2

Like no one else, I knew perfectly well what memory is and how it works, and I knew very well how it happened when memories began to emerge from such depths that the body literally turned inside out, what was remembered was so unpleasant , and as always at the wrong time.

"You remember me," the old wolf in the wheelchair remarked satisfactorily. His son, putting on trousers and a jacket that hung on a chair, stood behind him.

I was in no hurry to answer, sorting through long-forgotten moments from my childhood. Fuck! Well, what a cruel irony that Ibragimov Sr. was the same wolf who visited my mother from time to time when Sasha and I were little.

This was already after the death of my father, and I remembered that Ibragimov, then not yet disabled, always brought all sorts of sweets and toys. Some of them, it seems, even I have preserved in the old apartment where we lived then.

I also remembered that my mother was always nervous around him, but also looked at him somehow with hope, as if he, it turns out, was the only one (or maybe not) who knew that Valery Stanislavsky had a family, appeared to her as a savior from all troubles.

Obviously, this did not happen, and the good uncle Mark, as Sasha and I called him, fell off, it seems, when I went to first grade in order to improve my life, and not solve the problems of an ordinary human woman who naively got involved with a bandit wolf.

And now, after so many years at the suggestion of Grisha, we met again to... What? Solve his problems? Solve my problems? Or, as the old wolf put it, look at me?

I walked over to the rectangular table where Ibragimov was sitting with several other old men in fancy suits and bright wide ties that had long gone out of fashion.

Grisha pulled out a chair for me, having previously checked that there was no surprise under it in the form of a bomb, and I sat down, crossing my legs.

- Do not even bring me condolences in connection with the sudden death of my husband, Uncle Mark? - I asked sharply.

Ibragimov laughed hoarsely, examining me with open interest.

- In no case! - Laughing, answered the old wolf. - Well, if anyone benefited from his death, - he threw a cursory glance at Grisha, who was standing behind me, - it's you, my dear! His failure with diamonds fell on your shoulders, and I'm sorry that Sasha...

- No need! I interrupted sharply, feeling a bitter taste in my mouth. Those damned diamonds haunted me even now. - Do not stir up the past!

The old wolf looked at me with understanding, but I didn't give a shit about his understanding.

“I'm afraid the past stirs itself up,” he replied, looking sadly at his youngest son. “And we all now have to deal with him, whether we like it or not.

- I can't help but clarify with you, Mark Anatolyevich, - I said mockingly, - by "to deal", you mean the distribution of my inheritance to all sorts of garbage, so that they shut up and do not encroach on the so suddenly vacated place of the owner of the city?

Ibragimov threw a brief glance at his son, which only confirmed my guess: he was a thief. The most common thief.

I wonder if he also stole from my father? Maybe even he took part in his murder, and he himself remained in the affairs of the new owner of the city, singing to all those who are not indifferent a fairy tale about his beloved sons, for the sake of whom he agreed to work for Angelov.

In vain I came. Grisha said that my father greatly appreciated Ibragimov, a wolf with principles, also known for the fact that when he gave his word, he always kept it, which was probably the case once, but my father was long dead, and Ibragimov, having served Angelov for more than one year, after his death, he seemed to have already headed the city and ruled it. So what kind of alliance could there be if the only ally for the old wolf could be only himself? And his intervention served as confirmation of this: he pursued his own goals and the past, which, as he put it, stirred itself up, had the most indirect relation to me.

Ibragimov successfully took advantage of Grisha and made a fool out of him. Well, I once again made a fool out of myself, substituting for the same.

“Michael didn’t tell me that,” I continued meanwhile. - He was much more interested in my body than the truth, which I had to think out and find out on my own.

“And you succeeded in this,” Ibragimov approved, returning my gaze. - Don't be angry with Misha. He was only trying to be a friend to a beautiful girl who would have to raise her son in a cruel world without a father,” he added emphatically, and I realized that he suspected who really was Nikita's father.

Actually, this was not difficult to guess for those who kept their finger on the pulse, and Grisha understood this, who visibly tensed up behind my back.

I narrowed my eyes, assessing the old wolf in a new way: he tried to put pressure on me with the death of his brother and the fact that he knew my mother, admitted that he had robbed me, hinted that he knew that Grisha was the father of my child ... What the did he spin a web?

- You sent one of yours to me? I asked.

- You won't believe it, but no, - Ibragimov answered, exchanging glances with his son.

Grisha moved behind me, pulling out his phone. He clicked something on it, and then threw it at Mikhail.

The latter deftly caught it and, looking at the screen, gave it to his father.

"We don't know him," concluded the old wolf.

He put the phone on the table back to us, and until Grisha took it away, I caught a glimpse of the photo of the corpse. The fact that the wolfhound took a picture of the wolf he killed on his phone, of course, jarred me, but I also noted that the photo was not at all the one I thought.

