Year of the Scorpio: Part One

by Stacy Gail

  In a controlled environment like an upscale hotel room and no bugs to speak of, it was always harder to tell time of death, but there were still a few signs that made him think Knives was in the ballpark. “How’d you find this room?’

  “Konstantin has to keep in touch wherever he goes.”

  “He was off-duty yesterday.”

  “I run a tight ship, Polo, and I run things very differently than my father.” He nodded at the bed. “There’s some blood on one of the pillows and on the bed. Not enough for it to be this kid’s. Just enough to show a struggle.”

  Polo nodded and tried to take a mental step back from the rage churning inside. “Both sides of the bed were used, two champagne glasses...this was a date. Who with?”

  “That I don’t know. Didn’t ask him,” he added when Polo glanced back at him. “I may run a tight ship, but not that tight. It was none of my business.”

  There would be video of Konstantin checking in. He wouldn’t leave this place until he had it. “Okay, so...Konstantin and his date show up for a big night, complete with getting themselves the Ambassador Suite at the Ritz-Carlton. Konstantin likes to spoil his dates, so it’s a good bet he was the one footing the bill for this particular date night.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “They’re alone long enough to get busy in bed. Kon, ever the romantic, had arranged for strawberries and champagne to be delivered. But by the time the goodies are delivered, something’s either gone wrong, or is in the process of going wrong.”

  “Someone came in.” Knives frowned thoughtfully at the kid’s face frozen in death. “Maybe they used Papa’s old trick and came in with this kid who delivered the tray. Popped the kid, maybe popped Kon and his lover.”

  “If that’s the case, where are the bodies?”

  Knives just shook his head. That was the major question.

  Polo moved to the side of the bed, bending low to peek under the rumpled covers, then used his elbow to flip over the pillow. “No blood on this side. It’s clean.”

  “So maybe he was here on his own?”

  “Two champagne glasses, two dents in the pillows, both sides of the bedclothes peeled back. There were two people here.”

  “So Konstantin was caught flat-footed and taken away.”

  “That’s where things get fucked up for me.” Polo scowled at the empty bed, trying to picture how it unfolded. No matter how hard he tried, the pieces wouldn’t come together. “I just can’t believe he’s gotten that soft.”

  “He hasn’t been on the front lines for a long time, Polo.”

  “Not that long. Borysko’s only been dead a year, and I can honestly say I doubt I’ll ever trust anyone coming in to make a delivery. But it’s even more than that,” he added, moving back to where Knives stood. “Konstantin might be the gay black sheep of his family, but he’s still a Medvedev. He was trained from the cradle to be a soldier. Nobody gets the drop on a Medvedev.”

  “Somebody did. Unless this kid wrapped up in the bedspread tried to get the drop on Konstantin, and this was the result.”

  “This kid’s not even old enough to shave. There’s no way he’s some highly trained, would-be assassin for someone’s organization. But even if that were the case and he did try to hit Konstantin, Kon would’ve called in to ask for a clean-up crew. At the very least he would’ve called someone in his family to help sanitize the scene.” That brought Polo’s head around. “What’s the word from the Medvedevs? Pavel?”

  “Do you think I want to set them on the warpath?”

  There wasn’t much that dropped Polo’s jaw in this world; he’d seen too much. But this came damn close. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Polo said faintly. “You haven’t told Pavel Medvedev that his son is fucking missing, and there’s a body where he was last known to be?”

  Knives’s expression went flat. “I’ll contact the Medvedev clan when I know something definitive.”

  “Knives, one phone call to Pavel and you’d have every man under his command out on the street turning Chicago upside down looking for his son. Or maybe Konstantin caught the guy who tried to drop him. For all we know, he and the rest of the Medvedevs are working that cocksucker over to see why the fuck Kon was targeted.” He reached for his phone, fighting the sliver of hope trying to lodge in his heart. Hope was for idiots. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago when he’d been stupid enough to hope his family would somehow save him from the hell they’d delivered him into. Hope had no logic or rationale. What mattered were facts, and being strong enough to face those facts before they got jammed so far down your throat there was nothing left to do but choke on them.

  Without warning, his phone was swiped out of his hand. His head jerked up, senses instantly on hyper-alert as Knives reared his arm back as if to hurl the instrument into the wall. At the last second he stopped, his chest heaving before he pointed to the muscled man by the door. “Out,” he snarled, and within the next second they were alone with the dead kid at their feet and an atmosphere so explosive it was a wonder the walls were still standing. Polo shifted until he was squared off against Knives, his weight on the balls of his feet while his instincts screamed at him to get ready to fight.

  “Don’t ever,” Knives said very quietly, a tone at direct odds with the violence in his eyes, “contradict me in front of my men again.”

  “Don’t pull stupid shit like not utilizing a third of your army and the best-trained men you’ve got when Konstantin is fucking missing.”

  Knives’s hazel eyes twitched. “You telling me how to run my goddamn business, Polo?”

  “I’m telling you that if you don’t turn this city upside down looking for one of your own—a man who comes from the strongest faction of your operation and is your sister’s fucking personal bodyguard—then the least of your problems is gonna be me telling you how to run your goddamn business.”

