Gavriil (Stepanov Mafia)

The man laid me on my side on a hard floor, removed my blindfold, and walked up a rickety set of wooden steps. I was in what appeared to be the unfinished basement of a house. I didn’t recognize anything about the room, and I was positive I’d never been there before. Footsteps moved across the floor above me, but I didn’t know who they belonged to. I didn’t know where Devin was or who was guarding me. The only thing I knew for certain was that Gavril was looking for me. I didn’t have a single doubt that he was putting to use all of his connections and all of his power to track me down.

The only question was whether he’d find me in time.

Chapter Eighteen

Gavril

The black Toyota Eric had seen taking Sam away from the baby store was registered to Matthew Willard. I looked him up online, finding an old social media profile, and then grabbed my keys.

“I’m going to his house.”

“Boss, we don’t know if that’s where she is being held,” Yuri said.

“Then keep looking for her, and I’ll go cross this location off the list.”

I knew my men thought I was acting irrationally, and I was. Usually, I waited until I had all of the information and then planned out an attack, one that was certain to succeed. But now, my plan was to break down Matthew’s front door and kill him if he had no useful information. There was no contingency plan, no backup, no exit strategy. Just me, Matthew, and my gun.

I flew across town, blowing through stop signs and red lights, honking at anyone driving less than fifty miles per hour, letting them know to get the hell out of my way before I ran them over. I was not going to let anything get in my way.

According to Eric – before he died – Sam had been taken in the middle of the afternoon, and it was almost five now. Eric had waited an hour to tell me about it, which was the main reason I put a bullet in his head, and the last hour had been spent getting everyone together, killing Eric, and finding the address associated with the getaway car. I didn’t want to waste another second.

Matthew lived in a shitty part of town where chain-link fences wrapped around every house, plywood covered blown out windows, and dogs on chain leashes barked incessantly. His house was the last one on a dead-end road. His black Toyota was parked proudly in the driveway.

As soon as I pulled up behind him, my heart began to hammer. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. If I didn’t reign in my rage, I’d kill him before I could ask him any questions, and I needed him alive. Without Matthew, I didn’t have a guaranteed next step. I could always track down anyone who knew Devin Conway and try to find his usual haunts and hideouts – he was an idiot and certainly wouldn’t be too hard to find – but it would be so much easier to torture his location out of his getaway driver.

I noted the chipped white siding and patchy lawn as I walked up the sidewalk that led to his sagging house. By the looks of the place, Matthew Willard was low on cash, which probably meant he was desperate. Desperate enough to take work from Devin and to abduct a pregnant woman. I wanted to find some sympathy for the man somewhere inside of me, use it to calm me down, but there was none. He was scum, and I was prepared to kill him for even breathing the same air as Samantha.

I knocked on the door and flakes of paint fluttered into the air like fine powder, and the entire front face of the house seemed to rattle. I half-expected it to collapse in on itself like a house of cards. I waited three seconds before pounding on the door again.

“I’m coming, God,” a male voice whined behind the door.

I fisted my hands at my side, my fingers itching to grab the gun at my hip. I held off. If I had the gun in my hand, I’d pull the trigger before I was ready. I needed to wait.

A few more seconds passed, and I pictured the red-haired stoner bumbling across the room, dragging his shoes across the dingy floor. So, I knocked again.

This time, the door opened. “Jesus fucking Christ. Give me a minute to—?”

I slammed my fist into Matthew’s bony chest and sent him flying back into the dark house. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. His house smelled like smoke and dust. Every surface was covered in half-empty water bottles, unopened mail, and overflowing ashtrays.

“Good Lord, Matthew. This place is disgusting.” I kicked a pile of dirty clothes sitting next to the coffee table and was completely surprised when the pile didn’t crawl away.