Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5)

by Suzanne Steele

  Novak wraps his suit coat around his hand and knocks out a small pane of glass. He reaches in and unlocks the door. We enter and look around. So far, so good. No alarm, no dogs.

  My first stop is the living room where I look around for family photos -- I don’t like the idea of kids being in the house during a hit. That’s one reason I didn’t want to plant a bomb in Miguelito’s car—too risky. Plus, I needed him alive…at least, at first. I couldn’t live with myself if I killed a kid, even accidently.

  “No kids, no wife,” I observe after doing a sweep of the room. “Just a lonely old man who thinks diamonds are his ticket to ride into retirement. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing, so I’m guessing this gig fell into his lap fairly recently.”

  “Why do you say that?” Glazov asks in a hushed voice.

  “Because he’d be living better than this.”

  “Never assume anything, son; People who look like they have money often don’t, and those who appear to live under meager circumstances could be richer than Midas. I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy has coffee cans buried out back full of the money he’s made off the backs of children forced to work the mines.”

  When Glazov turns toward the stairs, I place my hand on his shoulder to stop him. “My Pakhan. If I don’t let your daughter go into unknown territory first, I’m damn sure not going to let you.”

  After giving me a long, assessing look, he nods curtly and lets me pass. It is an unprecedented move on his part, but considering our lack of Intel on this place, it makes sense. We all expect to someday go out in a barrage of bullets, a blaze of glory, but all it takes is one scared old man and a loaded gun on a nightstand. It wouldn’t be the first time a gangster died under less than dignified circumstances. I don’t plan on delivering the Pakhan home anything less than safe and sound, so I’m not taking any chances.

  The three of us ascend the stairs steadily, having long ago mastered the art of silence. Beyond a bathroom and a guestroom is a door at the end of the hall, far away from the others. The master bedroom. Bingo…

  I take a look around the darkened room and head straight for the nightstand, sliding the drawer open and removing the handgun I knew would be there. A quick, careful check beneath his pillow confirms that he doesn’t hide one there.

  When I’m satisfied there are no more threats to the Pakhan, I step back and give him the all-clear and join Novak against the wall. It’s Glazov’s show now.

  He stands over his sleeping enemy, his massive silhouette illuminated like a ghostly specter by the moonlight streaming through the bay window.

  “A man shouldn’t be able to sleep at night or have a moment’s peace when he builds his very life on the suffering of the poor and their children.”

  The old man’s eyes fly open with a jerk and, after a moment of drowsy confusion, he gasps at the towering form by his bed. Glazov must surely look like an avenging angel and, judging by the terror in the old man’s eyes, he knows who is speaking to him.

  “Señor Glazov.” He sits straight up in the bed, pulling the covers over his legs in an instinctive attempt at dignity.

  “So you know who I am. I have been concerned that perhaps my name means nothing to you.”

  Novak steps up, eying the man with contempt. “Maybe you think you’re Alexander Glazov.”

  “Is this true?” Glazov asks silkily. “Do you forget yourself, Ruiz? Do you think you are me? Hmm. You do not look like me. You do not sound like me.” His voice turns hard with his next words, “Yet you spend my money as if you are me.”

  “Y-you have to understand…”

  “Do I now?” he asks quietly, the malevolence rolling off him in waves.

  “No, no, that is not at all what I mean.”

  Watching Glazov turn this guy into a tongue-tied ball of nerves is entertaining. He is a master at using your own words against you. It never ceases to amaze me, every time.

  “This is your one chance to tell me what you mean. And it’s one chance more than most get. Do no waste it.”

  Ruiz gulps, his breathing rapid and shallow as he looks from one to the other of us. “Forgive an old man, please. I have been greedy, Señor Glazov. I can see that now. The diamond certification process is easily sidestepped, if you know the right people and how to go about it discreetly. I was…tempted. A moment’s success made me foolish.”

