Page 135 of Mountain Daddy

“This way,” Boris gestures toward a metal table set up in the center of the room. Four folding chairs. A single fluorescent light dangling overhead.

We take our seats across from each other. A chessboard with human pieces.

“You killed my cousin,” Boris says.

I don't flinch. Don't deny it. “I did.”

“Three bullets to the chest,” he continues. “In front of witnesses.”

“Should have been more.”

Boris's jaw tightens. One of his guards shifts his weight. Hand drifting toward his holster.

Ivan clears his throat. “We're here to settle this, Boris. Peacefully.”

“Peace?” Boris laughs. Cold. Empty. “He murdered my blood.”

I slide the manila envelope across the table. “Your brother murdered fifteen people. Women. Children. For a real estate deal.”

Boris doesn't touch the envelope. Just stares at it like it might bite.

“Open it,” I say.

He hesitates, then nods to one of his men. The guard steps forward, flips the envelope open. Spills its contents across the metal surface.

Photos. Reports. Evidence.

The guard's face pales.

“What is this?” Boris asks.

“The truth,” I say. “About what Viktor did.”

I reach across, flip through the photos until I find the one I want. Push it toward him with one finger.

A small body. Charred beyond recognition. Except for the pink shoes, somehow untouched by the flames.

“Three years old,” I tell him. “Her name was Sophie. She was playing with dolls when the fire started.”

Boris stares at the photo. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes.

“My cousin did this?” His voice has dropped. Quieter now.

“He ordered it,” I confirm. “Set fire to an apartment building because the owners wouldn't sell. Fifteen dead. Five of them children. Eight women. All innocent.”

I push another photo forward. The building. Flames reaching toward the sky.

“Your family's mark was left at the scene. Your raven. Your fire.” I lean forward. “Is this what the Kozlov name stands for now? Burning children alive?”

Boris looks up. Something flickers across his face. Disgust. Shame, maybe.

“I have a daughter,” he says finally. “Four years old.”

I hadn't known that. It's not in any of our files on the Kozlovs.

“She likes the color pink?” I ask.

He nods. Once. Barely perceptible.

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