by Zoe Blake
Mikhail stiffened but didn’t meet my gaze. He took a swig from his flask.
When he still remained silent, I continued. “You know, my friend, it’s not possible.”
Gregor and I both thought of Mikhail like a brother. We trusted him with our lives. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact he had no family name. While it was honorable how he managed to get out of that Siberian orphanage alive and make something of himself, in our culture, a family name still meant everything. No matter how important or how much money one may have, and after working with Gregor and me for several years now, he had plenty. We had made him a very rich man, but that didn’t mean we would allow him to court our little sister.
Mikhail tossed his cigarette aside then checked his watch. Neither of us had cell phones on us for a reason. Cell phones were small tracking devices. We didn’t want to leave a trace of our activities here tonight. “They’ll be here soon with Levin. We need to hide him.”
Tossing my cigarette aside, I nodded in the direction of the beaten man. “You get his feet. I’ll get his head.”
The key to psychological warfare was to not show all your cards at once.
And the key to the effective use of violence was to never forget the psychological warfare element.
Otherwise, it was just violence for violence’s sake, and that was wasteful and unnecessary.
Everything should have a purpose, even violence.
Whether it was a show of strength, to send a message, or to extract information.
It had to have a purpose. At least for me.
Although tonight’s purpose was something I usually didn’t do.
Tonight was also about revenge.
Revenge was tricky.
Used in a calculated way, it could strengthen your power.
Let your emotions get in the way, which they often did, and revenge could quickly become messy and counterproductive.
Tonight, I didn’t care.
This man had hurt Yelena. More than once.
He was going to pay.
I was having Levin Nikitina brought to our warehouse in D.C., down by the docks at the Naval Yard. A place where no one asked too many questions and everyone minded their own business. There had been attempts at gentrification over the last few years with some swanky condos along the river, but the criminal heartbeat of the neighborhood had remained unchanged, which suited my purposes just fine.
Nestled inside a u-shaped stack of wooden crates was a small card table and two metal folding chairs. I took my seat at the one facing the door and pulled out my Smith and Wesson Model 66 .38 revolver. I dumped the six bullets in the chamber out onto the table. With its stainless-steel barrel and black synthetic grip, it was by far my favorite handgun. I preferred the classic revolver to a Glock which had a habit of jamming at the worst times. Plus, it was a useful tool for my method of psychological warfare.
Levin was brought in flanked by two of my men.
They tossed him into the chair opposite me.
He straightened his wrinkled and filthy shirt. “The armed escort wasn’t necessary, I’m always happy to meet with a friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“Sorry, Damien. I meant a business associate.”
“I don’t recall ever giving you permission to call me Damien.”
Levin squirmed in his seat. “Sorry, Mr. Ivanov.” His upper lip twitched, belying the respectful tone he was trying to achieve.
Levin Nikitina was a shell of a man. The first word that came to mind was twitchy. He had oily, pock-marked skin and a bulbous nose too big for his face, with chapped lips he kept nervously licking. The stench of sweat, stale smoke, and horse manure clung to his unwashed clothes.
It was difficult to stomach that this was the man Yelena had lived with alone for the last eight years. Beautiful and intelligent Yelena, who liked designer clothes and classical music, with this poor excuse for a father. Thank God the only thing she shared in common with him was his last name. Even that was too much. It upset me to know she even carried his name. I would make her change it when I got her new identification.
Yelena Ivanova had a nice ring to it.
The thought crept unbidden into my mind.
Yelena Ivanova, my wife.
It would solve many of my problems.
As my wife, the Italians and Columbians wouldn’t dare try to kidnap her. I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of getting her a new identity and finding a suitable college in Europe. All of this was nothing compared to the real reason why the idea appealed to me.
She would be mine.
Mine.
All that fiery spirit... mine.
That beautiful body with those big, bright blue eyes… mine.
It wasn’t in my nature to deny myself something I wanted.
Why was I doing it now?
Because she was my little sister’s friend? Nadia would be made to understand.
Because of some false idea of playing the knight in shining armor for once?
I looked down at the tarnished and dented flask in my hand. A symbol of my own honor.
Who was I kidding?
Yelena would probably fight the idea, but I could be very persuasive when I wanted to be. Besides, in the end, I wouldn’t give her a choice.
I was a rich man. I could buy her jewels and all the designer gowns and shoes her little heart desired. Under my protection and as my wife, she would have whatever she desired.
And I would have her.
Levin took out a crushed foil pack of Marlboro Reds. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked as he pulled out a cheap gas station plastic lighter.
“Yes.”
Levin leaned to one side to stuff the cigarettes into his back pocket. That was when he noticed the wide bloody drag mark on the cement floor. A mark like that was unmistakable. It was made by one thing — a body.
He wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and licked his chapped lips. “I heard you had a party tonight. Please tell… uh… um… Natalie… happy birthday for me.”
I picked up one of the bullets on the table and tossed it from finger to finger in my right hand as if it were a coin. “Levin. We have a problem.”
He sat up straight, and his beady eyes became animated as he jammed a finger onto the surface of the table, punctuating each word. “I know you found out about what that sneaky bitch did, and I’m here to tell you Dami — I mean, Mr. Ivanov — that you can do whatever you think is necessary to her.”
