Anatoly's Retribution: Book One (The Medlov Men 5)

by Latrivia Welch

Dmitry was bored. Getting down to business, he tapped his Glock on his pants legs. “Troy, I can’t let both of you live. It’s just not good business. So, I’m going to let you decide.”

  Troy clenched his jaw and ducked his head. It was what he had expected the entire time. “I’m a father. You already know my decision. All I ask is that you take the money, but let my boy live. He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Dad,” Bobby protested. “Don’t.” He was too scared to take his father’s place and scared to death of watching his father die. It was an impossible decision.

  “We all have to make a decision. I respect yours.” Raising his weapon, Dmitry cut through the theatrics and pulled the trigger. The bullet was quick. It pierced through the man’s chest and tore out of his back, lodging in the coils of the plush sofa.

  Taking a final breath, Troy looked over at his son with hope until his eyes faded.

  Bobby was beside himself. Crying out, he had to be held into the chair by one of Dmitry’s men.

  Dmitry looked around the entertainment room. “This was a nice place. I’ll admit that. But we’re going to have to burn it to the ground so that your Nazi friends know I’m not fucking around about my money.” Putting away his gun, he walked over to Bobby, hiked up his black tailored slacks and kneeled in front of him. “Your father made a choice. He wanted to die with hope. So, I let him. But I can’t leave any witnesses. So, here is what I’m prepared to do.”

  Bobby kept crying, ignoring Dmitry’s words.

  Snapping his fingers, Dmitry got his attention. “Hey, pay attention. Stop all that crying, eh. It won’t help you anyway.”

  Bobby wiped the tears and snot from his face. Dmitry continued, speaking slowly so that the young man could process his options. “I can shoot you or I can mute you. It’s your choice. What do you want to do?”

  “Mute me?” Bobby asked with a frown. What the hell did he mean? What kind of monsters where they?

  “No tongue. No fingers. But you get to live,” Dmitry reasoned. “Or I can just shoot you.”

  “Pick your poison,” Gabriel said flatly from behind his uncle. “Make it quick though. We’ve got other shit to do tonight.”

  Bobby frowned at Dmitry and spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

  Wiping his face slowly, Dmitry stood back up as Bobby’s gaze followed him. He expected the man to hit him, but Dmitry didn’t waste the energy. From first sight, he knew the little prick was going to be trouble. He had an air of entitlement that would be shed easily.

  Dmitry pulled a black, silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face again, then threw it in Bobby’s lap. “Cut out his tongue, cut off his fingers, then burn him with the house. Use his puny little body as the bonfire.” Winking at the boy, he headed out of the door satisfied. He had what he wanted. The money and a name. “Like father, like son. Just have to do shit the hard way.”

  Chapter Ten

  So You’re Anatoly…

  Nine Years, 11 Months ago

  Memphis, TN

  Mother Russia Restaurant

  “ This was a bad idea. What the hell am I supposed to say to him?” Anatoly said aloud, just barely above a whisper. In his mind, he had played out a hundred scenarios of how he would approach his father, but none of them seemed plausible now.

  It was Christmas Eve and a light snow dusted the cold ground under a cloudy night sky. Everyone else in the world was with family, but Anatoly was alone. He wondered at that moment what his mother and siblings were doing. Were they opening gifts under their small Christmas tree, watching a movie on their old television set in the living room, curled up on sofa? Did they miss him? Did they think of him? It had been a month since he had last laid eyes on them. Since then, he had been in the care of the man his mother sent him to find. In between errands, he had called a few times, but no one had answered. Maybe his mother had been serious. Maybe she never wanted to see him again. His heart was still in anguish and some small part of him hoped that one day he could return, but for now, he had to press forward.

  He stood under a tree strung with white lights on Main Street right outside of the Mother Russia Restaurant after a long trek from his homeland. He had just arrived in the river town earlier that day from New York City. After checking into a cheap hotel a few blocks away, he headed to the place his mother had told him he could find his father.

  Clutching a piece of paper with this address in his hand, he watched as the guests went inside the fine dining establishment. It was a two-story, dark-red bricked corner building with crimson awnings over its large smoke-tinted windows. The black wooden oak doors with elaborate brass handles seemed intimating. Who knew what lurked behind them?

