Page 122 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

A Movie Theater Somewhere Near Albany

After I drop Arya off at the edge of the trailer park, I head towards the nearest town. Gennady meets me in a movie theater. It’s a matinee showing of some old-school war flick.

Bombs explode in black-and-white on the screen in front of us. There’s only one other person in the theater, an elderly man with a cane resting across his lap. He’s fixated on the screen. Barely notices us enter.

“What a fucking shitshow this is,” I grimace.

“It’s not that bad,” Gennady counters. “The acting could be better, but I’m not complaining.”

“I’m talking about the shit with the Bratva and my family, Gennady. Not the goddamn movie.”

He chews on a handful of popcorn. “Oh. Right.”

“Any news from the city?”

“Silent as the grave out there,” Gennady says with a sigh. “Fucking spooky, really.”

I frown. “I don’t like that. Who launches a rebellion and then immediately goes ghost?”

“Zotov, apparently. All our loyalists are staying undercover or in safehouses until we get a handle on things and put a plan together. It’s going to be hard to regroup without showing some strength, I think.”

I think back to my brother’s offer of an army. If I could show up in Manhattan with two hundred Romanoff men armed to the teeth, Zotov would shit himself and everyone loyal to me would come streaming back to the city to join the war.

There’s only one thing preventing that from happening: the Butcher.

“Before you ask,” Gennady says, reading my expression, “no, we haven’t found his newest location. But…”

“But what?” I ask.

He sighs again. “You aren’t going to like this.”

“Not going to like what?”

“I mean you really, really aren’t going to like this.”

“Spit it out,dubiina.”

“We found something, Dima. Something… suspicious.”

“Explain it,” I demand, gritting my teeth. “I fucking despise guessing games.”

Gennady passes a hand over his face. Same as on the phone before, he sounds exhausted. He looks exhausted, too. His normally bright eyes are clouded and weary. His skin is pale.

“We had a witness—a bodega owner who pays us protection—report that someone matching the Butcher’s description had been through the area about ten months ago. He was real spooked. Said the guy came strapped with tons of bodyguards around him. Was cruising around, scaring everybody in the neighborhood late one night. He went up to a nearby apartment. Busted in, stayed for a few minutes, and left. Like I said, everyone in the area was terrified.”

“How does that help us now?” I growl. “It was almost a year ago. I doubt he’s still strolling the same sidewalks, terrifying oldbabushkason the doorsteps.”

Gennady sighs once more. “Just listen, Dima. We talked to a few people and ended up paying the security guard at the apartment to let us look at the footage. It didn’t show much. Pretty much what the bodega guy said. The Butcher goes in, stays, comes out.”

My fists are clenched tight on the armrests now. “So what?” I say again. “What is the fucking point?”

Finally, Gennady drags his eyes up to meet mine. On the theater screen, more bombs are falling. The hero is dying, blood gushing from an open wound. There’s no escape for him. No avoiding his fate.

“The important part is this: I checked the building’s logs. Do you know who lived in the unit that the Butcher visited?”

I don’t answer. I already know what he’s going to say even before he says it.

“Dr. Arya George.”

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