by SE Chardou
Dimitri had first started out with a solid relationship he’d built up with the Lucifer’s Saints, one of the biggest and fiercest motorcycle clubs in the States. The Saints were the club to fear in this part of the country just like the Aces MC in Oregon continued to be a constant pain in my ass. Hell’s Horsemen ruled Montana and large swathes of California. The Silver Demons controlled a good portion of New York, and the Hellions MC ruled parts of the south I’d managed to “visit” while on an assignment.
Fortunately, because I was freelance, I didn’t only do hits for my own former “club”—if that’s what I could call my previous affiliation with the White Knights—but I did jobs for other mostly outlaw and “gray” motorcycle clubs.
Some didn’t mind I was a woman and others had an issue with it but passing through an MC’s territory, it was a firm and hard rule you gave who ever was in charge the respect they deserved.
I knew Dimitri was no longer just doing business with the Saints; he’d branched out and become friendly with Angelo and Raymond Jackson—Northern Nevada’s very own Original Gangster—because if he planned to do business in their territory, he’d better have a fucking A-Okay. Angelo could have ruined him alone with all the Union contacts he had; and without the union, everyone knew a hotel couldn’t be built, regardless what the Feds thought they’d done to dismantle mob control in the early eighties.
I stepped out of the vehicle, stretched, and followed Max inside only after donning a pair of blacker-than-black Ray-Bans. I preferred to keep a low profile and the last issue I needed was an informant or other unsavory “business associate” recognizing me. Not that I thought they would be here in this elegant hotel at this time of the day but one could never be too careful.
Max walked with the careful and leisurely ease of a man used to getting what he wanted. I should have been the least bit intrigued when he bypassed registration and we boarded an elevator that took us directly to the nineteenth floor in the hotel.
I leaned back against the elevator and closed my eyes. They felt gritty due to lack of rest and exhaustion in general. I didn’t sleep very much in the most ideal situations and nothing about my life had been remotely typical since I’d left Las Vegas with Max.
“What are you thinking about?” he questioned in a voice dripping with the sound of tightly controlled male sexuality.
“Nothing. Everything. Your asinine offer I’m supposed to consider.” I stood tall and gazed at him, my head slightly cocked. “Why didn’t we go to the Registration Desk?”
“I have a suite here I use on a fairly normal basis. When I’m in Northern Nevada, this is my home base. A hotel is one of the safest places to be, especially when it comes to security,” he explained before his blue-green eyes turned away from mine.
We didn’t speak further until the elevator reached the top floor, he stepped out first and I followed behind him ever so reluctantly before we fell into a casual walk, side-by-side. If Max wanted me dead, I hardly believed he would have gone through all this trouble to try to recruit me in the first place.
Once we reached a large set of cream double doors with subtle gold accenting, he reached over and slid his card key through a small, magnetic strip. The light turned from red to green on the door and he opened it with a certain sense of grandiosity.
I walked inside, carrying only my bag with a few keepsakes and clothes along with my handbag. I dropped my larger duffel bag on the floor as I walked through the hallway. Marble floors were tastefully paired with Persian rugs. There was a lot of stainless steel, dark wood and glass. The whole place screamed bachelor pad, from the black leather sofas in the living room to the matching leather bar stools in front of the kitchen island.
I expected it to be a bit tawdry and tacky but the elegance was extremely understated and presented itself in other subtle ways most people who only came from money would appreciate. Being the former child of parents who were very well off, I could only smile at the sense of nostalgia it brought back to me.
“The hotel’s interior designer was Mrs. Raymond Jackson herself. I think that explains the toned down look and feel to the place,” Max explained as I walked around in awe.
“Yes, it screams German elegance. I wouldn’t have pegged a Russian owning this place if it weren’t for the tacky outside décor.”
“That was, unfortunately, designed by yours truly.”
I whipped around to face Max. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was.” He smiled easily and for a moment there, he almost fooled me into believing it was authentic. “I have a degree in architecture. I don’t use it very often but Dimitri and I are quite . . . close. He insisted I design this hotel for him. I would have preferred not to but at the same time, he’s like a father to me. I knew exactly what he’d envision his hotel to look like.”
“How altruistic of you,” I replied dryly, taking a seat on the leather love seat in the living room.
“It wasn’t altruistic at all. The man paid me a shitload of money. Who was I to say no?”
It was hard not to look around at all this extravagance and not feel drawn into the lifestyle if I hadn’t known the money to build it was awash with blood. The Koslakov family was legendary in the brutal and inhuman ways they dealt out punishment to thieves, traitors and enemies alike. Men like him and the Navarro family who controlled Aztecas Infierno—a cartel and motorcycle club combined—made men like Angelo Abandonato and Raymond Jackson appear to be men on the wrong side of the law from another time in history.
Unlike Abandonato and Jackson, the Koslakov Mafia and Aztecas Infierno Cartel had no code. They didn’t believe in justice, honor or loyalty. There was just a perpetual bloodlust for the almighty dollar, euro, pound, yen, and any other currency that could pay for designer goods, favors and power.
