Russian Enforcers Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

by Nic Saint

  He sat back, a bemused expression on his face. “I’m baffled,” he finally stated. “Why would you refuse a job that will bring you a great deal of money?”

  “I…” She searched for a way to put this politely. “I don’t think I am what you need, sir.” She spread her arms. “I’m just a simple secretary. Not a high-powered attorney, or a business manager or, or…” She shook her head, her short red hair shifting around her small, oval face, her green eyes flashing helplessly. “Or an oil specialist.”

  He smiled, a sparse curve of the lips that showed how little sense of humor the man possessed. “You are exactly what I need, Miss Kotova.”

  She shrugged. She so didn’t want to work for this man. Not only was his picture in the papers all the time, connected with shady business deals and unscrupulous practices, he was also rumored to be the head of a genuine crime family. In other words, Alexei Demiakov was a mobster.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  He nodded, once, and took back his fountain pen, then carefully screwed the cap back on. “Very well. I’ll tell my secretary the deal is off, then.” He looked up, and caught her eyes with a cool expression of contempt. “And I’ll also inform her that from now on, Miss Lidiya Kotova will never find work in this town again.”

  “What? You can’t do that!” she blurted.

  “I can and I will,” he pointed out. Then he took the document and studied it for a moment. “This was your last chance, Miss Kotova. Now that you’ve decided to let it slip through your fingers, you will never find work in Moscow ever again. Not as long as I have a say in it, anyway.”

  Abruptly, he stood, and let the document drop into his wastepaper basket. Turning his back on her, he said, “Good day to you, Miss Kotova. I trust you will find your way out.”

  Lidiya stood rooted to the spot. On the one hand, working for this monstrous man appalled her. On the other, if he really made good on his threat, she was in a lot of trouble. If Demiakov decided she would never work again, he would make sure she didn’t.

  Abruptly, she sat back down. He had her cornered, she knew. Reluctantly, she said in a low voice, “What is it you want from me?”

  The oligarch stood staring out the window of his office, gazing down at the sprawling Russian capital below. Like an emperor inspecting his realm.

  “A matter has come to my attention,” he began softly. “Something of great importance to me.”

  She cleared her throat. “What is it?”

  He slowly turned around, and his steely gaze arrested her once more. “I can’t divulge any more details until you sign the contract.”

  “I take it this won’t be secretarial work?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I have plenty of secretaries working for me, Miss Kotova. What I need is a person with certain, shall we say, special skills?”

  His vague manner irked her, and defiance slipped into her voice. “And what makes you think I possess these ‘special skills’?”

  “I know about you, Miss Kotova. I know what you’ve been up to down there in the projects. How you organized an entire network of informants and petty criminals. How you defied the state police on numerous occasions, and more often than not managed to get away with things no one else has.”

  She shivered at the brief recapitulation of her criminal itinerary. How did this man know so much about her? “That—that is all in the past. I paid my debt to society and the government has wiped the slate clean.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “Have they now?”

  “I’ve been granted a full pardon. Presidential decree.”

  He smiled. “I know all about that. It was the president himself who recommended you. Now I want to employ your skills to my personal benefit.”

  “And if I don’t agree?” she tried one last time. Even if she would never work again, perhaps there were other ways, ways that would circumvent official sanction. She could make a living, somehow. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. Better than working for the Mob, anyway.

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say that we will make your life very miserable, young lady. Not only will you never work again, you could well be on your way to prison again, for crimes committed and even for crimes you haven’t.”

  Her heart sank. Of course. He would make sure she spent the rest of her life either running from the police, or being locked up in Russia’s foulest prisons, with not a chance to see either her family or her friends ever again.

  She relented, her resistance finally broken. There was simply no other way. “I’ll do as you say.” She spoke softly, the dejection clear in both her posture and her voice.

  Deftly, he delved into the wastepaper basket and retrieved the dreaded contract, then placed it on the desk before her and handed her his fountain pen.

