Chapter 4: The Russian Threat
I stepped back, surrendering my home to the invader.
His presence immediately shrunk my small living room. The air itself seemed to compress around him. The bodyguard, whom Alessio called Anton, remained in the hallway, standing guard at my door.
Alessio slowly surveyed the room. His eyes lingered on the shabby furniture, the basket of unfolded laundry, and Emma’s scattered toys. His face was completely unreadable.
“Tell me what Mike took,” I said, folding my arms tightly across my chest to hide my shaking. “And why you think I would know anything about it.”
Alessio slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. It was a casual gesture, but it purposely revealed the dark metallic glint of a holstered firearm resting against his ribs.
“Michael Donovan didn’t just take money from me, Sophia. He took information that could get my people killed. Including, potentially, his own daughter.”
I positioned my body between Alessio and the short hallway leading to Emma’s room. It was a quiet act of heroism, a mother standing between a lion and her cub.
“My daughter has absolutely nothing to do with this,” I stated, finding a sudden, fierce steadiness in my voice.
“I’m afraid that’s where you’re dead wrong,” Alessio countered, stepping further into the room. “The moment Michael decided to betray me, everyone connected to his bloodline became involved.”
He gestured gracefully toward the worn armchair. “Sit down, Sophia. This will be much easier if you aren’t preparing to attack me.”
I sank onto the edge of the chair, every muscle coiled tight. Alessio didn’t sit. He paced to the window, peering through the blinds at his men below.
“Michael worked for me for three years,” Alessio explained, his back to me. “Nothing significant. Running numbers, making low-level deliveries. He wasn’t important enough to know the architecture of my business.”
He turned around, the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face.
“Until six weeks ago. He was tasked with delivering a highly encrypted flash drive containing sensitive ledgers. And he stole it.”
“Not just stole it,” I whispered, finishing his thought as the pieces locked into place. “He made copies. He’s shopping it around.”
Alessio’s jaw visibly tightened. “Information that could dismantle operations my family spent four generations building. Records that could put my capos in federal prison for life.”
I rubbed my tired eyes. “That sounds exactly like Mike. Always looking for the easy score, no matter who he destroys in the process.”
I looked up at him, pleading. “But I haven’t seen him in months. Whatever he’s doing, I am not a part of it.”
Alessio crossed the room in two smooth, silent strides. He picked up a framed photograph from my dusty bookshelf. It was a picture of me and Emma at the park, her little face smeared with chocolate ice cream.
His large, calloused thumb traced the edge of the frame with a startling, unexpected gentleness.
“You have a beautiful daughter,” Alessio murmured. “She has your eyes.”
A cold terror spiked through my chest. “Please don’t touch that.”
“I am not threatening her, Sophia,” he said, setting the photo down carefully. “I am explaining why the threat is already here. Michael has painted a massive target on both of your backs.”
“What do you mean?”
Alessio leaned forward, resting his hands on my coffee table. The scent of danger rolled off him.
“Right now, there are at least three other syndicates hunting for him. And by extension, they are hunting for anyone who might know where he is hiding.”
“I told you, I don’t know where he is!” I cried.
“I believe you,” Alessio replied smoothly. “But Victor Petrov won’t. And the Bratva will not ask you as politely as I am.”
A hysterical, broken laugh escaped my throat. “This is polite? You surrounded my building with armed mercenaries. You hacked my phone!”
“If I wanted to threaten you, you would be bleeding,” he stated flatly, devoid of ego. “The cars outside are a security perimeter to keep the Russians out. And I didn’t hack your phone. Your ex-boyfriend gave me this number months ago. He listed you as his emergency contact.”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. “That’s impossible.”
“He needed to provide a family contact for his employment file,” Alessio shrugged slightly. “He said you two were deeply in love.”
The absurdity of Mike using me as a character reference for the mafia made me nauseous.
“As for knowing about your daughter’s illness,” Alessio continued, “you’ve been filling her prescriptions at Westside Pharmacy. My family owns that entire city block.”
When a powerful criminal knows the exact pharmacy your child uses, does it make them a predator, or a protector? How do you distinguish between the two when your life is on the line?