I took a cigarette case out of my pocket, and Grisha lit a cigarette for me. The looks of the old men, who maintained a gloomy silence in the style of the Italian mafia, were unpleasant to me, as was the look of Mikhail, who was surprisingly transformed now that we no longer played fools.

In the looks and smells of the decommissioned old guard, I read hostility, disdain, and mockery that I, a half-blood woman, came all the way, in diamonds and with guards, as if I did this to impress them.

Moreover, I also saw that they did not approve of what Ibragimov was up to, although it is not a fact that they knew it at all, because in themselves all these old men, sitting like mummies at the table, were nothing. Somehow they only managed to wriggle out and stay alive after Boris's purge?

There was at least some benefit from Ibragimov, but what was there to take from them except for the analyzes and those - bad ones ?!

One of my assumptions at the very beginning of this shit was that they could pit me and brother Angelov, but in Ibragimov I did not notice even a hint of this. He did not look at Grisha at all, which contradicted his alleged desire to see a wolfhound as a replacement for Angelov. I evoked in him something like paternal feelings with a modicum of pity. Not more.

He had access to Boris' fortune, so why did he have to agree to a meeting? And why was he silent, throwing stupid phrases about the past and allusions to the future?

The answer was not the most optimistic: he could play for time.

Grisha and I still did not know what Kokhan looked like, and who had so successfully told him about the weapons at the factory. I suspected that Mikhail could be him, I suspected that Kokhan did not exist in principle, that is, that he was a figurehead, and now it occurred to me that the old man Ibragimov could simply go crazy and arrange all this performance to amuse himself , as the new owner of the city, and his comrades.

The mention of Kokhan by Alyosha, however, somewhat refuted this assumption, but the idea that Ibragimov was playing for time firmly settled in my head, goosebumps involuntarily crawled over my skin, and I abruptly got up from my chair.

- I would say that I was glad to see you, - I said, throwing an expressive look at Grisha, - but it's not so.

In an instant, everyone in the room began to move. Grisha covered me with himself, and took out both pistols. The fuses on the half-breed automata as they aimed at the wolves clicked, and the air filled with adrenaline.

- Half a year ago, - Ibragimov said as if nothing had happened, - a young half-breed came to me.

One of the wolves standing aside handed Mikhail a folder, which he gave to his father. The old wolf put it on the table and pushed it towards me.

- He introduced himself as Vladislav Kokhan, and stated that he was Boris Angelov's mother's brother. I knew that once someone also came to Boris, but he drove him away without killing him just because then he was completely absorbed in setting up a jewelry business. I also knew that the guest did not want to leave peacefully, and as a result of a fight, one of Boris's guards wounded him, due to which a kinship test was made, which showed the absence of the latter.

I glared at the folder, remembering the test results I'd found in the vault, and thought about it.

In principle, if I could come up with the idea to rob the owner of the city, then any other fool could come up with the idea of ​​trying to impersonate Angelov’s brother, but then I corrected myself: not to any fool, but only to someone who knew for sure that mother Angelova went for a walk.

But how was he going to bypass the DNA test? And with whom then did Boris confirm his relationship? And who came to Ibragimov?

- Kokhan told you that he could confirm the relationship, - I remembered Rosa's story and looked out from behind Grisha, who was still standing like a stretched string.

- Yes, - Ibragimov nodded, - and he also said that Boris's widow, although tacitly considered killed, is actually on the run and, accordingly, cannot claim the inheritance, even taking into account the fact that her child will be the direct heir to everything .

It was like a bucket of ice water was doused over me, and I grabbed onto Grisha's jacket. Half a year ago... Kohan... Kohan already knew that I was pregnant. Where?

- I was also very surprised, - continued Ibragimov, as if reading my thoughts. - I told him that you are not on the run, and are not even under investigation, and that you have already filed documents for entry into the inheritance, so if he wanted to get at least something, then he should have hired a lawyer and prepared documents for removing physical evidence from the police in order to conduct a DNA analysis, or to obtain your permission, as a legal wife, to exhume Boris's body in order to take a sample from him for comparison. Kokhan listened to me carefully and even thanked me for the consultation, and two days later I lost my eldest son, - he casually concluded, but his smell betrayed his father's grief, which had no statute of limitations.

I felt a little sorry for the old wolf, whom I blamed for many things, and, exhaling his pain, I mentally reached out to Nikita.

I'm so confused again. The pictures played with me, throwing from one terrible guess to another even more terrible. I tried so hard not to succumb to fear and to figure everything out: to distinguish truth from lies, real feelings from not real ones, that it seems that I got even more confused.

And most importantly, I either forgot or misunderstood my main, if not the only, support: Alyosha. More precisely, the clues he left for me.

A certain Vladislav Kokhan existed. How and with what he was connected with Alyosha remained a mystery to me, but the same Alyosha connected me with Ibragimov, whom, in turn, Kokhan connected with me. So, one way or another, the old wolf and I were in the same bunch.