  “Sign on the dotted line, and we can finally get to work, Miss Kotova.”

  She stared down at the contract, then scribbled her signature. She placed the pen down, and sat back. “What do you want me to do?”

  With a smile of satisfaction, Demiakov took the document and tucked it into his desk drawer. “I have a matter of some importance I need you to look into. Someone has been pretending to be me. Trudging all over the place telling people he is Alexei Demiakov.” He placed his hands on his blotter and leveled a hard stare at her. “I want you to find this man and take him out.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” she stated. Her protestations were feeble, for she realized he knew her a lot better than most.

  “I know you aren’t, Lidiya. That’s why I’m teaming you up with Oleg Yugurov.”

  At the mention of the name, a cold shiver ran down her spine. Yugurov was a well-known hired gun. A contract killer. Oh, God. What had she gotten herself involved in now? “I—I still don’t think I’m the right person for this, sir,” she muttered. “I mean, if you have Yugurov, why do you need me?”

  He gave her that thin-lipped smile again. “I need you because you know the man pretending to be me. His real name is Roman Loginovsky.”

  Her heart stopped. This wasn’t happening. She swallowed heavily. “You want me to kill Roman?”

  He shook his head. “I want you to rekindle your… friendship. Then, when you’ve got him where you want him, Oleg will finish the job.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I can’t do this, sir. I really can’t.”

  His eyes grew colder still. “I’m not asking, Lidiya. I’m ordering you to take down Roman Loginovsky. If not?” He shrugged. “Well, you’ve been made aware of the consequences.”

  She sank lower in her chair. Yes, she knew the consequences. She gave him a single nod, then said in a croaky voice, “I will do as you say, sir.”

  Satisfied, the mogul leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Excellent. I know you won’t disappoint me, Lidiya. As for the practical arrangements, you will fly to America tomorrow. Tickets, money and the file on Loginovsky you will receive from my secretary.”

  She looked up. “America? Roman is in the United States?”

  Her new employer’s face clouded. “It appears so. He’s been tearing up the town of New York, making a joke of my reputation with some two-bit Broadway actress named Dora Liverpool.”

  A sting of jealousy arced through her heart. An actress? Was Roman into cheap American actresses now? Then he was not the man she’d known.

  Demiakov had noticed her discomfort, for he directed a sly smile at her. “As an added bonus, you may take out this Dora Liverpool as well if you want.”

  She nodded curtly. Perhaps she would do that first. No better way to get rid of the competition than to bury them under a slab of cement. She was old-fashioned that way.

  CHAPTER 2

  “God, Roman, this must have cost you a fortune!”

  “It did,” he returned coolly.

  Dora studied the ring. She and her counterfeit husband had been traipsing all over New York all morning. As promised, she was showing him the town, and had only now arrived at the shop she’d been dyi
ng to see for herself. Tiffany’s might not be exactly in her price range, but a girl could dream, right?

  As a middling actress, Ella Tackelburg—stage name Dora Liverpool—had to make do with the cheap gifts her fans and admirers lavished on her.

  Usually, all she got were flowers. And though she graciously accepted any gift offered, she’d often wished some rich guy would fall madly in love with her after watching her on the stage, and would show up in her dressing room, showering her with diamonds and rubies and the promise of more gold and riches than she could ever hope to possess.

  As it was, the only regular waiting for her at the stage door each night was Buck Hendricks, some weaselly guy who’d pledged his undying love. Too bad he was ugly, old, married and dirt poor.

  So when Roman suggested they pop into Tiffany’s to have a look around, she’d jumped at the chance.

  Though relations still proceeded frostily between herself and her so-called husband, they had reached some sort of detente. The war was still cold, but it was gradually heating up.

  She studied the ring Roman had bought with a pang of envy. Whoever the recipient was, she was one lucky lady.

  “Nice,” she finally said as she clapped the ring box shut, then thrust it into her companion’s hand. “Not as nice as some of my rings, of course, but not too shabby. Who’s it for?” Though the question was supposed to sound innocuous, she couldn’t help but add a measure of resentment to it.