  Taking a step forward, he debated whether to just come back later. It was a holiday after all. The man he was seeking may not even be here. Indecision plagued him and drowned out his surroundings. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was scared. He had never been anywhere, never seen anything, and now he was in another country, roaming the streets alone.

  Right behind where Anatoly stood mulling over his next move, a shiny black S-Class Mercedes Benz pulled up to the curb, and the driver, a Russian man with a low buzz haircut, jumped out and opened the back door for his boss.

  A tall blonde man emerged from the back seat donning a tailored tuxedo under a black wool coat. He immediately noticed the young man standing on the sidewalk in a pair of jeans and light jacket too flimsy for the fall weather, but Anatoly didn’t notice him. He was too focused on the huge oak doors in front of him.

  Snow crunched under the man’s Italian leather dress shoes. A deep baritone interrupted the silence. “Are you looking for someone?” Dmitry asked, stepping up on the sidewalk.

  Anatoly turned around and ran his gaze up to the seven-foot giant’s piercing eyes. Flakes of snow landed in the man’s blonde curly hair and a gust of wind caused him to tug at the top of his coat. He looked down at the boy with ice blue eyes that seemed to burn straight through him.

  Anatoly swallowed hard and cleared his throat. Digging in his hands down in his pants pockets, he answered. “I’m looking for Dmitry Medlov.” He stood up straighter. Something about the man, demanded it of him.

  “What do you want with him?” Dmitry asked curiously.

  “Kirill Derevenko sent me from Moscow,” Anatoly explained, noticing the driver’s posture tense. The man didn’t bother to hide the guns under his jacket or his suspicion of the boy’s presence. Anatoly glanced back up to Dmitry, hesitant to blurt out their familial connection so quickly. “He said you were expecting me.”

  There was a brief awkward silence.

  Dmitry’s smooth tanned face finally lit up pleasantly with a toothy smile. His high cheekbones were rosy. “Kirill! Yes, he is a very good friend from back home.” He winked at Anatoly. “I’m the man you’re looking for.”

  Anatoly was dumbfounded. How did this man and his mother ever meet? He wished that he had not doubted her all these years, wished she could have been here to see their reunion, but he pushed his worthless sentiments to the back of his mind.

  Without being told to, the bodyguard walked up to Anatoly and frisked him from his head down to his feet. Raising up from the boy’s ankles, he nodded at his boss. “He’s clean.”

  Dmitry put his large hand on Anatoly’s shoulder. “Walk with me. You’ll catch your death out here.”

  When their foot hit the bottom steps, the huge doors to the restaurant opened from the inside and two well-dressed guards cleared a path. Anatoly wondered if they had been watching him the entire time that he stood outside.

  “You must be the surprise Kirill said that he was sending to me,” Dmitry continued as they entered the restaurant.

  Anatoly kept it short. “Da. I’m Anatoly Nikolaev.” He wondered if the name rang a bell.

  Dmitry paused but for such a brief moment that it was not detected. He knew a Nikolaev, a woman he had dated many years ago, but the surname was as common as Smith here in the States. It was mor
e than likely a coincidence.

  It was nice and warm inside, a welcomed change from the outside elements. Anatoly gripped his nearly frozen fingers in front of him and tried hard not to seem so out of place.

  This restaurant was nicer than he had ever been in before. People dressed in suits and dresses sat at red linen-topped tables under candlelight, drinking and laughing while waiters ran about serving them and music played in the background. The main area was decorated in red and gold with hardwood floors and ornate chandeliers.

  A red head hostess in black slacks and white button down moved from behind her podium at the front door and quickly took Dmitry’s coat as he pulled it off. It seemed to be a natural state of things – people moving at the man’s quiet command – so Anatoly went with him.

  Looking around his packed restaurant proudly, Dmitry nodded at a few of the patrons and adjusted his jacket.

  “I told Kirill when he called that I needed some new blood,” Dmitry said, motioning for Anatoly to walk with him toward the kitchen. Again, the waiters and waitresses moved out of the man’s way. Some of them even bowed like he was royalty. “I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”

  I wasn’t expecting someone so huge, Anatoly thought to himself. It was surreal to be walking beside the man who very well might be his father. Excitement and shock rushed through him, but he kept his expression casual.