- What makes you think it was Kohan? I asked. - Grisha, put away your weapons! I added quietly, walking around the wolfhound.

“Because I saw him,” said the old wolf. “Before the car exploded, he waved to me. Such is the story, Kira! he concluded sadly.

“I sympathize with you very much,” I said sincerely, “but what am I doing here? You claim that you didn’t send anyone to me, but you threatened Grisha, demanded from him it’s not clear what, stole Angelov’s fortune, framed me. You are to blame for the loss of your son. So what do you want from me now? I have my own child, and I don't care about your revenge or whatever you have in mind. I looked around at all the old people present. - The city is behind the scenes yours, and you don't need me, Grisha. So what do you need?

- Firstly, Kira, - Michael unexpectedly entered into the conversation, - it was not your father who set you up, but the one who knew that you were pregnant. Most likely, he sent to you the wolf that your wolfhound killed. - He hostilely glanced at Grisha. - You probably think that they wanted to push you to return to the city, but personally I think that they wanted to kidnap your son, or even kill him in front of you.

His words hit me in the stomach with such force that the air flew out of my lungs. Before my eyes, Nikita appeared again and that disgusting doll in the cemetery ground. I felt sick, and I thought I was about to fall, but feeling Grisha's touch, I was able to somehow pull myself together.

- Maybe it was you? - I muttered, looking angrily into Michael's eyes. - The Angelov Empire is such a tasty morsel! And on the way there was only your stubborn father, who at first took it into his head not to promote you, but some kind of half-breed, whose son was so successfully mistaken for the son of Angelov, and then get a taste and decide to manage everything himself.

- What did you say? Michael growled. His iris glowed with anger.

“I heard that,” I answered calmly, noticing from the corner of my eye that Grisha again raised his pistols and pointed them at the young wolf. - Before I could tell you that I was ready to meet your father, they sent me a very entertaining gift. What do you think, a coincidence?

- You, like your father, Kira! Ibragimov laughed, holding his son by the hand. - Oh, how he once loved to make such attacks! Yes friends? - Of course, none of his friends answered, and he continued. - By the way, congratulations, Grisha! The old wolf looked at the wolfhound, still aiming at his son. “Children are the meaning of our lives. It will give you strength, as it did Kira. He turned his gaze to me. - We are aware of what was sent to you, and we also know about the Queen of Spades card. And after that, you still think it's me, the business, or the city?

The question sounded derisive and made me uncomfortable. I went out of my way, sorting every fact into bits, questioning every knowledge, taking myself apart for parts, and some old man poked my face in the shit, hinting at my stupidity.

- Come on, baby! Ibragimov continued, smiling kindly at me. - The eldest daughter of Valery Stanislavsky, who risked robbing the owner of the city and shot him in the head with her own hand, still hasn't guessed why all this is happening? - The old people's faces twisted from what they heard, and Mikhail's hand jumped off the back of his father's wheelchair. - I do not believe! - the old wolf chuckled, pleased with the effect his words had on me as well. - The girl I knew as a little girl must have at least a few guesses. And only one of them is correct,” he added pointedly.

Strangely, despite the great surprise caused by the fact that Ibragimov knew about the diamonds and Boris, I also experienced a kind of relief.

Not that I was playing or lying if I was asked directly about the stones and the murder, and I still didn’t like the old wolf going around and around, shrouding his person in parallel, but I got the feeling that there was nothing holding me back.

Maybe I didn’t come so in vain and there was no trap here, and I still heard something useful, but I saw that the old wolf was still not going to say exactly what he wanted, and for what he did what he did.

So, I could go home with a clear conscience and, finally, begin to solve what was solvable, and not waste time on entertaining the old people, whose “golden” time had long ended.

- You know, - I took a folder from the table and with my free hand reached into my pocket for a cigarette case, - my brother often liked to repeat one phrase: crap yourself and not live. Here we are with you now, just such a situation. I took a big risk to meet you, and you go over my ears and intimidate, proudly demonstrate that you know everything, thus impressing your friends, but you know who I see? I see a pitiful disabled person who, for half a year, did not avenge his son, but brilliantly endangered the life of my child. You know where Kohan is. You know where he gets his information from, and what kind of business he does with the mayor to whom you gave the casino. By the way, my casino! I don’t know why you got into your head what you got into your head, and I don’t know what you were counting on at all, and even more so, what you are counting on now, but we are not on our way, Uncle Mark. So my advice to you is sit down and fart quietly. And pray that Kohan and that comrade who tells him very successfully does not get to you and finish what Angelov started.

The old man, who was sitting to my left, took off.

- Stupid whore! he spat out contemptuously. - Kohan will find your bastard and yank him...

A short silver blade entered his neck to the hilt. I turned it slowly, feeling the blood pressure rise under it, and yanked it out sharply, letting it come out with life.

Writhing, the old man fell down next to the two wolves killed by Grisha. A few seconds later he twitched for the last time. Only then did I leave.