As Dmitry turned onto Gross Point Road, the fine hair on his arms tingled like antennae signaling danger. On another day, the colorful business banners fluttering in the streetlights in Skokie might have lifted his spirits, but today, their blocky Russian letters only shackled him to a family drama he hadn’t chosen.
He parked his van across the street from the restaurant. As he strode up to the front door, he gripped his keys so tightly they dug into his calloused palm.
Vladimir “the Pope” Popov leased Pavlov’s Banquet and lived in the penthouse above the restaurant. Outside, the place was an ugly rectangular brick warehouse on an even uglier block, but inside it was a Russian fun house crammed with nesting dolls, silver samovars, Gzhel ceramic teapots, and paneled icons with dazzling Ma