  Knives was so still it was unnatural. “You forget yourself. I’m the one who runs the Vitaliev organization now.”

  “Then run it. Fuck it,” Polo said abruptly, furious, snatching his phone back and daring Knives to do something about it with his glare. “I’ll find Konstantin myself. Just keep running your business while I take care of the actual shit that needs to get done.”

  “Until Konstantin shows up,” Knives said as Polo turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, “I want you protecting my sister.”

  “Your sister’s safe, and you don’t tell me what the fuck to do. I’m not owned by the Vitalievs anymore.” With his jaw locked in fury he left, not even bothering to look back at Knives.

  The headquarters for Rudy Panuzzi’s work, Private Security International, was some kind of awesome.

  On the surface, with its whitewashed exterior and planters filled with bright flowers outside the front door, it looked harmless. Same went for the reception area—bright and open and professionally decorated in contemporary minimalism. But past the reception desk, the no-nonsense, military-trained leanings of its founder were plain to see. Unadorned, wide hallways lined with gray, numbered doors made a maze behind the scenes—something that would no doubt confuse anyone who didn’t know the place intimately.

  An employee of PSI emerged from a door as we passed it—yet another totally ripped specimen of over-the-top manhood with hair so short it was almost like stubble—and I was able to peek inside. Before we passed, I was able to see a room full of technical equipment, including a couple tower servers, a huge HD screen and a bank of monitors looking down on a console that looked like it belonged at NASA.

  Wow. Clearly they didn’t screw around here at Private Security International.

  My escort, Rudy Panuzzi, made sure I didn’t lose a step, his hand politely at my back as he made quick work of the rat’s maze until we hit an incongruously placed conference room walled off in thick glass. Before we even entered the room, it was obvious to me that this was where they brought their cli
entele, and suddenly the maze-march made sense. Their reputation brought the prospective client to their door, but glimpses of their impressive operation behind the scenes sealed the deal. It was too bad my father hadn’t gotten a chance to check out PSI. He definitely would have approved.

  “Why the smile?” Rudy asked as he held the conference room’s glass door open for me.

  “I like this place.” Glancing around the room done in the soothing shades of sand, terra cotta and bronze with splashes of green coming from strategically placed indoor plants, I couldn’t help but nod in appreciation. “When you said you were bringing me here, I had the horrible feeling you were going to lock me away in some bunker-like safe room and leave me there to rot.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Rudy admitted, standing at parade rest near the door. “We actually do have a place like you described, and you’d certainly be safer in there. But when I remembered my wife’s response to being locked up in that room, I decided the conference room would be a better fit for you.”

  That made my brows go up. “You locked your wife up in there?”

  “She wasn’t my wife back then, and while I felt placing her in the safe room was necessary at that time, I didn’t take into account how she would handle something like that. Considering what you went through when you were a kid, I figured being locked up with no control over how you got out wouldn’t be something you’d enjoy.”

  “You’re right.” I studied him as I came to stand at the far end of the glossy conference table. “How did you find out that I’d been kidnapped? It was never reported.” My father had made sure of that.

  A massive shoulder shifted in a negligible shrug. “We’re very thorough here at PSI.”

  “Bullshit. Polo told you.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  “Perfect answer.” I had to laugh, because this guy really was hilarious in his own way. Stiff and formal and military through and through, I could see why he and Polo—seemingly the exact opposite but in fact very similar in nature—had become friends. “I know you probably won’t believe this, but I’m glad he told you. It means he trusts you. Polo doesn’t have too many people in his life that he feels he can rely on or trust, so I’m glad he has you, Rudy. Though I’ll admit, I can’t quite figure out how the two of you crossed paths. You don’t exactly run in the same social circles.”

  “We met on the job. I was busy doing what I had to do, and Polo was busy doing what he had to do.”

  “Oh.” Abruptly smile vanished along with the warm fuzzies. “Well. It’s a wonder the two of you are both still alive.”

  “Our first face-to-face meeting is one I’ll never forget, that’s for sure. But almost from the start it was obvious Polo had a good heart. No matter what type of battlefield you’re on, that kind of thing can’t be faked. Either it’s there or it’s not.”

  I put a hand over my own heart, because it was doing its best to melt. “I’m glad you can see that in him. Most people can’t.”

  “I’m not most people.” He tilted his head toward the chair I stood next to. “Feel free to make yourself at home, all right? There’s a small fridge in the console behind you, stocked with sodas and water, and the remote for the TV is here on the table. That should help while away the time before Polo gets here to pick you up.”

  “Did he say when that might be?”

  “Nothing definite, but he said he should be dropping in before we officially close up shop for the day, and that’s at six.” With a flick of his wrist, he checked is watch. “It’s just after five now, so it shouldn’t be too long of a wait. You hungry? My wife has moved on to Texas cuisine and she made a ton of these awesome pan dulce pastries for me to bring in for the crew this morning. If there are any left I can bring that in for you, or if you want something else I can get that as well.”

  “No thank you, I’m fine.” I gave him a smile as he nodded and departed, absurdly happy that Polo had such a good friend who was brave enough to accept him for who he was. There was no judgment there, no suspicion on Rudy’s part. Just friendship and a mutual respect that was obvious even to the casual observer.

