In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(69)

Now Ross found that rather odd, since e was used to hauling people in the old fashioned way, but as Rodriguez had explained it, they had to treat this delicately, the man they were going to question a big name in Brighton Beach. Rodriguez also hoped that they might find something incriminating laying around.

Rodriguez whittled as he parked the car, stepping out to survey their surroundings. The grounds were just as impressive as the mansion itself, but Ross wasn’t moved by any of it.

There were things that money couldn’t buy.

Rodriguez rang the door bell, taking a step back. As they were pulling up the driveway, he had warned Ross that Mikhail Volkov and his associates had suspected mob ties. Though there had been allegations against Mikhail, and his brother Viktor, for various charges including money laundering and racketeering, the prosecutor never had enough to indict.

Even the feds were trying to bring these guys down, but they seemed untouchable. If there was a witness meant to testify, they disappeared, never to be heard from again, and because of their former life in Russia, many of the immigrants that called Brighton Beach a home didn’t trust law enforcement to do anything.

But Ross liked to believe that everyone slipped up. It was in their nature.

An elderly woman dressed in a maid’s uniform let them in after viewing their credentials, guiding them through the house until they reached an office where a man and woman were waiting.

Ross recognized Mikhail from the surveillance photos shown back at the precinct. Now Ross wasn’t a small guy. He was about six foot, two hundred pounds—mostly muscle—and only forty-three years old, but Mikhail was ten years his senior, maybe an inch or two shorter, plus fifty pounds. He was like a bulldog to Ross’ Shepard.

“Ah, detectives,” Mikhail spoke in a heavy accent, making it difficult for Ross to understand him.

The most exotic accent he had ever heard was a teenage girl from a rural part of southern Alabama.

“Welcome to my home.”

Rodriguez extended his hand. “Mr. Volkov, I’m Detective Marco Rodriguez, this is my associate Detective Thomas Ross. Thank you for seeing us. We just have a few questions.”

“Certainly. Anya, would you excuse us?”

The leggy blonde to his right touched his shoulder affectionately, the sauntered out of the office, but not before she looked Ross over, her eyes snapping like green fire.

“Please,” Mikhail said directing them to the stuffed, leather chairs.”Have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?”

They both declined, perching on the very edge of their respective chairs. Rodriguez wasted not time, pulling out his pad and firing off questions. Ross took the time to take in the room: twin bookcases, a mountain of a desk, and miniature statues on a mantel above the hearth.

There was a cup full of an assortment of pens and pencils, a frosted glass paper weight, and a manilla folder partially hidden beneath a stack of papers. He had a gut feeling—and his gut was never wrong—that it was something of importance, but without a search warrant, he doubted Mikhail would willingly show it to them.

Ross was just tuning into the last of the conversation when there was a knock, and the door was pushed open by a slimmer and much younger version of Mikhail.

“I didn’t realize you had company,” the boy said preparing to step back out.

“Nonsense, Mishca. Come in. This is Detective Rodriguez and Detective Ross. Gentlemen, this is my son Mishca.”

He nodded at them and twenty years of police work told Ross that this boy was no innocent. In the few cases of organized crime that Ross had come across before they were handed over to the feds, the families of the accused claimed they had known nothing about their loved one’s work, but this one? He knew. Hell, he didn’t even ask why the detectives were there. That was his first mistake.

Ross would bet his badge that Mishca was a part of the Russian mob that Mikhail was tied to.

“Did you need something, Mishca?”

He glanced at them again, then back to his father. “I’m going back into the city.”

Ross was standing with Rodriguez when Mikhail’s next words stopped him cold.

“Oh, is Lauren back from Michigan?”

“She—”

“Thompson? Lauren Thompson?” Thomas had to ask, not that he’d been expecting an affirmative. What were the odds? Thompson was a common enough last name, and there was nothing that was particularly special about her name, but Ross didn’t believe in coincidences.

“You know her?” Mikhail sounded just a bit too disbelieving.

Ross narrowed his eyes on the men. He was good at reading people and knew without a doubt that Mikhail had set this up. He had to have known of Ross’ relationship with Lauren, why else would he even bring her up? Whereas the boy looked mildly shocked, Mikhail seemed to find the entire situation amusing.

“Lauren is a long way from home, is she not?” Mikhail commented thoughtfully as he went over to an antique whiskey service, outing himself a drink.

Already on edge, Ross tensed. “Is that a threat?”

“Thomas!” Rodriguez hissed, but Ross was too focused on the man before him to heed the other detective’s warning.

“It is no threat,” Mikhail said shrugging, finishing off a tumbler of dark liquid. “It is merely an observation.”

Observation his ass. “I believe it would be best if your son stayed away from Lauren until this investigation is over.”