Page 85 of For a Price

“Turn on the local news. I’m sure the choppers circling the area are capturing good footage.”

I hang up on him, still looking up at the skyscraper that had become my focal point of operations in the past few months.

The person responsible for this knew I wasn’t home. They must’ve known I’d taken Katerina out for dinner.

Which poses the question:howwould they know? How would they have access to that type of information?

Only a select few people would. My crew and staff. Possibly known enemies like Leonid or one of the Five Families.

The sovietnik.

I’d essentially waged war during our last visit.

Would my father be so dramatic as to set my home on fire?

He’s usually more cut-and-dry than this; usually more upfront in his intentions to kill. He’s not one for the dramatics of firing warning shots. He just outright shoots.

But Leonid would do something like this. He would be so foolish and egotistical to think he could burn my home down and handle the retribution I’d have for him. After all, he’d fired his first warning shot by telling my father about the pakhan’svisit.

He knows about Katerina.

He would find it amusing to threaten me with the possibility he could bring her harm. What if this were one of the evenings where I was out late and she was home waiting for me to return?

I pivot from the crowded street of police, firefighters, and nosy onlookers.

There’s only one way to find out what’s going on, and that’s head on.

I’m met with armed guards when I turn up to my father’s residence. Mere weeks ago, I could turn up any time of day or night with no problem. I was welcomed as the sovietnik’s son, his protégé.

With the tensions going on, it’s different now.

I’m treated as an outsider. His enemy.

Me and the small group of men I have with me are stripped of our weapons. We’re pushed through like an assembly line with assault rifles trained on us every step of the way.

My father’s in his private office, swathed by a thick robe. He must’ve already been in bed by the time I decided to turn up.

“Zver,” he grunts, his weathered face lined with hostility. “Chto ty khochesh’?*?”

“You’ve heard,” I say, jutting my chin. “If not, then turn on the fucking television.”

“Respect, Zver. Have some or you will find yourself regretting it.”

Still, my father does as I demand—he motions at one of his men to turn on the flat screen television mounted to the far wall.

The channel happens to be on the local station currently broadcasting the breaking news story. One of the Northam Towers going down in flames.

My father glances to me, then back toward the TV. “Your penthouse?”

“I wasn’t home, otets. Convenient, da?”

“I know what you are thinking and you are wrong.”

“Then who? The piece of shit you are protecting? Where is he? I would like to chop his other fucking hand off!”

“You are letting emotion drive you, Zver. No wonder you come barging in here so late in the night. You are not thinking clearly.”

“More like the person foolish enough to burn down my building was not thinking. I’ll crush them!”

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