Kept by the Capo's Cousin

I run a boxing gym in a Milwaukee neighborhood nobody local will name out loud. I've known for twenty years that my uncle keeps the family's numbers, and my rule has been the same the whole time: I don't ask. Then my uncle went out for cigarettes with a ledger in his coat and hasn't come back. The family sent a man called Grisha Volkov to find him. He rolled up with a crew from three counties north and shut my gym down. I opened it the next morning. He shut it again. I held class in the parking lot and he watched. When the family's rivals offered me a real choice — a clean slate for my uncle's address — I picked up the phone and told the wrong man. Now my uncle is in a Chicago storage unit and Grisha's name is on a list, and I'm standing in the middle of my own gym trying to figure out which of us is going to walk out. Turned out it was both of us. Different doors, same morning.