Page 29 of Brutal Promise

Does he still think I’m lying?WTF?

“It happens.” But as soon as the words leave my mouth, the bits and pieces come together like the pattern of a dress. Each piece of fabric is cut, pinned, and then sewn together to make a dress. It’s the same as solving a mystery. Details add up to pictures, and the facts tell a piece of the story until there is a complete story.

And more pieces are falling into place for me. There’s the cryptic fear and promise never to move to New York City. Add to that my mother’s untimely death in the city—when we never went into the city.

“Wait, was her accident a hit?” I turn to Dmitry.

“Now you’re using that brain of yours.” Dmitry rewards me with a smile of approval. I’ve noticed he rarely smiles. I pull up a chair next to him. Alena joins us and sits next to Kirill, filling the fourth seat at the table.

“We’re checking her name in our database, and there’s a Maria Lucci, who is supposedly fifty-three years old. That can’t be,” says Dmitry.

“She’s not. I mean, she would be forty-three now. She had me at twenty. She was young. She said her family disowned her, and I assumed it was because she was pregnant and unmarried. She never wore a wedding ring or mentioned being married. There had to be someone in her life to wind up pregnant. When it rained, she’d get a wistful look in her eyes when we watched love stories on TV. She’d go through a box of tissues. She had a boyfriend, an Irish guy who worked on Wall Street before she died.”

“You really have no idea who your father is?” Dmitry’s face gets even sexier when he frowns.

He’s doubting me? I’m insulted he thinks I’m lying. He must not get out much if he’s questioning me because I have no reason to lie. I’m an outsider. Dmitry is a man who likes the safety of his family and is resistant to change. I know better than to think I can take a lone wolf like him and turn him into a domesticated lap dog.

“My dad passed away before I was born….” I answer, and at the same time, a chill runs up my spine.No way!Could his death have been planned? “Was it a hit as well?” A wave of nausea hits me, and I cover my mouth in case I’m sick.

“Don’t know. We don’t have a name for your father. There’s none listed on your birth certificate.” If Dmitry notices me turning green, he doesn’t draw attention to it. Instead, he shifts his weight in the chair as if his leg or injured arm is hurting him.

“Mom said he was gone, and I would take her last name.”

“Hidden in plain sight, your mother was smart.” Dmitry pours more vodka into their shot glasses, and the two tap the table, say something in Russian, and drink.

“So, who am I?”

“We have no clue, but you must be part of a mafia family. I mean, we’re going back twenty-three years, right?” Kirill states. I assume Alena’s dad, Mikhail, must keep him around for his analytical skill set.

“Yes,” I reply. He’s smart to work backward to figure this out, especially considering we don’t have much to go on.

“Wait, you mentioned an Irish guy. Do you remember his name? A Wall Street man? That sounds as fishy as a can of sardines.” Dmitry leans toward me, and I smell the sweetness of the refined vodka as it mingles with the musky wood notes in his cologne.

“He was a regular Irish guy, James Murphy.” I look around as if I’m stating the obvious. “Come on, aren’t they all named Murphy?”

I look at Alena, and her face falls. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, I mean, it could be a coincidence. The Irish of New York are the Murphys,” Kirill says. “It is common. But somehow, I don’t think it is in this situation.” He puts a finger to his chin and says, “Let me think a minute.”

“Back in the day, the don was Alexsei’s father,” Alena says. “We were at war with the Italians, and each side sustained multiple casualties. Molotov cocktails were going off outside people’s homes, and communities were in an uproar for more police protection. The incidents were hurting businesses, and then the Feds came around to monopolize on our weakness.”

“That’s right,” Kirill says. The light bulb over his head goes off. “They were looking to get someone low on the vine to turn. They probably wanted someone to spy on your organization, talk, or maybe both. RICO was big back then. It's still big, and it’s how they break up the leadership, putting the don in prison. In the spirit of self-preservation, a temporary truce was made. And my mother, who is a Moretti, was a capo’s daughter and married my Russian dad. The Moretti don is the same. He has kids. In fact, he has a son to take over for him.”

“Right. Alexsei, his brigadiers, and advisors stay reclusive. It’s that way for the top echelon of the bratva,” Dmitry says.

Kirill nods. “I haven’t even met the man.”

Dmitry begins to type on his laptop. “I want to know who had kids back then. I’ll search birth records.” Watching his fingers fly, I’m impressed. Clearly, he and Kirill are tech-savvy. I’ve never seen anyone fly between ten screens as quickly as this.

I sit, watching Dmitry with fascination. He’s as good at this cyber shit as I am with a needle and thread. Glancing out the sliding doors to the small balcony, I notice it’s getting late, and the sun is sinking behind the monolithic buildings, casting long shadows.

“Is the incident with the men in the alley over, or are cops going to bust through the door?” I ask, wondering how we got off scot-free.

The guys continue to tap away on their keyboards.

“It’s been handled,” Kirill murmurs without looking up. We’re quiet, lost in our thoughts until Alena’s stomach rumbles.

“Well, I haven’t eaten all day, and mimosas aren’t food.” Alena stands and walks to the kitchen, opening the cupboards. “Gee, Kirill. Do you own stock in tin? Judging from the amount of canned food, I’m confident you will survive a pandemic.”

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