Chapter 52

The new imports arrive without issue. I don’t know if Sofiya had to threaten to castrate a few pilots, but whatever she did, it seems to be working. Business is good.

I just wish I could shake this unsettled feeling in my bones.

“He’s here,” Sofi announces as she joins me in my perch over the hangar. “Waiting in the office.”

“We’re absolutely sure about him?”

She frowns. “You know how I feel about absolutes.”

“That does not inspire confidence.”

“It also allows for a tiny margin of error. And I do mean tiny. Makari ran background checks, even sent out a few of his own men to the motherland for on-site intel. Not to mention my own vetting process, which you know is thorough.”

My grip on the railing tightens. “A perfect background means he’s got something to hide.”

“Everyone has something to hide.” Sofi sighs and pulls out her phone. “But if it makes you feel any better, he’s not all cologne and rose petals. He grew up with Kostya. Difficult to say if they were friends, but… he’s still alive. Hard to imagine Daddy dearest allowing an enemy that close to suck oxygen for so long.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Yeah, except this guy stayed in Russia for the most part.”

I arch a brow. “‘For the most part’?”

Sofi shrugs. “Yeah, aside from a few sporadic visits to the States back in the day. Way back, like, before you were born. He came around a few times after, too, but finding anyone who remembers him well enough wasn’t so easy.” She rolls her eyes when I narrow mine at her. “Old guys, Pash. People are allowed to grow old and die.”

“Fine.” I sigh and drum my fingers on the railing. “Fine, fine. It’s all fine. It’s all gotta be fucking fine.”

I leave the conversation abruptly, but my little sister is used to it. She falls in step behind me without question. Not for the first time, I appreciate my siblings. No matter what shit hits the fan, they’re always here with me to clean it up.

Makari is in the office with our guest when we arrive. The two men are laughing about something; two more men I don’t recognize share a chuckle in the background.

I don’t know what’s so fucking funny. I’m definitely not in the mood.

“Arlo Fedorov.” I give the man a once-over. “Welcome back to America.”

He shakes my hand with a knowing smile. “Pasha Chekhov. I’ve heard a lot about you. Which is why I’ll cut to the chase. I understand you’re probably wondering who the hell I am and what the hell I’m doing here.”

Maybe I can see the charm. Just a little. I offer a nod. “Those questions have come up, yes.”

Arlo regards me with a steady gaze, but I don’t sense any ill will from him. Yet. “Well, to be honest, I am long overdue in sending my condolences for your father’s passing.”

“You mean his murder?”

“Of course.” His smile widens fractionally. “I’d offer my assistance in avenging him, but I hear you took care of that yourself.”

“You two were friends?”

He nods curtly. “When we were children. Before your grandfather decided to, as my own father put it, ‘podzhmi khvost i begi’.”

“It was the Cold War. I hardly call that ‘running away.’”

Arlo shrugs. “Either way, we grew apart after that. Distance and postage, you understand.”

I really don’t. This man is playing a game and I need to catch onto the rules. “Sure. But you’ve been here since then.”

“Sure.”

I hate this game. Pakhan versus pakhan, or as Sofi calls it, “The Dick-Measuring Contest.” Both of us standing here, sizing each other up, deciding who can be trusted and how far.

Arlo is testing the waters with me by combining compliment with insult and seeing which one I bite. More importantly, he’s checking my loyalty to my father.

Joke’s on him: I hated my father.

“What caused your delay this time?” I ask.

“Transition,” he answers without flinching. “I’ve stepped back from leadership to allow my son the opportunity to run things back home. It was time. He’s ready.”

“Is he? Sounds like I’ll need to schedule my own visit out that way to give my congratulations. Eventually, of course.”

“Of course.”

Hmm. He doesn’t take the bait to ask me about what could keep me from going right away. For the most part, in fact, he’s avoided asking me any invasive questions at all.

He’s up to something.

He wants something.

My best play is to appeal to his age. Given his childhood proximity to my father, that places Arlo somewhere in his mid-fifties. He’s old school, from the checkered suit to the thick Slavic beard. Reeking of money and latent violence, if only you know where to look.

“I must admit, I’m surprised to hear about your abdication.” I head for the minibar and pour us a round of shots. “You don’t seem ready for retirement.”

Arlo chuckles. “You’re too kind to my ego. It is true; I’ve still got many years left before I go. I’ve just decided I’d rather spend them doing things I actually enjoy.”

“I’m sure your son feels better knowing you’re around to guide him, too.”

“He shouldn’t need my guidance, but yes. That’s partly why I’m here as well. To give him the space to make his own decisions without me hovering like a mother hen.”

“And the other part?” I hand him one of the shot glasses.

He smirks and touches his glass to mine. “To liaison between Fedorov and Chekhov. With the new leadership, it’s important to my family that we remain valuable allies to you and yours.”

It’s a bit presumptuous of him to assume I’m looking for allies among Bratvas who haven’t bothered to so much as whisper their connection for the past decade. And yet, to my ever-increasing chagrin, I’m finding the allies I want—Brennan chief among them—aren’t playing ball.

Maybe it’s time to accept the allies I need.

We knock back our shots at the same time. “Well, since you’ve come such a long way,” I offer, “it’s only right I give you a tour myself.”

Arlo gestures for me to lead the way. His men don’t speak a word as they follow close behind, so neither do my siblings.

“We’re processing an import shipment right now.” I nod at the cargo plane currently being unloaded by our warehouse team. “I’m working on obtaining a new government contract that will allow for more domestic manufacturing. More revenue, guaranteed.”

