by Debra Dunbar
“Sasha,” the crone replied. “Ne kudakhtai'.”
Dmitrevich guided the elderly woman forward to face Vincent as Sergei and two more gunmen followed her into the attic. She had a bent frame and long, stringy white hair flying at strange angles from what was probably an updo that was over a week old. Her eyes were sharp, deep, and filled with anger.
The old woman hobbled forward, trembling step after trembling step, until she reached Vincent’s feet. She then grunted as she bowed down at an awkward angle, bringing her face closer to his.
Dmitrevich announced, “Vincent Calendo, this is my mother—Yulia Gennadevna Sokolov.”
With a dry voice, she asked, “Do you recognize my face?”
Vincent shook his head. “Lady, I gotta tell you, if I did I woulda said so by now.”
She squinted one eye, then reached into her clutch to produce a sepia tone photograph of a young man in a lopsided cap. Yakov Dmitrevich.
“Now?” she droned as she dropped the photograph into his lap.
“I meet lots of old ladies. Don’t take that the wrong way.”
“You speak for the dead,” she muttered. “And you lie. You take my son’s life, and then you take my money to put words in his mouth.” She spat in Vincent’s face.
Dmitrevich chuckled.
Vincent nodded. “Right. So, this is just straight vengeance? That’s the part I have to play in your long view?” He twisted to face the man. “Why bring Malloy into this? Just let her go, and do whatever you’re gonna do with me.”
Dmitrevich replied, “Unfortunately, I can’t let her go. You see, you piece of filth, I’m not content to settle for avenging Yakov’s blood. Nor is the Bratva. We have entire generations of dead sons to avenge. Like you said—a long view. And having a free pincher roaming around the city—especially one whose parents are in the control of Vito Corbi—isn’t in keeping with my plan.”
Vincent twisted to face him. “So, those dead sons you set up to get massacred by Masseria’s boys? What were they? A down payment?”
Yulia turned to her son. “O chyem on govorit?”
He waved her off, choosing to answer Vincent directly. “There is a difference between family and Bratva. That difference means being willing to sacrifice with full forgiveness.”
“Sacrifice?” Vincent laughed. “That’s what they signed up for? Did they even know? I’ll bet you told them they were part of some grand scheme. A play for the power in New York. They went after Masseria’s family thinking it was a big damn deal. And they never knew they were sheep led to slaughter by their own blood.”
Dmitrevich called over his shoulder, “Sergei?”
The brute stepped up and hammered another strike into Vincent’s face.
Vincent went limp for a moment, then sputtered back to consciousness with a stream of blood rolling from his lips.
Yulia gestured toward one of the gunmen. “Day mne pistolet. Ya sam zastrelyu etu sobaku.”
The gunman reached into his jacket to produce a pistol, but Dmitrevich pushed his hand down. “Not here. I don’t want the mess in my attic. Take them to the harbor. We’ll do it there.”
Vincent shook his jaw, then rasped, “Fine, fine. But do you have to kill the girl too? What is she to the Bratva, anyhow?”
Dmitrevich stepped away from his mother, turning to face Vincent. “You have leverage on her parents. She’s clearly joined your merry band.”
“We don’t have her parents. We lied to gain her cooperation. She’s not a part of the Crew, and she won’t lift a finger to help them…or me. Let her go. If you people are about to make a move on Corbi, then she’s already out of play anyway.”
Dmitrevich crouched down. “A move on Corbi? You think that’s the extent of my plans? No, no. We are moving on several cities, my friend. Masseria in New York. The syndicates in Philadelphia. Atlantic City. Pittsburgh. Even your friends down in the Carolinas.”
“Total war, huh?”
“Yes. And I can’t have any of you pinchers wandering in and out, causing trouble. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Dmitrevich straightened up and motioned for Sergei to untie the two.
“Wait,” Vincent blurted.
Dmitrevich held a hand to Sergei.
“You want to know what’s in that bottle?”
Dmitrevich smirked. “I do, very much.
“It’s an elixir.”
“Go on.”
