His eyes flicked to the concrete walls around us.
“Marcus Vulov was the head of it. Early sixties then. Former Soviet military. Ruthless, smart, and careful. He kept layers of people between himself and the actual crimes. We couldn’t touch him.”
“So you went after his son,” I said.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“We went after the operation. Alexander Vulov, Marcus’s oldest son, was nineteen. He was running one of the fronts, a car dealership on East Riverside. We had evidence he was signing off on fake sales and washing money through vehicle purchases. We executed a warrant on Friday morning, May fifteenth, 2009.”
His voice went flat, the way cops recount something they have repeated too many times.
“Six of us. I was lead. We announced ourselves and entered through the main office. Alexander was in the back office. He had a Glock nine millimeter.”
Dad stopped and swallowed hard.
“When we came through the door, he fired first. Three shots. One hit my partner in the shoulder.”
“You returned fire,” I said quietly.
“One shot,” Dad said.
His voice cracked.
“Center mass.”
Silence filled the unit except for the hum of electronics.
“The shooting was ruled justified,” Carter said. “Internal Affairs investigated for six weeks. Every witness confirmed Alexander fired first. Your father saved his partner’s life.”
“But Marcus didn’t see it that way,” I said.
Dad gave a bitter half laugh.
“Marcus lost his firstborn son. I understand what that kind of loss does to a person. I have a daughter. I know what it means to love a child that deeply.”
He stood and began pacing the narrow space.
“He didn’t come after me right away. That’s what made him dangerous. He withdrew. Shut down most of his visible operations. The business went quiet. The younger son, David, was twenty-one at the time. Student at UT. Clean record. No provable connection to the family business.”
My stomach went cold.
“David was at UT?”
