Page 41 of His Passerotta

“That’s an Irish soldier in our neighborhood. Look at the timestamp.”

When I do, I instantly understand. Uh-oh.

“This means nothing.” I toss the photos on my desk, unsure how much I believe my own statement. “Where did you even get this?”

“Someone anonymously addressed it to Petrov’s office.” He scatters the photos until he finds what he’s looking for, then he holds up a stilled image of smoke coming from the Russian store. It’s taken from a block or so away. “The Irish did this.” He flings the picture in the air.

“This doesn’t prove that the Irish did anything. It only proves that the cameraman knows who did, or more likely, is involved.”

“You think Petrov wants proof?” He barks out a laugh and spears both hands through his short, blond hair. He has a point. The Pahkan is a loose cannon with plenty of past bad blood with the Irish… And us. Anyone so much as suggesting to have proof will be enough for him.

Maksim continues his assault on his hair while he paces.

“What is Petrov going to do?”

He stops to fling his hands at his sides. “What do you think?”

“I think until the Bratva knows for certain who was behind the fire, the best move for you is to pause. Nothing has happened since, and you don’t know that anything else is being planned. You start a war against the Irish, and you have them as your enemy as well as whoever is actually fucking with you.”

“Did you look into that group?” he asks. “Lost Boys or whatever?”

I nod. It isn’t good news. “It seems it was a false lead.”

“Goddammit,” he bellows, kicking the chair.

“The hangout point the source told us about hasn’t had anyone there in days… That doesn’t mean another gang isn’t behind this. Plenty of people outside our organizations benefitted the last time we were in a war, so it’s plausible there could be outside forces purposefully stirring things up.” I point to the scattered photos. “This is only more evidence of that being a possibility. Not less.”

“Yeah, tell that to Petrov.” He snorts.

“That’s not my job. It’s yours.”

He simmers as he considers this, his violent jerky movements turning to a slow tapping on his crossed arms.

Finally, he shakes his head. “I can’t stop the Bratva from attacking. The best I can do is warn you so the Italians can stay out of it.”

After the Irish helped us take care of Petrov the last time he got out of hand? Not likely.

Maksim looks like he’d like to say more, but he doesn’t. His hands are tied. He gathers the photos before tucking them back inside the envelope.

“You’re making a mistake.”

He tenses at my voice, then finishes up, tucking the envelope under his arm. “Maybe,” he says, strong while somehow also defeated. “But it isn’t my decision to make. My loyalty is to the Pahkan.”

I open my office door and step to the side. “Good luck with that.”

He sighs and doesn’t meet my eyes as he leaves, this time gently shutting the lobby door on his way out.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull my phone from my pocket, intent on not wasting any more time.

Maksim can give all the assurances he wants, but it’s in vain.

If the Irish are attacked, they’ll come to us for help, and Settimo will choose to join them.

We’re headed for another war, whether we like it or not.

10

BAILEY

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