It doesn’t make sense. The Bratva doesn’tdocharity. Hell, no kind of criminal organization ever does.
Which means whatever’s going down here is shadier than it has any business being.
My eyes narrow. “What do you think they’re doing?”
“No idea.” Matteo shakes his head. “But if Belov is funneling money into hospitals in Queens, it means he wants something out of them.”
“That’s a comforting thought.”
“You can say that again.” He yawns and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. I get the feeling his night musthave been very long indeed. “This is everything I’ve got on Belov. I’d do more, but I’ve got my hands full with my own friendly neighborhood Russian interlopers.”
“You’ve done plenty, Matt.” I grab the files to read later. “I owe you.”
I don’t say those words lightly. Matteo knows that. “Nonsense,” he replies. “If the boroughs don’t protect each other, we’ll be overrun by outsiders soon. It’s in everyone’s best interest to keep it all in-house.”
He’s right on that. We may have different blood in our veins, but at the end of the day, we’re mafia. Our code keeps us honest—or as honest as people like us can be.
Unfortunately, that can’t always be said for the upstarts that pop up every now and then at our street corners. They’ll make a mess of things, attract the attention of the cops. Involve civilians. That thought alone makes my blood boil, the memory of Savannah’s admission still fresh in my mind.
“You mentioned you’ve got your hands full,” I say as an afterthought. “Who’s giving you trouble?”
“Fucking Fedorov, that’s who.” He gives another yawn. “Thoughtroubleis an overstatement. I’ll get him sorted before Sunday service.” He says those words with a dangerous edge, like this Fedorov guy hasn’t just fucked with his business.
“If you need a hand?—”
“No,” Matteo says flatly. “But thank you for offering.” His expression changes—shifts, tightens. “I’ve got it covered. You can leave Fedorov to me.”
I study Matteo for a moment. “If it’s personal, tell me.”
“It is,” he growls. “And that’s why you won’t touch him. Focus on Belov.”
Fair enough. I’m man enough to know when you’ve got to let someone fight their battles on their own.
I slide the folders into my jacket. “Thank you for the collaboration,” I say. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“And I’ll do the same.” Matteo rises from his chair. “These Bratvastronzihave inched far enough into New York. It’s time to remind them who’s in charge.”
Nothing I can say to that.
The second I’m out, my phone buzzes. It’s Valerio.
I put it to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Boss, you need to come home.”
The urgency in his voice roots me to the spot.
“What happened?” I growl. “What happened to her?”
“It’s not her,” he says. “It’s?—”
Then the line goes dead.
15
SAVANNAH
Itry Mom’s number again. This time, Yvonne—her nurse—picks up. She sounds out of breath.