He made a slashing motion across his neck and then winked at me.
I clenched my jaw, fighting for calm. “That sneaky bitch?”
He waved his hand. “Yeah. Yelena.”
“Your daughter.”
Making the supreme mistake of getting comfortable in my presence, Levin leaned back in his chair, tossing an arm over the back. “Stepdaughter,” he corrected. “She’s no blood of mine. I got stuck with her after that bitch of a wife offed herself a few years back. Ruined a perfectly good car doing it too. Good riddance. She was a terrible fuck but a good cook with the proper motivation.”
I nodded. Tapping the bullet against the table, I raised an eyebrow. “The proper motivation?”
“Yeah. Yeah. You know,” he raised his arm and made a swiping motion with the back of his hand. “A little motivation. Men like us need to keep our women in line.” He gave me another exaggerated wink.
My stomach roiled with disgust, which was saying a lot. I had done business with some of the worst sociopaths in the world but the man before me made me want to retch. The guilt tore me up inside. I saw Yelena as she was, that little girl gobbling down a crappy hamburger. The idea that I'd then sent her home to this piece of shit made me want to howl with rage.
Yes. I would make Yelena my wife.
I would drag her kicking and screaming down the aisle, if necessary.
She might defy me at first but in the end, it would be for the best because I was going to spoil her rotten. I would give her th
e world. Diamonds, gold, furs. Whatever she wanted. And maybe, if there was a God, each time her sea blue eyes would light with joy, it would chip away at the memory of her as a little girl being sent back to this monster — by me.
I sat back in my chair, a casual gesture that belied my mood. “So, you’re aware she pulled off three Pick Sixes in one week, winning over one hundred thousand dollars?”
Levin shook his head. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cigarettes out of habit before casting a look at me and tossing them aside. “Yeah. Yeah. Who knew, right? I thought she was a dumb bitch like her mother. Turns out she has a brain in her head. Yeah. Yeah.”
He once more leaned forward and pounded the table with his forefinger. “But I promise you. I’m as loyal to the Ivanovs as the day is long. Hand to Jesus. I didn’t know what the little bitch was up to, and I’ve pulled the house apart looking for the money. You know… to hand it over to you. But the bitch has it hidden somewhere good, and as soon as I get my hands on her, I’ll find out where.”
If I had my way, and I always got my way, he’d never lay eyes — let alone his hands — on Yelena again.
This time, I leaned forward. “You’re aware in addition to the missing money that this also caused several red flags and some regrettable chatter at the local FBI office?”
Levin waved his hand in front of his face. “I heard something about that yeah, yeah, but that will all die down. The feds got nothing on us.”
Us.
There was no us.
There were the Ivanovs.
And him.
I smiled. “I’m not concerned about the FBI, Levin. They were handled immediately. I also took the liberty of confiscating all security footage of Yelena at the track collecting her winnings before anyone, including the feds, ever had a chance to review it.”
Levin wagged his finger at me. “That’s good. That’s real good. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” He pounded the table again with his bony finger. “That’s why you’re the boss, Damien. You’re always thinking.” He tapped his temple.
“I am always thinking. For instance, right now, I’m wondering how both the Italians and the Columbians managed to learn Yelena’s name and that she was responsible for the Pick Six wins.”
Levin leaned back and wiped his sweating upper lip with his sleeve.
I stroked the cool metal barrel of my gun. “You see, I have the only copy of the surveillance tapes. The feds have been bribed not to talk. And she used several fake IDs to collect the money.”
With a shaking hand, Levin reached for his cigarettes but then stopped.
“So what I’m thinking… is some disloyal piece of trash approached them with an offer to do business in exchange for Yelena’s name, so they could get their hands on her betting method.”
Levin rubbed his sweating hands along the top of his thighs on his grease-stained pants. “Mr. Ivanov, I can explain.”
I picked up my revolver and flicked open the empty chamber. “You ever play Russian roulette, Levin?”
Chapter 10
Damien
Levin stood up.
Both of my men sprang into action. Each placing a hand on his shoulder and forcing him to sit down.
“Mr. Ivanov this is all just a big misunderstanding.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Levin.”
“I’ll get you your money back. Hand to Jesus. If I have to beat the girl bloody. She’ll tell me where she put it, and then it’s yours, all yours.”
Thank God Yelena was safely tucked into bed at the hotel. I didn’t want to think about what would have happened had I not learned about this mess in time, and she had been allowed to return home after my sister’s party.
After I took care of Levin, maybe I would head back to the hotel. Just to check on her. Now that I had decided to marry her, there was no impediment to finishing what we had started. The idea of holding her warm body in my arms had my cock once more stirring back to life, but now was not the time.
The corner of my mouth raised in a mockery of a smile. “You think this is about a paltry hundred grand?”
Levin’s eyes shifted around the warehouse as if looking for an escape before landing back on me. “Look I have no idea how the Italians and Columbians found out, but hand to Jesus, it wasn’t from me!”
