“There are three men in my kitchen,” he says, voice taut with remembered fear. “My wife is on the floor by the refrigerator. They have not hurt her. Yet. One of them is holding my daughter.”
I feel my jaw set, but I know better than to interrupt yet. Afon wants to make a point.
Yura whimpers. “She is eight months old next week. These men, they are holding a bottle to her lips, feeding her. They do not raise their voices once. But… if you know anything about this life, you know what they are capable of.”
He stops again. Afon’s hand stays on the back of his chair, steady.
“They tell me they have a job for me,” Yura continues. “They want shipment data for the Lazarev Bratva. Routes. Times. Names of drivers. Things they can use to steal from Mr. Lazarev. They tell me where to leave it, how