I sighed out loud and realized with growing urgency I’d grown quite tired. I needed to get some rest if I expected to be any good for the rest of the day.
“Why don’t you relax?” Max’s voice echoed from the state-of-the-art kitchen. “Can I make you some chamomile tea?”
“Ugh! No thanks but I will have a cup of green tea if you have any,” I replied.
“Yes, there’s some green tea here. I keep several kinds. One cup of tea coming right up.”
I closed my eyes and tried not to succumb to the drunken feeling of exhaustion as it wound its way under my skin but no matter how hard I tried, it remained. It sunk deeper, becoming a part of me as my limbs ached from being trapped in an SUV for more than seven hours. I was drifting downhill faster and faster toward oblivion and the land of dreams.
The sound of a coaster followed by a mug set down on top of it made my eyes fly open. I studied the glass magazine table, where he’d set my hot beverage, and sat up, albeit reluctantly. It occurred to me Max wasn’t someone I could let my guard down around, at least not yet.
“Thanks.” I picked up the mug and sipped from it tentatively.
“So,” Max began as he sat across from me and rubbed his hands together as if the arctic chill from the air conditioning had started to affect his ability to keep warm. “I gave you the time you needed to make a decision. I don’t need a drawn out explanation or reasons for why or how you’ve made up your mind. I only want to know if you’re in or out? No further commentary is needed from you at this point.”
I arched one of my eyebrows at his casual disregard for my opinions. I didn’t give a crap how he felt about me where feelings were concerned but I sure as hell wasn’t the type of woman who allowed a man to treat me like I didn’t matter.
“I’d think with the delicate operation you are planning, you would consider a woman with a brain an asset. I’m not going to go along with everything you think we should do. I will want a say with how we intend to handle the initial set up. If this is a problem for you then find another bimbo to be your ‘yes’ girl,” I explained in a calculating voice.
“Actually, I’m hoping that person is you. There is an air about you
…a certain ‘Je ne sais quoi’ I can’t explain or put my finger on. I don’t want a ‘yes’ girl and I have a feeling you will challenge me. None of that is wrong just so you know.”
“The answer’s yes.”
“Yes?”
“Did I not say that in English because I sure as hell know I don’t stutter.”
“I expected . . .” Max trailed off, his blue-green eyes magnetic in the suite lit by natural sunlight streaming through the open curtains. “I don’t know . . . I assumed I would have to do some serious work trying to convince you to do this at all.”
“Well, you don’t.” I stood and walked to the floor to ceiling window. There was a gorgeous view of the whole area and in the distance, I could see as far as the beauty and majestic qualities of Lake Tahoe.
“Thank you, Magnolia.”
“Mags,” I stated simply, my back to him.
“I will let our employer know we will proceed.”
I turned toward him and admired the distance between us. I should have felt nothing for him. From what Max had shown me of himself, he was an egotistical jerk who was obviously a misogynist that probably used women like the toilet paper he wiped his ass with after taking a dump. Good as a necessity and although they had an intended purpose in his life, they were easily disposable and immediately replaceable.
Why couldn’t I frighten myself enough to believe this man would hold me in the same careless regard? Furthermore, why did I feel anything remotely close to attraction toward him at all?
“I look forward to hearing what he has to say,” I murmured.
Less than a minute later, I heard the door to the suite open and close.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know whether I should feel elated in the slightest sense or just a feeling of absolute and utter fear at the beast we would eventually unleash in our target.
One thing was for certain. Angelo Abandonato would not take our plan or its consequences without putting up the fight of his life.
Chapter Four
Maxwell
Max knew what he should have expected and what could possibly be expected though with Magnolia, he found his razor sharp instincts failing him and he didn’t appreciate it at all. She was certainly an unusual and peculiar woman though she kept him on his toes and was nothing like he expected her to be given the environment she’d grown up entrenched inside.
The White Knights were an MC he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy but not only had she thrived under their care, she seemed very sure of herself in who she was as a human being. Refreshing, when he thought about the lost, damaged souls he’d come across in the past. Pathetic creatures who believed in the “woe is me” attitude and bowed down to it like it was a form of religious dogma.
None of that could be found in Magnolia. She certainly didn’t feel sorry for herself and yet, she still held on to a shred of her own humanity. Her past should have been her undoing and yet it appeared to be—in its own twisted, unexplainable way—what would ultimately redeem her.
He didn’t allow himself too much time to contemplate the fate of Magnolia Reynolds. He had a boss to answer to, after all, and Dimitri was not the kind of man who appreciated or believed in delayed gratification. He expected answers promptly and courteously. He would definitely want to be made aware of the new developments in the works and he would be quite thrilled Magnolia had decided to join “their” side.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.
Max didn’t have far to go to visit the man he worked for and considered his only family. His real family was dead to him though his mother was actually a complicated situation he never had the time or energy to think about. Whether his father and brother knew about him wasn’t his problem; they knew enough to stay away, even if they had any suspicions. Neither of them were worth the lives he’d viciously ended without a second thought, and he preferred to keep it that way.
The more of an enigma he remained in this particular situation, the better.