  “The Kimberly Process is supposed to stop the trade of blood diamonds. I’m not usually one for obeying the law, but when the wellbeing of children is at stake, I pay more attention. But I doubt that you need a lecture on global economics or human rights. And, frankly, you’re out of time.”

  Glazov takes his gun from his holster and steps back, putting a bullet in the chamber. The covers the man pulled over his legs do nothing to hide the puddle of urine that now surrounds him. And they sure don’t cover the stench.

  “No, please, I beg of you. I have many connections to mines, to airstrips, to anything you want or need, free and clear of the blood diamond industry. Let me put my connections to work for you. Señor Glazov, I beg of you. Let an old, foolish man make amends.”

  “What you do is despicable. I do not make money off the backs of innocent children. I am also not in the habit of employing my enemies.” Silence reigns for long seconds as Ruiz’s life hangs in the balance. As the Pakhan considers his options, it occurs to me that it is unprecedented for him to let an enemy survive a midnight visit such as this. Glazov is as inscrutable as ever, so I may never know why.

  Glazov takes a deep breath and his eyes narrow at the old man. His decision is made. “You will relinquish every connection you have and will make all necessary introductions. As of this moment, I am taking over all aspects of your diamond operation. There will be no forging of papers and there damn sure will be no blood diamonds entering the States under my name. Now, you will hand over the keys to your downtown property.”

  Ruiz picks up a set of keys from his nightstand and removes two keys, which he gives to Glazov with hands that tremble. Glazov pockets them and starts to walk away, but stops short.

  “One more thing…” Glazov steps back toward the bed and presses the barrel of his gun against Ruiz’s temple. “You owe me an apology.”

  “Si’, Patrone. I am truly sorry. I swear my allegiance and am forever in your debt. I owe you my life. From this day forward, your enemies are my enemies.”

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Roksana

  For those of us who are born Bratva, keeping the Pakhan alive and out of jail is our life’s highest purpose. For that reason, I worry when my father confronts an enemy on his own. It’s not that I doubt that he can handle himself in such situations. My father doesn’t delegate the dirty work as much as one might expect. And that’s fine; I don’t care if they blow the guy’s head off, but I don’t want my father caught up in something that could come back to haunt him years from now. In our world, vendettas can cross continents and generations.

  A text alert breaks into my thoughts. It’s my father. His text includes an address and instructions for me to bring Anastasia – and my Nagant M1895 -- with me. I can’t stop the smile from curving my lips. Good. No more speculating about what’s going on.

  “My father wants us downtown, come on,” I say to Anastasia, who immediately perks up with, I’m sure, a million questions.

  “I can’t believe Ruiz had the nerve to think he could run a diamond operation in your dad’s territory.”

  “I know. Territory is a valid thing to fight over, even kill over.”

  “What do you think your father will do?”

  “I never know what he’s going to do. No one does. It’s part of his charm.”

  “No…it’s what scares the shit out of people. One minute you think you’re in his good graces, the next minute you’re yanking on a concrete block in the bottom of the river, wondering what the hell just happened.”

  “Pretty much,” I laugh. “He keeps everyone on their toes—including me.”


  “I’ve wondered about that—if he’s harder on you because you’re his daughter.”

  “Sometimes, yes. But, then again, I know he cuts me some slack sometimes, but I never want him to have to.”

  Letting my father down isn’t an option.

  Anastasia

  We park around the corner from a small jewelry store and Roksana turns to me. “You know the drill. Don’t do anything and don’t say anything unless my father asks you a direct question. Remember what I said about eye contact.”

  “He sees anything but direct eye contact as deceitful.”

  “You got it.”

  She reaches between the seats and pulls out a gun I’ve never seen before.

  “Whoa, what have you got there?”

  “This is a Nagant M1895,” she says, stroking the barrel reverently. “You’ll see why he said to bring it in a minute. And that’s another thing -- no matter what you see, keep that neutral game face of yours on. Things could get nasty in here tonight.”