“It’s called Aqua Vitae. It’s supposed to heal wounds. Extend life. An honest to God fountain of youth. She, and only she, knows where to get more of it. You kill her, and you’ll cook the goose that lays the golden eggs. Maybe it’s just me, but I’d say you want to keep her handy. Especially if you’re gearing up for a prolonged battle with the entire Eastern seaboard. Just think, instant cure for gunshots or stab wounds. You’d have an invincible army with that stuff—but none of that will happen if you kill her.”
Dmitrevich pulled the bottle from his pocket and inspected it.
His mother reached for his arm. “Lies.”
The man peered dubiously at Vincent, then just past him at Hattie. “A fine yarn, my friend. But it doesn’t appear to hold water. Your friend is still—”
“She’s awake,” Hattie spoke.
Dmitrevich sucked in a breath. “Clever. Well, Mister Calendo. You’ve made a compelling argument for sparing her life. I regret to say it will not spare yours.”
“That’s fine,” Vincent stated.
Hattie whispered, “Hang in there, okay? Shouldn’t be much longer.”
He peered at her over his shoulder. She shot him a weak grin.
“Just don’t tell anyone when this is all over, okay? I have a reputation to protect.”
“Enough,” Dmitrevich grunted. “Sergei…”
As the brute moved to untie his handiwork, Dmitrevich released a gasp.
Vincent watched as the man stared at the tiny bottle in his hand. Actually…it wasn’t in his hand. It sat in midair an inch or two over his fingers.
“What is this…?” Dmitrevich shouted.
Vincent glanced down to his lap, where the photograph of Yakov Dmitrevich lifted an inch into the air.
His stomach fluttered, as if in freefall.
In a sudden, baffling flurry of motion, Dmitrevich, his mother, and the Bratva thugs flew into the air, slamming against the gabled rafters.
Blood rushed into Vincent’s head as he looked up at the ceiling…as if lashed to the beam upside down.
Down was suddenly up. Hattie grunted, then shouted in panic.
In an instant, the situation switched again. Vincent and Hattie eased back against the floor as their captors dropped several feet. The old woman released a blood-curdling shriek as she landed on her frail arms. Dmitrevich scrambled as his head hit the floor boards. The bottle slipped from his fingers, rolling along the planks toward Vincent.
“Bozhe moy!” Dmitrevich shouted, reaching for the bottle.
Vincent lifted his leg and captured the dram beneath the meat of his calf, just as gravity shifted again, this time sending anyone not tied to the post tumbling along the floor toward the street-side wall where they landed with more grunts and cries of pain.
Hattie gasped. “What’s happening?”
With a smirk, Vincent replied, “It’s DeBarre.”
“Right,” Hattie said between breaths. “Down pincher. Handy.”
Gunfire erupted downstairs. Shouts of alarm. Footsteps. More gunfire.
Amid the commotion downstairs, gravity returned to normal.
Dmitrevich got to his feet, pulling his injured mother upright. He barked commands in rapid fire Russian as Serge drew his weapon. Then he eased Yulia toward the stairs, where she paused to shoot Vincent a withering glare before Dmitrevich urged her out of the attic.
Vincent lifted his leg to check the bottle. It was still there, undamaged.
The two sat catching their breaths as the din slowly subsided beneath them. After the last gunshot had been fired, and an engi
ne had chugged away out front, two shadows appeared at the opening to the stairs.
Vincent smiled as Lefty hoisted himself into the attic.
“Jesus, Vincent,” he said. “You look like hammered crap.”
“I feel like it.” Vincent glanced past Lefty at DeBarre. “Thanks for that.”
“Hope I didn’t bruise you up.”
Vincent shook his head. “We were tied in place. Speaking of which…”
Lefty stepped forward and produced a switchblade, snapping the edge into view to begin sawing at the rope. Before long, he had Vincent free. DeBarre wound around the post to assist Hattie, taking her arm as she stumbled to her feet.
Vincent took his time, running a hand over his jaw and tonguing a loose tooth. He reached beneath his leg for the bottle, and finally took Lefty’s hand to rise to his feet.
