“Yeah, hold on, lemme put you on speaker.”
The noise swelled on the other end, overlapping whispers, clatter and squeak of furniture.
“Okay,” Maverick said. “We’re all listening.”
No pressure.
It was more nerve-wracking – well, more important, in a personal sense – than giving a debrief to her captain. “Misha’s part of the old guard,” she said, and nerves gave way to duty and long-practice. “The OG crew from Moscow who helped make Kozlov what it is today over there. He’s considered old-fashioned and stubborn amongst the newer, younger crew who were enlisted over here: first- and second-generation immigrants, most of whom haven’t ever met Kozlov himself, and have no fond memories of the good ol’ days back in the old neighborhood. They tend to flock to Kozlov’s nephews: there’s three, and they’re young; and they have a very different view of how the bratva ought to do business here.”
Tenny’s voice said, “Yeah, we’ve met the wankers.”
“If my source is right, then they’re planning to knock Misha off the top and take over the American branch themselves.”
Tenny said, “Ha. Knew it.”
“They’re going to run things at the auction tomorrow.”
Tenny again: “See? We gotta go to that.”
Another voice, British, less-familiar. Not Devin, but someone who sounded similar. “Or you contact them before.”
“Apparently,” Melissa continued, “they think the best way to twist his arm is to get hold of his woman.”
“He has a woman?” more than one person asked at once.
“Tucked away in a little bolt hole townhouse in Brooklyn, apparently. The guy who works on Misha’s car got driven out there once. The thing broke down on the street, and the mechanic was bragging about the girl he saw out on the front steps, all clingy with Misha.”
“Ooh,” Devin now, “that’s brilliant, sweetheart. Well done. You got an address?”
“I do.” She sighed. “But please tell me you aren’t going to kidnap some poor civilian girl.”
“Do you take us for monsters?” Devin asked.
In a more reassuring tone, Maverick said, “She’ll be fine. Great job, Missy. This is a huge help.”
In the background, she heard Tenny sniggering. “Missy?”
“You want the address or not?” she snapped.
“Ignore him,” Maverick said. “All of us do.”
“Hey, now…”
~*~
The restaurant was tiny, cramped in a charming way, the air filled with steam from the open-plan kitchen so thick it had fogged the front windows, and with the sound of rapid-fire conversation in Russian. Tenny swallowed his bite of pirozhki and reached for a napkin as Ilya scanned the interior from the door, spotted him, scowled, and started over. He came to a halt beside the table, forcing a pair of old ladies to stumble around him on their way out.
“What?” he demanded.
At the door, his two goons – brothers, Tenny now knew – took up posts just inside, obvious in their black coats and gold chains. All three of them were taking the flash approach to unseating Misha, apparently; they wanted the Russian community in New York to know who they were.
Tenny gestured to the chair opposite. “You wanna sit?”
“I want you to tell me why the fuck I’m here.”
“Ah, but you are here.” Tenny sent him a winning grin. “Which means you’re curious about what I have to say.” He let the smile drop and nudged the chair with his toes, scooting it out an inch. “Sit. You won’t want the whole restaurant hearing this.”
Ilya’s scowl shifted into something suspicious. He looked at Tenny, at Reese beside him, and back. Did another scan of the restaurant. When he sat, it was slowly, as though he was afraid the table was booby-trapped.
