“You wanna talk business with Pauley? Here? It’s eight o’clock at night.”
Clearly, Sergei wasn’t in the mood to fuck around, because he answered in a deadly tone guaranteed to stop any further protest in its tracks. “Will that be a problem?”
MaryAnn’s gaze slid to Sergei, and she edged backward at least a foot. “Um.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the hallway. “No. Of course not. If you’ll wait here, I’ll go get Pauley.” She started to close the door.
Roman stopped her with a single hand before she could close it completely.
Sergei clasped his hands affably in front of him and offered her a chilling smile. “Better to leave it open. We wouldn’t want Mr. Mitchell suddenly slipping out the back door when we’ve taken the time to pay him a personal visit.”
MaryAnn’s eyes widened and her jaw slackened. “R-r-right. Let me just.” She turned and hustled toward the hallway. “I’ll get him.”
She disappeared into the last room on the right.
Pauley’s voice followed right behind it. “Woman, what are you—”
“Pauley, shhh.” And then nothing else from MaryAnn. No doubt because she was recounting her run-in with the mysterious Russians at her front door.
“Think he’ll run anyway?” Kir asked too low for anyone but the three of them to hear.
Roman held himself poised to act just in case, but shook his head. “The woman was too shaken. She’s not used to business being brought to her door. I doubt Pauley is either.”
Silence blossomed in the night, broken only by the drone of cars on the highway. Finally, a balding man in an undershirt, dress pants and no shoes poked his head out of the room MaryAnn had ducked inside. He frowned then stepped the rest of the way into the hall. “Can I help you boys?”
Not the best first impression he could have made. The only person breathing in this world who’d dare call Sergei boy to his face was the man who’d all but raised him—his own vor, Anton Fedorov.
Per usual, Sergei kept his cool and did little more than cock his head. “No invitation to join you inside, Mr. Mitchell?”
Carefully padding forward, Pauley took their measure and smoothed his hand over his slightly paunched belly. “Not generally a good practice to let strangers in your home. Not in this part of town, anyway.”
“Well, then,” Sergei said. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He held out his hand. “I am Sergei Petrovyh.”
Recognition flared on Pauley’s face and, for a minute, Roman thought he might try to slam the door in their face and lock himself safely inside. He swallowed hard and shook Sergei’s hand instead. “Pauley Mitchell.”
“Yes, I’m aware, as I came specifically to your home.” He motioned to Roman and Kir in turn. “These are my men, Roman Kozlov and Kir Vasilek.”
Pauley dipped a short nod. “And how can I help you?”
“Business, Mr. Mitchell,” Kir said with one of his most charming smiles before Sergei could lose his patience. “A matter better conducted in the comfort of your home rather than in plain sight. You are a businessman, are you not?”
Pauley puffed up his chest, the nudge to his pride pushing fear and common sense out of the way. “Yes, yes. Of course. Come in.”
Sergei prowled inside, openly surveying the seating options in the modest living room. An evergreen sofa geared more toward comfort than style sat flush against one sidewall, a smallish ivory armchair more appropriate for an office or a hallway was placed near the window, and a well-used recliner was aimed at the flat screen mounted on the wall. An ancient coffee table that looked heavier than anything else in the room sat between them all.
Unbuttoning his suit coat with a casualness that belied his focus, Sergei sat in the recliner like it was his own and crossed one leg over the other. He waved toward the tiny chair opposite the recliner. “Please, Mr. Mitchell. Have a seat.”
Roman stood to Sergei’s right and clasped his hands in front of him. Kir mirrored the stance to Sergei’s left.
Pauley looked from Sergei to the tiny chair, clearly aghast that his throne had been usurped by a stranger. He covered the response quick enough, though, and mimicked Sergei’s pose. Which looked utterly ridiculous on a barefoot man in his undershirt. “So, you want to talk business.”
“Yes,” Sergei said. “I understand you’ve been known to extend financial assistance to individuals. There is one in particular I’d like to talk to you about. One who is very close to a friend of mine.”
To his credit, Pauley managed to keep his expression passive, but the quick assessment of Roman and Kir at either side of Sergei and the calculation behind Pauley’s eyes telegraphed all manner of concern. “I’ve done short-term loans for people from time to time, sure. You know—for friends.”
Sergei inhaled slow and deep, the sound that of a man searching for patience and coming up short. “I’m afraid that’s not what my men learned. They tell me you’ve got a respectable business developed and make a tidy profit on the interest you charge.”
Pauley fidgeted in his chair. “You said you’ve got a particular customer in mind?”
Sergei shifted his head slightly toward Roman.
“Jack Drummond,” Roman answered for him. “He goes by Buzz.”
The shift in Pauley’s demeanor was instant, all signs of calm and caution evaporating beneath his scowl. “That son of a bitch?”
“Yes,” Sergei answered dryly. “That one.”
“Not sure who your friend is, buddy, but if they’ve got ties to Buzz, your best bet is to tell them to walk the fuck away. Never met so big a cheat in my life.”
“So, he does currently owe you a debt?”
“Fool that I am, yeah.”
“And you want what’s owed to you.”
“Damn right.”
“Bad enough you’d be inclined to abduct him and his son from their home this afternoon?”
Pauley opened his mouth, ready to throw out another emphatic answer, then fully registered Sergei’s question and frowned. “Say what?”
“This afternoon Buzz Drummond and his son were taken from their home. I want to know if you were the person that took them.”
Genuine surprise pushed Pauley’s eyebrows to where his hairline should have been. “Me? Why the fuck would I want to do that? Easier to steal his truck again than put up with that asshole one-on-one.”
Truth.
If he’d been lying, he’d have had an entirely different set of tells, but Pauley met Sergei’s gaze dead-on when he spoke. “You tellin’ me someone nabbed that idiot?”