“I believe this is yours.” He held the bottle out to Hattie. “Bit miffed you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you’d found him.”
She took the dram, avoiding his gaze. “I made the right choice, given how untrustworthy you’ve shown yourself to be.”
He winced, realizing that he probably deserved that. Hattie bent over and plucked the photograph of Yakov Dmitrevich off the floor. “This was him?”
“Yeah,” Vincent replied.
Lefty said, “Alright, you gumballs. Someone wanna tell me what this is all about?”
Vincent nodded. “Smith.”
“What about him?”
“He’s Bratva.”
Lefty scowled. “Well, isn’t that a kick in the shorts?”
“His real name’s Dmitrevich. You remember that clutch of Russians we hit last year? His brother was one of them. And he’s out for revenge.”
Hattie added, “Not just revenge. The Russians are about to hit every major city on the East Coast.”
Vincent nodded to DeBarre. “Including Philly.”
DeBarre’s face darkened. “You’re sure of this?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. How the hell did you find us, anyway?” Vincent asked.
Lefty nodded to Hattie. “Well, this one comes rampaging through the hotel lounge shouting about you getting trapped in a building down by the water. Next thing I know, we’re here, one minute standing outside the building, then up in the attic looking at you two tied to a post.”
DeBarre added, “Only, we’re the only two who saw any of this.”
“I figured it was one of your illusions,” Lefty said. “Handy work.”
“Aye,” she grumbled. “Just don’t ask me to do it again.”
Vincent asked, “Are you ship shape? That had to have taken a lot out of you.”
Hattie nodded as she tucked the bottle of elixir in her shirt. “Right as rain.”
Lefty turned toward the stairs. “If the Bratva are about to move on the Crew, then we better get on the horn with Vito.”
DeBarre followed him. “And I need to call DeSanza and McCoy. They’ll be the first ones these bastards hit.”
Hattie grabbed Vincent’s arm as he turned to go with the others. “If…if they launch an attack on the Crew tonight, where would they hit you?”
Vincent replied, “Probably the Old Moravia.”
Her face paled. “Isn’t that where you took my parents?”
Vincent stiffened, then exchanged a quick glance with Lefty. “We need to get to the Old Moravia. Now!”
They hurried down the attic stairs and through the well-appointed brownstone. Once they reached the street, Vincent waited for Lefty to indicate which car was theirs. They piled in with DeBarre behind the wheel. The wheels spun and the car whipped around to return to the hotel.
As they rushed along the night-emptied streets, Lefty turned to him, “Where’s my auto?”
“You probably shouldn’t ask that sort of question at this hour.”
“I loaned it to you on specific conditions—”
“The Bratva smashed it with a cheap quality Ford, Lefty. I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”
The last few blocks proceeded quickly, and in sullen silence.
DeBarre laid on the brakes, sending the car into a fishtail a block before they reached the Old Moravia.
“What’s wrong?” Vincent demanded.
DeBarre lifted a finger. “Listen.”
They all held a breath.
He added, “Do you hear that?”
Lefty nodded.
As did Vincent.
“Are we too late?” Hattie whispered.
They exited the car, plunging into the humid night air punctuated with the sound of a machine gun exactly one block away.
Chapter 25
A half-circle of Bratva foot soldiers gathered around parked cars and trucks, spraying the face of the Old Moravia Hotel with Tommy gun fire, their faces illuminated in muzzle flashes, revealing a halting arc of angry, sneering visages hell-bent on murder. The hotel, for its part, returned fire of its own. Several of the second and third-floor windows had been smashed or shot out, now home to the flares of automatic gunfire sending hot lead down into the Bratva’s cover.
The war had begun.
Hattie clutched her hands into fists as she spied the upper floors of that building. Her parents were inside, somewhere. Besieged.
DeBarre shouted to Vincent as they huddled behind the corner of a nearby building, “Where’s the nearest telephone?”
Vincent nodded forward. “The hotel.”
“Oh, lovely!”