  “A woman I know.” The Russian gave her a long, level look, then tucked the box safely into his pocket, and brusquely took her arm. “Come. We go.”

  Tripping alongside him, she ruefully thought about the ring, and most importantly, the girlfriend on the receiving end of the expensive trinket. These rich Russians with their millions or billions or whatever. They couldn’t understand that to a simple girl like her, whose life was one long string of hardships, gems like these only served to increase the starkness of her own reality.

  She could just imagine the bitch. Young, pretty and very, very Russian. Roman probably hated American women. Too brash. Too blond. Too boobalicious. He probably liked them petite. Dark-haired with the body of a teenager and the tits of a supermodel.

  She darted a quick glance at her companion. He was still as enigmatic as ever, though there was definite improvement in his speech. He even spoke in full sentences from time to time. And she’d caught him smiling at her that morning. A mocking smile when he caught a whiff of her cheap perfume, sure, but still.

  He’d tied his shoulder-length jet-black hair into his customary ponytail, and his eyebrows still had that distinct habit to scowl as if the world was a dangerous place, people put there with the single purpose of annoying him. His lips hard, nose hawklike, his eyes dark and hard, he was the epitome of the tough male.

  Today, he’d opted for a black turtleneck with a black suit jacket and black slacks. Black, black, black. The man seemed to think color was a sin. Though she’d noticed he was wearing marine blue socks. Frivolous!

  She’d draped her arm on his, and was trying to follow his tempo. When he noticed she had a hard time keeping up, he slowed his usual brisk pace to a more leisurely saunter, then gruffly barked, “Nice day.”

  She arched her eyebrows in surprise, then automatically searched around for reporters. Usually when Roman acted all lovey-dovey, it was because some press hound was about to snap their picture, and he wanted to project the perfect picture of the loving husband entertaining his American bride.

  She didn’t spot a cameraman, however. Only shoppers milling about on Fifth Avenue, darting in and out of the department stores. Unlike them, they were real couples. Real husbands showing their real wives a really good time. Buying them presents, accompanying them on trips to Bloomingdale’s, selecting purses at Louis Vuitton, or even buying them diamonds and pearls at Tiffany’s.

  “So do you have any news about this friend of yours?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

  “Nathan Callaway? Not.”

  She rolled her eyes. He’d exchanged his favorite word ‘Njet’ for ‘not’, and though she’d tried to explain something was lost in the translation, he stubbornly continued erring on the monosyllabic side.

  She patted his arm. “You will get there, Roman. Eventually the man will show his face.”

  He gave her the sliver of a smile, and it was as if the sun broke through the cloud cover. “I hope so.”

  She returned his smile and added some wattage of her own. Gratified, she noticed his lips twitched slightly. Then, when his eyes turned smoky, she quickly looked away, taking a firmer grip on his sturdy arm. Though she was a full-figured woman, she felt remarkably svelte next to Roman.

  She cleared her throat. “You would think one million dollars would do the trick, right?”

  He merely grunted, and she could still feel his eyes on her. Color rose to her cheeks, and she swallowed away the confusion. She’d noticed he’d developed this new habit of staring at her, and she really didn’t know what to think of it. After having been offered two hundred thousand dollars to play the man’s wife, she’d assumed their relationship would be a strictly platonic one.

  A million dollar reward should have produced the golden tip, but so far only crackpots and cheats had shown up. Soon, the hunt would be over, and Roman would return to his home country of Russia, leaving Dora to enjoy her two hundred grand, and the wreckage of a career in ruins.

  Being a stage actress was a hard slog, with competition so intense that every girl had to fight and claw her way to the top. She hadn’t reached the top of her profession by far, but she did have gainful employ with one of the largest theaters, and if things went well, and her theater manager Nikosj supplied her with some bigger parts, she might have had a shot at landing a leading role in the next few months.

