Page 70 of The Mafia King's Baby

“Ma’am, I’m not alone. The people I’m working with are trying to protect you, but they’re the ones being framed for crimes they didn’t commit.”

She hesitates for a moment before nodding. “One hour. If this is legitimate, we’ll discuss next steps then.” With that, she takes her daughter’s hand and walks toward their car.

Celia returns to the van with the address written on the business card. I examine it while Leonid starts the engine and begins driving toward the location.

I study the street address and cross-reference it with mapping software. “It’s an apartment complex in Arlington. It could be a safe house, or it could be a trap.”

“She seemed genuine.” Celia fastens her seatbelt and checks the recording device. “Shocked, but genuine. I don’t think she’s part of the conspiracy, and what other choice do we have?”

“That doesn’t mean she won’t call for backup or try to arrest us when we arrive.” I fold the business card and slip it into my jacket pocket. “But you’re right that we don’t have many other options.”

The apartment complex turns out to be typical government housing, the kind of location that various agencies use for witness protection and safe house operations, with bland architecture and an ostensibly minimal security presence, designed to avoid attracting attention while providing reasonable protection.

Leonid drives through the neighborhood twice, noting camera positions and escape routes while we wait for Hendricks to arrive. He’s following standard surveillance procedure, and I’m partially reassured but still nervous as hell.

“There.” I spot Hendricks’ sedan turning into the complex parking lot. “She came alone.”

We watch her park and walk toward one of the apartment buildings, using a key to let herself inside. “She’s inside.” Leonid checks his watch. “Do we wait longer, or follow now?”

I weigh the tactical situation against time pressures. Waiting reduces the immediate risk but gives potential enemies more time to organize a response. Following immediately increases our danger but maintains initiative and prevents extended exposure.

“We go now.” I check my sidearm and scan the area one final time. “Celia, I want you to consider staying in the van.”

“Not happening.” Her response comes without hesitation. “We’ve been through this.”

“This could be a trap. Federal agents, arrest warrants… The works. I might not be able to protect you from the feds.”

“Then you’ll need someone there who can verify what happened during our first contact.” She opens the van door and steps onto the pavement. “Besides, she seemed more comfortable talking to me than she would be with you.”

The logic is sound, even if my protective instincts argue against it. Hendricks did respond positively to Celia’s approach, and having a female civilian present might help maintain the non-threatening atmosphere we need for productive conversation.

“Stay behind me. If shooting starts, get to cover and stay there until it’s over.”

We approach the apartment building cautiously, weapons concealed but accessible, balancing readiness with the appearance of peaceful intent. If Hendricks is monitoring our approach, we want to project confidence without appearing aggressive.

The apartment door opens before we can knock. Hendricks stands in the doorway, no longer the relaxed parent fromthe dance studio. Now she looks like a senior federal law enforcement officer preparing for a serious, potentially explosive conversation. Her gun is visible in her hand but relaxed at her side. “Come in. We have a lot to discuss.”

25

Celia

The apartment feels smaller than it looked from the outside, with generic furniture and beige walls suggesting government-issued temporary housing rather than someone’s home. Patricia Hendricks closes the door behind us and engages multiple locks quickly and with little trouble.

“Sit.” She gestures toward a small dining table while remaining standing herself. “Before we go any farther, I need to know exactly with whom I’m dealing.”

The tension in the room is thick enough to cut. Patricia stands with her back to the kitchen counter, holding her gun still semi-relaxed but obviously ready. Her posture radiates controlled alertness, the kind federal agents develop when they expect situations to turn dangerous without warning.

Yefrem settles into one of the chairs but keeps his hands visible on the table surface. “My name is Yefrem Kulikov. I’m whatyou’d call a Russian organized crime figure, though the reality is more complicated than that classification suggests.”

“More complicated how?”

“I didn’t choose this life initially. My father was connected to the St. Petersburgbratva, and after my parents were killed when I was fifteen, my brother and I had limited options for survival.” Yefrem’s voice carries the flat tone he uses when discussing painful history. “We came to America to work for people who had criminal connections.”

Patricia absorbs this information without visible reaction. “And Marcus Lang?”

He continues to sound dispassionate. “He tried to force my organization into partnerships we didn’t want. When I refused to pay his extortion fees and use his trafficking routes, he arranged for the Belov family to hit my Vegas home.” Yefrem glances toward Leonid, who nods confirmation. “Several of my people died in that attack.”

Her eyes narrow. “So, you killed Lang in retaliation?”

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