I’m still trying to figure out exactly what she discovered when Arkady marches into my study without knocking, phone pressed to his ear, eyes wide with what can only be described as pure f*****g glee.
“The Solovyovs are crumbling,” he announces, tossing a thick folder onto my desk. “The FBI raid happened twenty minutes ago. Federal agents are swarming their warehouses from Brighton Beach to Staten Island.”
I lean forward and pass an eye over the surveillance photos inside the folder. The picture they paint is grim, if you’re in the Solovyov business. Men in tactical gear hauling crates from buildings. Solovyov lieutenants in handcuffs being shoved into unmarked vans. A glimpse of Agent Carver’s smug face directing operations, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.
“What exactly