  “How old are you?” Dmitry asked.

  “Eighteen,” Anatoly spoke up. Avoiding eye contact with the many faces that followed them, he ducked his head. Attention made him nervous, and he was already skittish enough.

  Pushing the silver steel doors to the kitchen open, Dmitry moved past the wait staff and the cooks busily prepping and delivering plates. He walked to the prep station in the very back where it was much quieter and sat down on a bar stool where a stack of papers and receipts were waiting on him.

  He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. Slipping them on his face, he read over the papers for a minute while Anatoly stood quietly in front of him.

  “What part of Moscow do you come from?” Dmitry finally asked. He glanced up at the boy from the top of his glasses.

  “Kapotnya,” Anatoly answered, scratching his stubbly beard.

  “That’s my old territory.” He smirked cleverly. “Still is in some ways.”

  That answered where Dmitry had met Anatoly’s mother. She had lived in Kapotnya her entire life.

  One of the waiters brought over two shot glasses, a bottle of vodka and a plate piled full of finger foods. He sat it in front of his boss on the stainless-steel table and quietly walked away.

  “Let’s get Kirill on the phone, shall we?” Dmitry said, pulling out his cell phone. He skimmed through his contacts and hit CALL. Pressing the phone up to his ear, he heard his friend answer on the other side.

  “Dmitry,” Kirill said, voice slightly raised. It was a little after 3:00 a.m. in Moscow. Stepping out of the packed night club, he inhaled the late-night air. “How are things in the States?”

  “Good,” Dmitry answered. He looked over at Anatoly. “I have our friend here.” He motioned for Anatoly to come closer to him.

  Kirill kept talking. “Finally. Took him long enough. I put him on plane a few days ago. Had to get him some papers from our friends first though. INS are tightening their shit up.”

  “Hold on a second.” Dmitry put his hand over the speaker of his phone. “Got any Vor ink?”

  “Da,” Anatoly said, confused as to why that mattered. “On my shoulders.”

  “Take your jacket off,” Dmitry ordered. “Let me see.”

  Doing what Dmitry asked, Anatoly pulled off his jacket and pulled up his shirt to show devils tattooed on his shoulders. Panging pots and pans in the background only made the request more awkward. Stepping closer, he let Dmitry inspect his work. He had gotten them three years ago after a run in with the cops that landed him in jail for four months. It signified his absolute hatred for authority figures, especially the police.

  Dmitry ran his fingers over the ink to make sure that they were real. “Were these forced?” he asked the boy. To lie would very well mean death in their secret organization.

  “No. I got put away for a few months. Cops broke two of my fucking ribs,” Anatoly said with a scowl. “I earned them.”

  Getting back on the phone, Dmitry picked over the finger foods. “Our little friend has tattoos. Are you familiar?”

  “Yeah, devils,” Kirill answered. “He’s got some more ink, but they’re not Vor.”

  “And his general description?” Dmitry asked. He wouldn’t put it past some law enforcement agency to replace the boy Kirill sent with one of their own. Over the years, they had tried all sorts of tricks to infiltrate his organization.

  “Blonde, blue eyes, six feet, heavy build, has an old knife scar you can’t miss by his right ear.” Kirill shrugged. How else could he describe him? “He’s a kid.” He wanted to tell Dmitry the truth, but he was sure that the boy had his reasons for keeping quiet.

  Dmitry saw the small scar. It was old, had to have been there for quite some time. “Young he is, but we were younger when we got in the game,” Dmitry said, putting a salmon-covered cracker in his mouth. He sucked his fingertips free of the cream cheese. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure we were talking about the same person. I’ll speak with you later.” Hanging up, he put the cell phone on the table by the plate and eyed the boy. Everyone in his camp was at least legally an adult. It was a big risk to take on someone so young, but the boy looked eager and dangerous – something that could be extremely helpful later.

  Anatoly was quiet, hoping that Kirill had not revealed his true identity during his brief conversation. He had begged the small-time mob boss to let him be the one who shared the information with his father after they had an opportunity to meet. It had taken some convincing, but after Anatoly promised to put in a good word with Dmitry to expand his territory after he had established himself, Kirill agreed.

  “You drink?” Dmitry asked, opening the pricey bottle of vodka.

