Forty-Nine

Mikhail

"Maria Rostova is mine to deal with," I say firmly. "Not yours."

"Very well," Alexander says, a hint of skepticism in his posh voice. "I'm glad that everything has been laid on the table."

My head spins, and shadows appear in the corners of the room. Desmier, Father, and Mother—their voices seem to call out to me in unintelligible whispers. I struggle with clouded thoughts, and the vodka rushes down my tightening throat. Gasping, I need to know more before I can clear my mind. Turning my attention to the brigadiers, I press them for something, anything that might help me untangle this confusion.

Eyeing each one coldly, I ask them, "What proof do you have of her involvement?"

"Ah, yes." Ippolit glances away. His manner is stiller than water and just as deep. He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and slides it to me.

A redhead woman working behind a bar is on the phone. But it's not anyone that I recognize.

"This is the daughter of Vito Genovesi," Ippolit explains. "A caporeg