  Now, with all her time being laid claim on by Mr. Hulking Russian, there was no chance of that. The moment he returned to Moscow, she would have to start at the bottom again.

  “What will you do with the money?” Roman suddenly asked, as if reading her mind.

  “I, erm, I was actually thinking of buying a house.”

  “In New York? Or Tennessee?”

  This surprised her. Why was he so interested in her all of a sudden? What did he care where she bought a house? “I haven’t decided yet, actually. New York is pretty expensive, and I could only get a tiny flat. If that. For the same amount I could probably buy a house back home. But there ain’t too many Broadways there.” She shrugged. “And a girl has to make a living, right?”

  “You want to be an actress?”

  She gave him a confused frown. “Yeah. I guess I do. I mean, this is my job. My vocation. What else am I going to do?”

  “What did you do in Tennessee?”

  They’d just bought an ice cream from a parlor, and Roman was licking at the cone as if he’d never tasted anything more delicious. Didn’t they have ice cream in Russia? “Well, I was busing tables for a while at the local diner. Then I worked as a cashier at the deli. Um, lemme see.” She put her finger to her lips and raised her eyes in an exaggerated gesture. “I sold popcorn at the cinema, flipped burgers at Uncle Joe’s Fried Oyster, and even spent some time selling shoes in Frank’s Shoe Emporium, down at the mall.” She spread her arms. “Not much of a career path, right?”

  He surprised her again by offering her a smile. “Is that why you left?”

  “Well, yeah,” she said with a shrug. “More opportunities here in the big city. Not many acting jobs where I come from.”

  “Wallisburg, Tennessee,” he said with a knowing nod, licking his ice cream cone like a small boy discovering the treat for the first time. For a big, bad Russian, he suddenly looked almost… human.

  “Yep. Home sweet home. Only, for a girl who wants to make it as an actress, not really all that sweet after all.”

  Roman had spotted a bench and took a seat. He gestured with his hand. “Come. Sit.” She sat.

  She marveled at the long way they’d
come since their first awkward meeting. The night this big, burly Russian had first shown up at her apartment, she’d been both angry and a little scared when he told her she was to be his bride for the next fortnight.

  He’d whisked her away to Las Vegas for a rush wedding, and then had dragged her to all these press conferences, announcing to the world that Alexei Demiakov was now a happily married man, and his American bride the luckiest girl in the world to have found love and happiness by the side of her oligarch billionaire.

  Only, it had all been a ruse. A ploy to draw out this man Nathan Callaway. Roman had refused to explain to her exactly why he needed this Callaway fellow so badly, but it seemed to have something to do with a business deal gone wrong.

  So far, his mission was a bust, and she’d been wondering more and more what would happen if he never did accomplish the mission he’d set out to do. He’d promised her a swift annulment, and she would never hear from him ever again.

  Now that their days together were coming to an end, she found herself wishing they would last a little longer. His gruffness had started to wane, and though it was too much to say he was now Mr. Congeniality, he’d actually grown on her.

  She suddenly turned to him. “Can I ask you a personal question, Roman?”

  Instead of responding, he merely gave her that intense stare of his, so she trudged on.

  “In your line of business, you meet a lot of people, right?”

  He nodded once.

  “How do you know which ones are to be trusted and which ones aren’t?” She held up her hand. “I mean, do you have like an internal radar or something? You know, like a built-in lie detector thingie?”

  He fixed his eyes on her, and momentarily halted licking from his ice cream. Under his scrutiny, she suddenly felt her blood run cold. It reminded her that he was still a ruthless man. A killer, working for one of Russia’s most notorious crime families. She raised her hand again. “Forget I asked,” she murmured.

  “It’s okay,” he offered. He frowned, mulling the question over. “I guess I sense a person.” He gestured at a passing couple, the man looking flustered, his wife frowning angrily before her. ”They just had a fight. He wanted to go out tonight with his buddies. She disagreed.”