Dmitry knew he was a dead man if he mentioned Bratva to the cops. The Russian Brotherhood didn’t take kindly to narcs. They didn’t tolerate betrayal. The key to surviving this police interrogation was to say as little as possible.
To his surprise, the uniformed officer never asked the important questions, the ones he dreaded. He never asked about Dmitry’s father or his brother. He never asked about the money or the paintings. He didn’t even ask about his house burning down.
All he wanted to know was why Dmitry had a bag of Professor Schmutzig’s laundry in the back of his minivan. No wonder the Pope ran this city like its mayor.
Vanya was waiting in his Escalade outside the police station to take him to fetch Sabina from the hospital. Since the “accident,” his smokestack cousin had been
