Fourteen children, more than half newborns, were tossed into the harbor. With it, two women had been kidnapped and smuggled along with the children. They, too, had died from dehydration and starvation.
How long had they been locked inside a cargo container?
Where had they traveled from?
We scrub the container down, the interior metal glistening from the thorough wash, leaving no trace of evidence behind.
“How often do you have to clean the cargo containers?” I ask Ardian.
“This happens every couple of months. Usually, Otello helps, but he’s out sick.”
“Too much vodka?” I quip. Otello can pound it back better than the rest of us, but even he has his limits. The man will ruin his liver, but probably not before ending up dead from the Russians, specifically the Barinov family.
Just as we finish the last of the cleaning, the boss calls.
“When you’re finished, I need you across town for a job,” Don Moretti says.
I shouldn’t care. Their blood isn’t on my hands. I didn’t murder these children, but the fleeting images of their lifeless bodies and their helplessness burn through me.
“Another container mess?” I seethe.
How could something like this happen?
Why wasn’t there food and water with the shipment? What about the weather? It’s frigid this time of year. Could they have died of hypothermia before starving to death?
Roberto clears his throat. “No, I need you to head straight to Manhattan Academy.”
“The preschool?” I ask.
Is he upset that he lost fourteen children, so he now wants us to start stealing kids from school? He’s insane if he thinks we can get away with snatching kids at school.
It will never work.
Besides, Ardian and I will need a shower and a change of clothes before we step foot around another person.
“Yes, Mikhail Barinov’s nephew attends Manhattan Academy. I want him brought to our complex.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
It’s not my job to ask why. And it’s not just any kid. He wants us to fucking kidnap the bratva leader’s nephew? Surely, he’s not going to sell the kid. Probably just use him as collateral to get what he wants.
What the fuck does he want that involves using an innocent kid?
We’ve been battling with the bratva for years, but it’s never been an all-out war. Does Roberto know what the fuck he’s getting us involved in?
He’s my boss. Questioning his authority or his commands is a surefire way to end up like those other kids, dead.
“Do you have a photograph of the kid?” I ask. How am I supposed to know Mikhail’s nephew from any other kid at the preschool?
“I just texted it to you,” Roberto says. “The kid’s name is Liam Barinov.”
I glance at my phone. The boy has blond hair and blue eyes. He doesn’t look the slightest like Mikhail, but it’s his nephew, not his son.
In the photograph, the boy is wearing a blue and white striped shirt and khaki pants. He has a wide grin, oblivious to the horrors of the world.
And he has his mother’s eyes.
I would know. I slept with her.