I turned and met Mikhail’s eyes. He nodded and slipped out of the room. A minute later, he returned with two more of my men dragging the man I had beaten earlier back into the room. He was suspended between the two men by his arms. His legs limp and dragging. He was bruised and bloody, but he would live. Not with all his teeth, and with a severely broken nose, but he would live.
Mikhail grabbed the beaten man by his hair and lifted his head.
I nodded in the broken man’s direction. “Fredo and I had a little chat before you arrived. He says you approached him. Offered Yelena’s services to the Italians if they banked the bets and gave you a percentage of the cut.”
“He’s lying! I’d never do that!”
Fredo Rossi was on par with Levin Nikitina. A low-level thug paid by the Bianchi family to muck around in the horse shit at the race stables and fix races. The Bianchi family would be justifiably annoyed I had beaten up one of their men instead of going through the usual diplomatic hierarchy, but a sizable tribute payment would smooth over any ruffled feathers. After all, Fredo meant about as much to the Bianchis as Levin meant to the Ivanovs. He was an easily replaceable piece of trash who wasn’t blood, wasn’t true family.
Levin gestured wildly in Fredo’s direction. “You’re not going to believe that dirty wop over me, are you?”
I motioned for them to take Fredo away. Mikhail nodded. I knew without having to say so that he would return Fredo to the Bianchis and arrange for a payoff as a sign of respect from the Ivanovs.
I slipped a bullet in the chamber and spun it. “This one is for lying to me.”
I placed the gun with the barrel facing me and slid it across the table toward Levin.
“Pick it up,” I ordered.
He looked at the gun and then me and then back at the gun. “I’m not doing this.”
“You are, or I will see that you die a slow and painful death. I will string you up by your wrists and cut you just enough to make you bleed. Over and over and over again. And when you think your prayers have been answered and death is finally approaching, I will bring you back from the brink just to start over again. You will bleed slowly to death over days from a thousand wounds, all the while begging me for mercy. Your pleas will fall on deaf ears.”
Levin swallowed. His eyes wide, he looked back at the gun. Finally, he snatched it up, but instead of holding it to his temple, he trained it on me.
My men took a step forward, their hands going to the guns strapped to their sides. I waved them off.
My eyes narrowed, meeting Levin’s frenetic gaze with a glare. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger.”
His hand started to shake.
“According to the law of probability, you have a sixteen-point six percent chance of killing me. Of course, if you pull the trigger and don’t kill me, there is a one hundred percent chance I’ll kill you. Slowly,” I warned. “You’re a gambling man, Levin. How do you like those odds?”
Levin licked his lips then swallowed. “Shouldn’t a man have some vodka for this?”
I nodded to one of my men. One of them left and quickly returned with a bottle of Smirnoff and two shot glasses from the warehouse office. He put the bottle and one shot glass in front of Levin and placed the other in front of me. After I motioned with my hand, the man poured a shot of vodka for Levin, but I waved him away from my own glass. Pulling out my flask, I filled it with scotch. Not the way such a fine liquor should be drunk, but I wasn’t exactly a gentleman sitting by a fire in his study reading Shakespeare right now, was I? Far from it.
Levin took the shot, splashing half of it down his front.
He held the gun to his temple.
Opening h
is mouth on a guttural scream — he pulled the trigger.
A hollow click.
Then nothing.
Misfire.
Slamming the gun on the table, Levin picked up the vodka bottle and sloshed some more into his shot glass, spilling it all over the table in the process. He tipped back his head and drained the contents. He then tossed the shot glass on the table and looked at me triumphantly.
I pulled the gun toward me and flicked open the chamber. Without lowering my gaze from his, I reached for a second bullet and slipped it into the chamber. I spun it. “This is for your betrayal in trying to make a side deal with the Bianchis. Defying the family.”
I slid the gun back toward him.
Levin poured himself a third shot. Then he raised the gun to his temple. He took several breaths through his nose, his chest puffing out with each one.
Finally, he pulled the trigger.
Another hollow click.
Another misfire.
Levin shouted out in joy. Turning around in his chair in search of validation from my men. He was met with stony silence. “Yeah! Yeah! You see! I have proven my loyalty! I have fired twice and lived!”
I sipped from my shot glass before pulling the gun back toward me.
His whole body twitched. “Hand to Jesus. I’ve always been loyal to the Ivanovs.” He waved his hands in the air. “Yes! Yes! Yeah! Yeah! You caught me. I may have made a deal with Fredo, but it was nothing! I was going to tell you about Yelena and give you the money. I swear!”
“And what about the Columbians?”
Levin's eyes twitched to the right, searching the other side of the room from where we had taken Fredo. No doubt nervous we were about to drag in his second accomplice. “The Columbians?”
The truth was we hadn’t found that man yet. As of right now, I only suspected he talked with the Columbians because of Levin's own movements. I’d been tracking him since I was tipped off about this whole mess by my contact at the FBI, who told me about the tapes in exchange for a sizable payout.
While the Italians were easily handled, the Columbians would be a different matter entirely. The Ivanovs had a long-standing mutual respect for the Bianchis. We even partnered together on the occasional arms deal. I would trust their word when they said they considered the matter finished.