Vincent shrugged. “I know you didn’t sign on for this, but it looks like helping us is your quickest way to helping those back home.”
DeBarre checked the scene of carnage down the street, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll assist you.” He winked at Hattie. “Besides, us pinchers gotta stick together. Right?”
Hattie grinned. “I’ve heard pinchers say otherwise.”
“Then they’re bastards.”
“I’ll drink to that, boy-o.”
DeBarre smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, doll!”
Vincent scowled at the two. “Alright, focus people.”
Lefty nodded. “So, okay. You just put it out there. We have three pinchers right here. Surely, you mooks can pull some magic and get us inside that building?” Lefty eyed Hattie. “Sorry for calling you a mook.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she replied. “But I don’t see much point in helping any of you, at this point. My parents—”
Vincent pointed down the street. “Your parents are precisely why you should be helping us!”
She stowed her indignation. Right. Vincent was absolutely correct about that.
“I, uh…I suppose I can make us invisible. Not sure I have the juice, though.” She’d exerted a lot of energy on that last pinch, and wasn’t sure the physical aid the elixir gave her extended to renewing her magical abilities. But it had been a while. Surely she was recovered enough for a quick, tight pinch.
“I might be able to hold it long enough to get inside the building,” she told them. “Don’t figure any of you can make us bulletproof?”
Vincent shrugged. “Get me close enough, and the pair of us can drag these two inside before the time pinch gets too expensive.”
Lefty lifted a hand. “What? ‘Pair of us’?”
Vincent brushed him off. “Trust me. So, what do you say? How solid do you feel? I know you took a big hit already this evening.”
Hattie wrinkled her nose. “I’m fine. I’ve seen to it. But…I don’t know. There might be a problem. Won’t know until I try.”
Vincent squinted. “That elixir helped though, right?”
Lefty gruffed, “What elixir?”
Vincent waved him off again. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be.” She turned to the car. “Only, it’ll be best if we all get in the car.”
“Why’s that?” DeBarre asked, trotting up next to her.
“It’s the economy of the thing, boy-o. Easier to shroud a single car than four individuals. Less motion. Easier to pinc
h.”
DeBarre nodded with an approving glance. “Smart.”
Vincent pushed between them to open the car door. “Yeah, great. Let’s get moving.”
Hattie eyed Vincent as he held the door for her. He seemed…testy. Oh. Well, wasn’t that just funny? With a smirk, she stepped inside. “Thank you, Vincent.”
He closed the door with a petulant slam.
Lefty took the seat beside her rather than Vincent, who manned a Tommy gun alongside DeBarre at the wheel. Lefty turned to face Hattie.
“This is a gamble,” he grunted.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Just wanting to get a read on the moment, is all. I don’t know you. With everything that happened at your parents’ house, putting my life in your hands fills me all kinds of dubious.”
Hattie patted his knee. “I got nothing against you.” Then she returned her focus to the light pinch at hand.
DeBarre started the motor, then craned his neck toward Hattie. “We good?”
She closed her eyes, then lifted flat palms over her face, picturing the entire vehicle. That was her gamble. One vehicle. One moving body in motion. One bubble of light to pinch.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
The car lurched forward in a jerking motion, spinning around the corner as the thin rubber wheels slushed against the grime of the street. DeBarre wasn’t playing around.
Hattie waved her hands in front of her closed eyes, chanting, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear!”
The car continued.
She braced for the impact of the magic on her constitution. This wasn’t an overly expensive magic. One vehicle in the middle of the night, amidst the utter chaos transpiring in the center of the block. As the car approached the hubbub, the cost would get higher and higher. That was when she’d urge Vincent to pinch time so that they could haul the other two into the relative safety of the Old Moravia.
The tendrils of magic, the cost of subverting the natural order that inexorably came to exact its toll were strangely absent.
“Guys? Uh, guys?”
The sound of gunfire rose in her ears.
Still…no tug on her insides. Even the smallest of light pinches, the tiniest glamour which she employed in her practicing, were palpable on some level. She could always feel the magic. But not now.
