“There’s a bunch of texts between him and Melor.”
“Fuck.”
No, that’s good. I know that. But to lose someone else, someone I let stay, is another blow.
“Anything useful?”
“Not unless it’s code. I’ll send through the transcript…” He taps on a computer. “Got it?”
A moment later, I get the email. “Yes.”
He’s right. Unless this is code, there’s nothing. Just friendly nonsense, the “how are you doing?” The “how’s everything?” At both ends, their responses are generic. “Fine.” “Good.” And so on.
He sends another email. “The dates go back a couple of weeks, too, and these are the latest. As far as it seems, it’s just always been the same kind of texts. The most important thing of interest to you is where they’ve been sent from. My guy’s good, and both phones are pinged to the Chicago area. I’m gonna say he’s still here somewhere.”
I thank him and end the call.
His last statement before he hung up is one that was already in my head. It’s good Melor still seems to be in the area, but that could change. Since Melor’s a professional like me, he’ll change to a burner soon enough. Maybe he has already, but with the little he thinks of me, maybe not. Let him, it might make him a little slower on doing things, and it just might work in my advantage. If not…I’ll find the prick.
What I want to know are his plans, because that might help narrow the field.
I’m not sure if he’s planning another attack or to run and regroup.
Both those options will end up in the same place—him coming for the Belov Bratva. But how long and when are variables I can’t fathom. Sooner rather than later. But sooner could be days, weeks, months. Even a year or two. And later may mean a slow chipping at the remaining men if any go to Melor. But I’m betting not. They’ll go to Simonov or elsewhere.
If Melor builds his own thing, then we’d have to track it down, wherever he had it set up, and then think about, if we couldn’t get to him, infiltrate his people to reach him that way. And he could wait a decade.
That seems out of the realm of possibility, but I’ve seen others play that kind of waiting game.
I rub my temples.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is being proactive and finding him first. I’m not sitting back, so his plans are immaterial.
He’s in Chicago.
It gives me a place to start.
I pull up the files of my remaining men, and I call Elisei to my office since he’s on duty. When he arrives, I look at him, take him in.
He seems like a good guy.Seems.
I hold on to that word—seems.
“Thank you for your help and bravery. Your loyalty hasn’t gone unnoticed. Good and bad, I always notice things, and this…this is good. I reward good.”
“Thank you, sir. I stuck around because I believe in a strong bratva, one that goes places, makes changes.”
I bite back my smile. “We’re not a charity group.”
“Yes, I know. But there are destructive organizations out there. Those that stab members in the back, that breed chaos and toxicity. I want to be proud of where I am. I want to be part of a strong and fair bratva.”
I know exactly what he means. That’s how I feel—felt—about Demyan’s.
“I want to be a leader,” he adds.
With a smile I glance at him once more. “I’ll consider it. Dismissed.”
