The call that got me out of bed earlier than I would’ve liked turns out to be nothing. I’d received reports of an attack on Safonov Bratva property, but turns out, “attack” is a bit of a misnomer.
I arrive on site to see that the damage is nothing spectacular. A few broken windows, some spray-painted obscenities on the brick facade of my Charlestown warehouse. Run-of-the-mill vandalism, the kind that happens every day all over the city.
The important takeaway is that it’s nothing Bratva-related. Nothing that screams targeted hit or seems connected to whatever Iakov is cooking up with the feds.
I’m trying to work up some justified violent anger about the whole thing and I just can’t manage it.
Because it’s Olivia filling my head instead.
Specifically, Olivia as she looked sprawled acro