  Which was something I had with Shona until today, I thought glumly, picking up the remote and snagging a bottle of water from the small fridge before settling down into one of the chairs at the table. I had never hidden anything from her, because she deserved to know what she was getting into when it came to me. Our relationship had grown to family-like status over time, and until now she had trusted me because she knew my life had virtually nothing to do with the Vitaliev Bratva. At the time of my father’s death, there hadn’t even been a Vitaliev Bratva to speak of.

  But that wasn’t true anymore.

  And there it was, I thought as I turned the TV onto a local news channel. The true source of all the problems in my life, and no matter how I tried I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Being the daughter of Borysko Vitaliev wasn’t what was putting me in danger. What mattered in today’s world was that I was the sister of Knives Vitaliev, the force behind the Vitaliev Bratva’s resurgence. The world was no longer the safe place it used to be, and it was because my brother was headed down a bad, bad road.

  The hell of it was, I was being taken along for the ride.

  “And this just in to the news desk,” the blonde anchor on the TV announced with just the right level of urgency. “The body of eighteen-year-old Dalton O’Malley has been discovered in the Ambassador Suite at the Ritz-Carlton. Hired only a week ago, O’Malley was found by a member of the hotel’s cleaning crew, who reportedly told police that O’Malley had been shot in the head. The man who booked the suite, Konstantin Medvedev, is currently being sought as a person of interest by the authorities, and they need your help in locating him. If you have seen Konstantin Medvedev, please call the number on your screen or contact them online. As always, your call will remain anonymous.”

  “Oh my God.” The blood in my veins came to a sudden, sickening stop as I stared at a black and white photocopied image of Konstantin’s driver’s license. A body. A body was found where Konstantin was supposed to have been.

  No.

  Maybe it was a mistake. It had to be a mistake.

  No, no, no...

  My world was a complex one, and I made no excuses for it. The underworld was a dark reality for me, not some sleazy, made-for-TV melodrama. That was why I didn’t immediately become crippled with horror over the fact that a precious young life had been snuffed out, though that reaction was certainly there. The main source of the devastation and burgeoning dread that flooded my system came from one absolute truth.

  Konstantin would never have allowed a body to be discovered. Never. That was what amateurs did, or fools. He was neither.

  What he was, was missing.

  The faint scrape of the glass door moving over carpet had my head snapping around to where Polo stood, the conference room’s door still held open by his arm while his gaze was riveted to the television screen. Then his attention slid to me, and I couldn’t help but come to my feet when I saw something terrible in his eyes, something I did not want to see. I’d come to my feet so that I could run away from it and never have to face what he was there to tell me. But there was no place for me to go.

  Some things couldn’t be outrun.

  “You...” Oh God, I was going to throw up. I swallowed hard and deep-breathed, willing the crippling sickness to go away. But something told me it was never going to go away now that my world had changed forever. “You’ve found Konstantin, haven’t you?”

  If possible, the hellish darkness in Polo’s eyes got worse, screaming at me in the silence. Then he crossed the room and crushed me to him as if trying to shield me from what I knew was coming. “Yeah, I did, Fearless. I found Konstantin.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Konstantin would have gotten a kick out of the dramatic sheets of rain that fell during his funeral. It was like the whole world was crying.

  I could barely hear Archbis
hop Nicodemus above the roar of rain slamming into the green canvas canopy above, and I was certain that no one beyond the immediate area of the grave and casket could hear him, either. Not that hearing the old man’s words, spoken in Russian, would matter. Whether people heard the words or not, Konstantin would still be dead, the world would still be a colder place without him, and all the people who hadn’t appreciated how awesome Kon was when he was alive would still be assholes who deserved to get rained on.

  I was beyond devastated by my best friend’s death. I had kept it together after Polo had collected me at PSI, and even when we got to his place. Then he sat me down and gave me the details, mainly because I wouldn’t let him pacify me with anything less.

  That was when my control began to slip.

  I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when my grief morphed into rage. Maybe it was when Polo told me that my sweet, romantic Konstantin had set up a night for one of his beautiful loves, only to have it interrupted by an act that culminated in Kon—in an obvious state of incapacitation—being bodily dragged from his room, according to the hotel security video. Or maybe it was after I asked Polo what had happened to Konstantin’s lover, only to discover that no body other than poor Dalton O’Malley’s had been found, and no one other than Konstantin had left that room incapacitated.

  That meant one thing. Konstantin’s lover had strolled out of there under his own power, indistinguishable from the other people who’d entered and exited after poor, doomed Dalton O’Malley had delivered the champagne and strawberries.

  What I could remember was when I became vividly aware of the rage. It was when Polo reluctantly told me how he and Konstantin’s father, Pavel Medvedev, had found my friend’s body. Kon had been stuffed into the trunk of his Rolls Royce Wraith, then pushed off a boat ramp into the river at Calumet Park. He’d been left naked, his genitals mutilated, his beautiful face similarly ruined. But the cruelest part was that Konstantin had been left alive in the trunk while the water filled that well-built car with excruciating slowness.