  “Every once in a while?” Anatoly’s eyes scanned the kitchen. Everything was spotless and new. He wouldn’t mind working here himself, if given a chance. It sure beats the hell out of selling crack back in Moscow.

  After Dmitry poured them both a shot, he pushed one of the glasses over to Anatoly. If the kid wanted to be a man, who was he to get in his way. He raised his glass to the stranger. “A toast to celebrate your arrival.” It was a serious and earnest gesture in their culture. Smile removed, his face tightened. “Tvoye zdorovye!"

  Anatoly picked up the shot glass and held it up in his right hand, while keeping his eyes on Dmitry. “Tvoye zdorovye.” The drink went down smooth but burned his empty stomach. He had not eaten since yesterday.

  “So,” Dmitry said, putting down the shot glass. “What did you do back in Kapotnya?”

  Anatoly was hesitant to be honest, but he knew lying to a man like Dmitry was as foolish a choice as he could ever make. “Moved a little cocaine.” He gave a derisive sniff. “On the corner, mostly. It wasn’t really any weight.” There was no point in talking himself up. He would prove himself if Dmitry gave him a chance.

  Something more impressive would have been nice. “We don’t deal in drugs or whores here,” Dmitry informed. “You got any bodies on you?”

  “One,” Anatoly answered.

  “One,” Dmitry repeated, holding back a laugh. “And you want to work for me?” He smirked. By eighteen, he had killed over twenty men. “I’m not sure that you’re up for what we’re doing here. What are you good at besides moving a little weight?”

  “I know my way around a kitchen.” Anatoly’s eyes moved over the cooks working across the room in their pristine white uniforms.

  “I can get a cook anywhere. You have any other skills? Are you good with your hands?” Dmitry’s brow rose.

  “Haven’t lost many fights.” Anatoly wasn’t convincing. He saw D
mitry wanted more. “Da, da. I’m good with my hands. Better with a knife.”

  Taking off his reading glasses, Dmitry looked past Anatoly at his driver. He was still posted up by the door that led back out to the restaurant, watching his boss and this new boy very carefully.

  “Is he ready for me?” Dmitry asked. “I’m short on time as it is.”

  The driver nodded.

  Standing up, Dmitry looked Anatoly over once more. Something about the boy was oddly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Come with me,” Dmitry ordered. “Bring the plate and vodka with you.”

  In the basement of the restaurant away from prying eyes or cell phone signal, several suited guards stood around a man who had been tied to a chair. This was a trial and they were the judge and jury. When Dmitry entered with his driver and Anatoly, they moved out of the way to let Dmitry approach him. He had been beaten badly and was bleeding from the mouth, but he still managed to raise his head to look up into Dmitry’s face.

  Anatoly hesitated to approach the man, but the driver pushed him in his back. “Go,” he ordered sternly. “Get up there.”

  “As I said before, we don’t sell drugs. We don’t sell women.” Dmitry crossed his large arms across his chest and glared at the man dispassionately. “But someone thought that rule didn’t apply to him.”

  “Mr. Medlov, please,” the man begged. “It was a mistake. I won’t do it again. Give me another chance.”

  Dmitry found the request preposterous. He pushed back on his heels and rolled his eyes. “I don’t give second chances. It just leads to people thinking that they can get away with anything at least once, but once is all it takes to ruin everything for everyone.” He looked over at Anatoly, who stood stupefied, still holding the plate of food and the bottle of vodka. Was the kid going to piss his pants?

  Anatoly felt Dmitry’s eyes burning through him again, and turned to look back at him with a what-the-fuck frown. He didn’t expect his first meeting to be torture session.

  Dmitry reached over and nonchalantly plucked another finger sandwich from the plate Anatoly was holding. “This asshole got caught selling heroine and moving the shit on my boats, under my nose.” He stuffed the sandwich in his mouth and bent to his captive. He spoke with his mouth full. “Do you know how much money you could have cost me? Your shit was worth, what? Thirty to forty grand? My shit on those boats never is less than a five million a load. I have to pay everyone from the port authority to the cops to Homeland fucking security just to get my shit on the trucks. You were prepared to bring down my entire operation for a few piddly dimes when I pay you enough to buy a damn football team. And you want to ask me for a second chance. Fuck you!”