  “I sure wouldn’t want The Cleaner’s job on a night like this.”

  “That’s fine because, believe it or not, Natasha wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. That’s what makes things operate smoothly around here; compartmentalization. No one is as effective as my father in identifying people’s strengths – no matter how unconventional -- and putting them where they can do the most good.”

  “What’s mine?”

  “We’re still figuring that one out.”

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Oleg

  We’ve moved Ruiz from his house to the jewelry store, but I’m not sure why yet. Novak disappeared a few minutes ago, and I understand why when I look up to see the girls come in from the back entrance. That’s a surprise; I didn’t think they would be involved in tonight’s plans. Other than Glazov, I’m sure Novak was the only one who knew they were coming. He’s the only one privy to all information; the rest of us are on a need-to-know basis.

  We’ve got Ruiz in the back room to avoid any lights being seen from the storefront windows.

  “Did you bring what I asked you to?” he asks with a glance toward his daughter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” He narrows his eyes as he considers the man sitting in the office chair, but directs his question to Roksana. “Tell me, what do you think about a man who not only steals from me and then insults me by trying to set up shop in Bratva territory?”

  Roksana attaches a 9MM silencer on the Nagant M1895 and Glazov’s lips tilt up in a small smile. The silencer is a smart move, even though businesses are closed at this hour.

  My woman has a thing for Russian artillery. She can assemble any gun she owns blindfolded and has formed an almost maternal attachment with every gun in her collection. They are her babies and she takes care of them all. A guy could almost feel jealous.

  Her voice pulls me back into the present. “I think he needs to be taught some manners.”

  “But Patron, you said I could live, that I could work for you,” Ruiz whines in a quavering voice.

  “I made you no promises, Ruiz, and the night is still young. Whether you live or die is on you, not me. You knew exactly what you were doing when you set up shop. You chose to deal in Russian diamonds, which is as good as stealing from Bratva. And you had every intention of continuing to do so. I am not certain I want such a man -- a man with no integrity, no sense of honor -- working for me.

  “You assumed I would allow you to work for me, that you have something I need, but your assumptions are irrelevant here. I don’t think you understand that I fully intend to take what’s yours and make it mine—it’s what I’m in the business of doing.”

  “But you said…”

  “I have an excellent memory. I know what I said.”

  “You’d do well to shut the fuck up,” Novak hisses. “You’re just digging your own grave.”

  The man looks at Novak and simply nods his head, defeated. Roksana saunters over to the man’s desk and eyes the paperwork stacked there. She turns to face Ruiz where he sits next to the desk, then she opens the chamber of her gun, spins it, and snaps it closed with a flick of her wrist. Tilting her head to the side, she cocks an eyebrow at him and steps around the desk to stand in front of him.

  “My daughter, she enjoys games, the more sadistic the better.” Glazov shakes his head in mock exasperation. “I really don’t know where she gets it.”

  “You will pick up the pen and sign those papers, relinquishing your ownership of the company to Alexander Glazov,” Roksana demands, pointing at the documents with the barrel of the gun.

  “Missy, I-- I can’t.”

  Oh, boy, he fucked up. Calling her Missy was probably the worst thing he could have done. Nothing will get you killed faster than patronizing Roksana Glazov or implying that she’s weaker than a man. She raises the gun to Ruiz’s temple and pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  The sound of the hammer reverberates as it slams down to reveal an empty chamber.

  Ruiz wails as the hammer descends, then begins to silently weep. The air fills with the stench of fear and the foul odor that comes from bowels that have been loosed against a man’s will.

  “Damn, you pissed yourself in your own bed, and now you’ve shit yourself. That’s disgusting.” Leave it to Novak to sum up the situation so eloquently. “Now sign the papers, and remember, good penmanship is important. It would be shame for your signature to be questioned, considering how much trouble we’ve gone to.”

  Ruiz nods and begins signing one page after another like a madman, his trembling hand causing him to stop and start repeatedly, making the process a long one. He finally finishes and lays the pen down with a shuddering breath.