He was merely a cleaner for Dimitri Koslakov and that was all he was known to be with good reason. Raymond Jackson, Angelo Abandonato and the MCs in the area respected him and realized he was apart of the Koslakov Mafia. They never questioned him about his past because as far they were concerned, he’d come to America with Dimitri.
Over the years, learning Russian and speaking nothing but the language with his mentor, he’d nailed the slight accent of an immigrant. Though his parents were born in other countries and fled to the United States, he’d been born on American soil.
Although he worked for a Russian, he often used his Irish passport outside of the United States. He bore a French last name but it was false, and his real last name adorned both passports and his birth certificate though his driver’s license, social security card and other documents used to work, live and pay taxes were all legitimate documents. Unfortunately, they were based upon a real human being his own age—a man he murdered a long time ago—and his identity assumed by Max.
He’d lived a lie for so long, it was hard to remember who he was exactly. However Dimitri was a good teacher and the longer he worked for him, the easier it’d become to live with the deception and untruths. It was part of his identity now like the color of his hair and eyes, his fair skin that lightly tanned in the summer and returned to its natural alabaster in the winter, and his manipulative nature.
Max found his mentor in the VIP Room where gorgeous waitresses who were also call girls entertained guests in the high-roller area of the casino. The minimum was five thousand dollars per bet and there were plenty of Dimitri’s “friends” from Russia along with other wealthy businessmen who happened to be in the area. Unfortunately, the call girls were Raymond’s—Dimitri couldn’t use his women he brought over through human trafficking since one dumb bitch had tried to seek help from a john. The guy was smart enough to report back to Dimitri. The whore was disposed of and from then on out, the trafficked girls were kept in brothels around the Tri-Cities area while Raymond got a small cut of the profit and provided willing women over the age of eighteen.
“Goddamn it!” Dimitri swore in Russian as he played poker with a few of his associates he happened to be entertaining from the old county. “Yevgeny, you got lucky, my friend, but it won’t happen again.”
“Maybe it will . . . but perhaps it may not. Poker is a game about skill. Alas, you don’t have as much as you believe you do,” Yevgeny responded in a sly manner before he winked.
Max smirked, knowing if it had been one of Dimitri’s boys who had insulted him that way, they would have received an icy smile and a bullet to the brain. Yevgeny was not only an acquaintance but also head of the Kitaev Mafia. They started out as criminals but he now owned a football team in England and a British newspaper too. Although considered a friend of sorts, Dimitri merely tolerated him rather than liking him per se, this Max knew as much.
His mentor eyed him with icy blue eyes and smiled before he stood. “You can carry on the next round without me. I have to talk to Max.”
Yevgeny tsk tsked rather prominently. “The way you play favorites is unbecoming of a man of your stature, Dimitri. Do not grow like these lazy, fat Americans and start wearing your heart on your sleeve. Our biggest advantage is our coldness. It comes not only from whence we come but also the desperation of what men like us had to do to make it—to survive. Never give that up. Without our brand of fear and humiliation, we have nothing.”
Max watched as Dimitri, a tall drink of water at well over six feet with a solid muscular frame turned only slightly toward his acquaintance. “Yevgeny, never tell me what to do while you are a guest in my casino. My men are everywhere. I don’t think it bears repeating that it is always up to me whether anyone who comes and decides to stay at The Heritage makes it out in one piece . . . or alive for the matter.”
It took everything in him not to show emotion from what Dimitri said but he managed to keep a straight face as the two men left the VIP Room and took the elevator up to the Penthouse. Both me
n stepped out with Max following his mentor into the living room.
“Drink?” Dimitri commanded instead of asking.
“Whatever you’re having,” Max replied cryptically.
Dimitri poured two straight vodkas in crystal glasses and brought the bottle over to the sofa as he handed a glass to Max.
“It’s a little early in the morning but what the hell? To getting what we want,” Max announced with an air of pride in his voice.
“That’s a very good sentiment to which, I wholeheartedly agree. To getting what we want. The world belongs to us, my boy, and everyone else is prey . . . to do our bidding.”
They clinked glasses before Max swallowed his vodka in one go. He’d never been particularly fond of the alcoholic beverage and preferred Irish whiskey and Scotch any day of the week. However, Russians seemed to live on vodka the way most people survived on water.
For them, it was the essence of their life.
Max had learned quickly never to question anything Dimitri said to him. He’d done it once and still had the scars to prove it. Yes, the man was fond of him but he never forgot his place. To do so would be the death of him and he wasn’t ready to meet the Grim Reaper—not now at least. There was still so much of his life that hadn’t been lived and a vengeance still left to reap.
The retribution he sought had everything and nothing to do with Dimitri. However, what he did after he officially retired from his mentor wasn’t anyone’s business other than his own.
“So, what’s going on? I hear you have met with that scum from the White Knights and retrieved their sex-slave-turned-assassin?”
Max nodded affirmatively. “Yes, and she’s . . . quite different from what I expected.”
Dimitri’s masculine face continued to stared impassively. “How so? Was she stronger than you thought she would be? Sometimes the women we underestimate the most are the very people who will be our undoing.” He paused and swigged from his vodka. “Tell me, are you attracted to her?”