“Government?” He frowns. “That sounds risky.”

“It is. But that’s why it’s brilliant: there’s no way a guy running illegal weapons imports would invite the feds into his operation.”

“Hiding in plain sight. I like it.”

“By the time anyone catches on—if they ever catch on—we’ll have more than enough legitimate transactions between Chekhov International and the United States military to throw significant weight around. Who wants to explain to the general public why they armed their soldiers with weapons manufactured by a crime syndicate?”

“And the current operations? Your current clients?”

“Will be maintained even after this new contract is signed and sealed. Just with more funding and expedited shipping.”

“Love it.” Arlo grins and pulls out his vibrating phone. “Ah, pity. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to take this call.”

“Of course.” I glance at Mak and Sofi, who step forward to take my place as I step aside to make my own phone call.

Once I’m out of earshot from the group, I hit the name and call button.

“Malysh!” my mother croons. “How are you?”

“Curious.” I make sure to keep my eyes on the group just in case someone starts wandering where he shouldn’t. “What do you know about Arlo Fedorov?”

The line goes silent.

For a moment, I think I’ve lost reception. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the screen and call her back—until I hear her voice through the speaker.

“That’s… He’s… Ah, heh, why do you ask?”

“Do you remember him?”

“Oh, yes.” The way Mama says that gives me pause. “We were—well, we were all children at one point. Him, me, your father. Together, often.” She stops. I hear her take a deep breath. “Malysh, why do you ask?”

“Well, he’s here. Sounds like he’s moving here, actually.”

I hear a thud. Muffled sounds. Then Mama clears her throat and her voice goes from distant to clear once more. “Sorry about that. You said Arlo moved here?”

“From what I understand, yes.”

“With his wife? His family?”

I frown at my phone. Why does she sound so… flustered? “No, just himself. His wife is dead, according to Mak. Arlo told us his son’s taken over their Bratva back in Russia. He’s here as a liaison, or so he says. But I get the feeling there’s something more up his sleeve.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, sweetheart, I need to go. Something has… something’s come up.”

“Are you okay?”

“Huh? I’m fine! Everything’s fine! I love you!”

She hangs up.

Mak sees me staring at my phone, so he comes over to check on things. “Everything okay?”

“You ran a thorough background check on Fedorov, yes?” I ask.

He frowns. “Of course. I wouldn’t let him anywhere near here without vetting him.”

“Right.” I squint at the phone screen like it’s about to give me all the answers. If only. “Did Mama’s name ever come up?”

That makes my brother pause. “Should it have?”

“I don’t know.” I hate not knowing. I am not a man to be kept in the dark. “She’s acting strange about him. He’s strange, too. Do you buy his story?”

Mak folds his arms and grimaces. “I know exactly what you mean. Everything he says checks out, but…”

“Exactly. But.”

We share a knowing look before returning to the rest of the group. Arlo sees us approaching, holds up a finger, and wraps up his phone call. “Apologies, Pasha. That was my son, checking in on how things are going here.”

I figure that’s as good of an entry point into this man’s mind as any. “And how are they going?”

He smiles. “We’d like to offer a contract. A renewal of an old one, rather. We may have been estranged, but your father and I remained allies despite the distance.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sofi glancing at Mak. They’re both suspicious of this supposed friend of our father’s, who has always been an ally but never bothered to show up.

Where was he when all hell broke loose?

Better yet—where was he before? When we needed him, someone, anyone, to step in and put Kostya back in his place?

“I’m all ears.” I nod at Sofi to start taking notes.

Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to pick up on our suspicion, and Arlo is clearly not an idiot. He eyes us with a warmth I’m not entirely comfortable with and nods. “We have five warehouses Stateside with weapons and ammunition we’re eager to offload. All new, all verified and tested, all ready to hand over to you for half the markup you’re getting from these other suppliers. And, with a continued agreement, we’ll keep supplying you at the same rates and expedited shipping.”

If I smelled a rat before, it reeks of rodent now.

What does he gain in return for all this?

“One thing we ask, before we dive in.” He thumbs through his phone until he finds the right picture, then holds it up for me to take a look. “There’s a mudak in your city causing us more problems than he’s worth. Find him, bring him to me, and consider our contract signed.”

I’m no one’s errand boy, and he knows that. “Take a few of my men. Find him yourself.”

“I could. But I don’t know this place half as well as you do. Find him for me, and we’ll throw in an extra few million dollars as a bonus.”

“I thought you said he’s not worth much.”

Arlo shrugs. “He isn’t. But you are. Your Bratva is. I know this game all too well—you need to make sure I’m good on my word and trustworthy as an ally. I need to know the same about you.” He gestures to Mak. “Send your brother to my warehouse. I’ll give the tour myself, so he can verify I have what we’ve promised.”

“How much are we talking? In that bonus.”

“Fifty million.”

Well… shit.

I don’t need the money. I’ve already recouped my loss from burning that painting and then some, so there’s nothing to refill in terms of finances.

But the thought of my daughter is what makes me hold back from scoffing in his face. Fifty million dollars is more money to ensure my baby girl is never in need of anything, no matter what happens to me.

Or, God forbid, should anything happen to her mother.

“Done.” I exchange a look with Mak, who nods and begins to coordinate with Arlo’s men. “As soon as Makari confirms everything, you’ll have your man.”

Arlo flashes me a wide grin. Whether it’s that of a friend or a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I’m still not quite sure.

“Fantastic,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

So am I, Arlo Fedorov. So am I.