  “Reinaldo Ruiz, I own you,” Glazov says in a clipped tone. “You don’t leave town without my permission, you don’t speak of this to anyone. Ever. If you do as you are told, you will live for as long as it suits me. If not, I will send my daughter and her fiancé to kill you. You have no idea what real pain is until you’ve been subjected to a night with them. If I were you, I’d count my losses and consider myself lucky to still be breathing. Now clean up this mess.”

  With that, he turns to leave. We all follow, eager to get away from the stench of sweat, urine, and fear.

  All in all, a productive evening.

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Oleg

  There’s only one more loose end that needs to be taken care of: Maricel. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing the girl a favor by taking her out. She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the day she got on Roksana’s bad side.

  “I want to deliver the death blow,” she announces from the passenger seat.

  “She really didn’t do all that much wrong. She just made the wrong friends and picked a shitty job. You know, she didn’t really want me, she was just trying to make a buck.”

  “Feeling sympathy for the enemy? Oh, please,” she drawls in disgust.

  “Compassion has nothing to do with it. You know me better than that,” I say, bristling at the thought that she’d accuse me of such a thing.

  “Don’t feel sorry for this woman, Oleg. She had more than one chance to get away from the people who tried to fuck us over; and it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. Once an enemy—always an enemy. My father needs a clean slate for his new business. The last thing we need is this bitch causing us problems later on. For all we know, some kid she has years from now could come back for us. I say, the deader, the better.”

  “I can see you’ve been talking to Dmitriy. He studies this shit.”

  “As well he should. You know how deep family loyalty goes in our line of work. Now let’s go take this bitch out and it’ll be one less thing to worry about.”

  I grab the Grim Reaper mask, looking forward to one last mind fuck. “I can’t very well threaten the girl with meeting the Grim Reaper and not deliver.”

  “You’re one sick fuck, Oleg.”

  “What does that say a
bout you? You’re marrying me.” I lean back against the headrest and pin her with a stare. “And you are, you know.”

  The silence lingers, then she lifts her chin and meets my stare serenely. “Yes. I am. And you’re marrying me.”

  “Damn straight,” I reply, grinning at what, for us, is a pretty fucking romantic moment.

  We take careful steps around to the back of the house. As we approach the living room window, I’m curious to see if she left the Grim Reaper statue up on her shrine. The atmosphere is heavy, the sense of dread almost like a living, breathing thing surrounding us. I understand why when we get close enough to look inside.

  Maricel kneels in front of the shrine, rocking back and forth. The Malverde statue is still bowed down before the Grim Reaper. Miguel’s beer bottle still sits on the small table beside the shrine. The beer he spilled has long since dried but left a dark stain on the cheap wood.

  “She either lives like a pig or she hasn’t moved since the last time we were here,” Roksana mutters under her breath.

  “She hasn’t moved,” I declare with absolute certainty and Roksana looks over at me with a frown.

  Maricel has come to terms with her fate. I can respect that. She looks up at the shrine with tearstained cheeks. Her hand trembles as she lights first one Our Lady of Guadalupe candle and then another. Slipping the mask on, I step out of the shadows and into her psyche. She blows out the match and sets it down carefully, then resumes her prayerful posture -- head bent, hands clasped. After several minutes of utter stillness, she straightens and stares straight ahead, her eyes unfocused as if she’s lost in thought. She slowly turns her head toward the window...and I know she’s been expecting me.

  Her marathon prayer vigil appears to have put her in some kind of altered state. Her eyes reveal no fear, just a peaceful recognition of a now-familiar face and, perhaps, her own demise.

  She rises to her feet slowly and walks toward the window, toward me. Her steps are halting at first as her stiff muscles struggle to do as they’re told. When she’s maybe five feet from the window, I notice the gun in her right hand. My eyes widen in surprise briefly before I steel my features beneath my mask, keeping the expression in my eyes inscrutable.