Page 11 of Heartfelt Pain
I’ll figure out the dead bodies. Really, I will. Just not at this moment.
Each time I light up, Jane glances at me, so around lunchtime,I escape to the alleyway behind the restaurant. It’s just me and the rats as I inhale tobacco.
Steady footsteps pull my attention to a tall man with broad shoulders.
“Boris Akatov,” I greet.
My feet ache and I’d love to lean up against the brick wall but I don’t want the material to rub my blazer. I settle for crossing my arms over my chest as I take another drag of the cigarette.
It’s not often I come into contact with Lennie’s dad. The last time I saw him, I’d helped Adeline and Elijah rescue Len from the batshit Leopold Stuart. That happened almost six months ago.
The cut of his suit is impeccable. His smile brightens his face and he keeps his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.
I can’t help but compare him to Lev. And the Russian is certainly on my mind since I called him a few nights ago. But at least Boris doesn’t glide in on fake swagger and inflated ego.
Lennie loves her parents. Even when she was fighting with her mom, Gia, Boris checked in. And after Leopold’s attack, I saw firsthand how much he cares about his daughters.
“Jane told me you were out here,” he says.
“She doesn’t normally give my location away when I’m on break.”
“She likes me,” he declares with a touch of that Russian mafia smugness.
I smile around my cigarette. “She likes everyone. Don’t think you’re special.”
It’s not unusual for people to drop off gifts. Little things, intending to build friendships. Jane is sincere. She either likes you or doesn’t. But when you’re a customer, especially my customer, she treats you the same.
The tip of my stiletto stubs out the cigarette against the concrete. I keep my arms crossed.
A guy like Boris doesn’t get nervous, and as if to prove it, he smiles again. “I really hate Cain Murray, you know.”
“I’d always been told it was personal.” And not business.
Right around the time I took over for Aunt Macy, Boris had gotten into it with the Irish.
I was green at the time. When people asked for information, I didn’t know how to obtain it. Pity, because information on personal beefs can be just as useful as the intricate business matters floating around.
“Care to tell me about it now?” I ask.
He flashes a wolfish smile. “Not particularly, no.”
“Then what can I do for you?”
“I want an analysis done.”
My brow wrinkles. Sure, we get all kinds of strange requests, but this is slightly more off-kilter than usual.
“We talking cost analysis, business analysis. You want me to hook you up with my financial guy?”
It’s not so much a chuckle, but rather an amused huff of laughter that comes from the man. “I want Cain Murray dead.”
My brows almost hit my hairline.
Before I can ask any questions, an aggrieved sigh rips through the Russian. “I have my own opinions on what would happen if I take out Cain Murray. But I’m told I need an impartial analysis. I’d like you to gather what intel you can and present your findings.”
I try to keep a blank face. “It’s not for me to tell the different syndicates who they should and should not take out.”
“I’m asking for intelligence.” It seems he’s prepared himself for my arguments. “And you sell information all the time.”
