollars in ransom money had been paid. But the bodies had never been found, and there was no evidence connecting Petrov, Lebedev, or anyone else, to the kidnappings.

Which was odd.

Typically, there’d be something to follow up on. A clue, a lead, a subtle trail of evidence to follow, but there wasn’t. While Petrov was known to be a torpedo—a Russian hit man brought in to do the dirty work others didn’t have the stomach for—he wasn’t a sophisticated assassin. Neither was Lebedev.

So how the hell had they covered up six murders?

With the glass to his lips, Alex surveilled the partiers. There had to be evidence somewhere, and he wasn’t leaving this assignment until he found it.

He caught sight of Olga Lebedev, Nikolai’s scantily clad, man-hungry wife, making her usual rounds. He wasn’t sure which she wore more of at the moment, diamonds or clothes. Her ears, neck, both wrists and most of her fingers sparkled with gemstones, while the bright pink satin dress barely covered the rest of her assets. The more designer labels and jewelry a woman wore was a sign of how successful her husband was. Getting hit on by Olga was a rite of passage. He’d never fallen prey to her attempts to have sex, and whenever she sidled up to him, he felt like he needed to scrub his skin with steel wool to get clean again. He guessed Lebedev knew about his wife’s blatant sexual proclivities and didn’t care. Lebedev had his own extramarital pursuits.

Associating with scum like Lebedev and Petrov held more than just the danger of having his identity discovered at any moment. With the FBI’s blessing, about the only crime he hadn’t committed in the last sixteen months, was murder. Some days, it seemed the evil of the Brotherhood was rubbing off on him. Alex couldn’t wait for the day he could take a shower and rinse off the filth that seemed permanently tattooed to his body.

Birds chirped in the flowering cherry trees. Children playing on the giant jungle gym laughed and blew bubbles. A few people sat in padded outdoor furniture on the balcony, including Viktoria Vladimirovna Petrov, Yuri Petrov’s wife. During his rise to becoming one of Yuri’s most trusted men, he’d barely crossed paths with the woman, and those moments had been fleeting.

Yuri’s wife stood and rested her forearms on a remote corner of the balcony as she watched the children play. There wasn’t much intel on her, only that she’d been American-born to Russian parents and spoke Russian fluently. Alex had seen her photos in Yuri’s FBI file, but they’d all been taken from a distance. Yuri had once told him Viktoria was an ugly and ungrateful bimbo that didn’t appreciate anything he gave her, and that he was stuck with her for better or worse. She didn’t strike him as any of those things. She was a bit thin but had something about her that would make any man look twice. And he did.

With her thick blond hair cascading down her shoulders, she reminded him of Rapunzel. Her dark blue dress was modest and not revealing, unlike that of the majority of the other wives he’d met on this assignment. Despite the cloud cover, large dark sunglasses shielded her eyes.

Her chest rose and fell in what looked like a deep sigh. Not even the sunglasses could hide that kind of body language. In that moment, she looked like the loneliest person he’d ever seen.

Alex glanced to where Novikov still held court with Yuri and Nikolai, then meandered through the garden and made his way up the stairs to the balcony. Ignoring pats on the back from Yuri’s crew at the success of his latest real estate acquisition that had laundered over five million dollars, he made his way to where Viktoria stood.

“We’ve never formally met.” He extended his hand. “I’m Alexei—Alex—Tarankov.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, she turned from the railing. Rather than take his hand, she lowered her sunglasses an inch to stare at him from striking cornflower-blue eyes. Ironically, while he was checking her eyes out, he knew she was looking at his. He chuckled. At this point in his life, he was used to getting stared at.

“Viktoria Petrova,” she said, using the formal Russian grammatical rule of adding an “a” to the end of her husband’s last name. She offered her hand, and the moment his fingers closed around hers, a warm, delicate heat made the hair on his arm prickle. For a moment, she looked at their clasped hands, then tugged hers away. She shoved her glasses back into place but not before he’d gotten a good look at the shiner at her left eye.

“Uh, may I join you?” he asked quickly, indicating the chairs. Her touch had momentarily put him off his game, something he couldn’t afford to let happen.

Viktoria glanced over the balcony in the direction of her husband. “Why not?” She gave a brief yet patently false smile and sat down.

“Novikov has a house like a palace,” he said, sitting across the table. When she didn’t respond to his small-talk, he asked, “Are you enjoying the party?”

“No, I really don’t care for these…gatherings.”

He respected her blunt honesty and privately agreed with her. This wasn’t a party at all. It was a blatantly ostentatious business meeting disguised as a birthday party for a twelve-year old girl, and it sickened him.

While he couldn’t see her eyes behind those big sunglasses, her gaze remained on the children. “Are one of them yours?” Not according to Yuri’s file.

“No.” She looked down at her hands, adding softly, “I’m afraid I don’t have any children.”

“I’m sorry.” Unwittingly, he’d struck a nerve. Even behind the glasses, she couldn’t hide how much his question had bothered her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was trying to be glibly charming and entertain you until your husband comes back.” He hoped to get a smile out of her. It bugged him when he didn’t.

“It’s not your fault, and you don’t have to entertain me. I’m just part of the furniture.” She gave him another forced smile, leaving him wondering at her last comment.

A shadow landed on the table, and she gasped. More like jumped out of the chair.

Yuri slapped Alex on the back. “Semyon’s pleased with your contribution. Try one of these.” He handed Alex a Cuban Maduro. “Once you go Cuban, you’ll never go back.”

“Vika,” Yuri said, and when he rested a hand on her shoulder, she flinched. “You are looking so thin. Go. Eat something.”

“I will,” Viktoria said. “Excuse me.”

As Alex accepted the cigar, he discreetly followed her graceful, willowy figure as she made a hasty departure into the house. Thoughts of how her hand had felt in his lingered dangerously.

How and why had someone like her hooked up with Yuri Petrov in the first place, let alone married him? The answer to those questions hadn’t been in the file. But she wasn’t his concern. He was there to do a job and nothing more.

And yet, he wondered how she’d gotten that shiner.

“Light up.” Yuri held out a silver butane lighter.

Reluctantly, Alex lit up. He enjoyed an occasional cigar, but these Maduros had a distinctly strong odor he didn’t care for.

Just as he didn’t care for Yuri Petrov.

It would take a while, but Yuri’s time would come.

Alex would make sure of it.

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