by Jasmin Quinn
He didn’t call Anto when he arrived in Istanbul. Instead, he called Burak. Told him he was on his way to Cyprus. Told him to get out the scotch, they had much to talk about. Burak was the only other person besides Jackman who knew Michael’s history. And Burak was the kind of man who would hold that knowledge until he died. Burak, such a silly chosen name. But they were blood. Like Michael, Burak knew how to blend. Like Michael, he was deadly.
They embraced when they met. Holding each other a little long. Michael needed the contact that family brought. Burak was just as happy to see Michael. He poured them drinks and settled down at a stone table in a dark cool corner of his home. A servant brought them a mezze platter of olives, grilled hellim cheese, dolmades, grilled pitas, pickled vegetables, lamb kebobs and humus. The food took Michael’s attention for a few minutes. He hadn’t eaten on the plane, just a few shots of scotch, enough to knock him into blessed oblivion. Enough to soften his angry brain so he could untense his body, unclench his teeth.
“You look like shit, Michael,” Burak commented through a mouthful of dolmades.
“I feel like it, brother.” He didn’t like to call him Burak. It wasn’t his given name and Michael wanted to maintain that connection to him. But Burak refused. He hated his birth name, wanted to strip himself of his past, his childhood. Michael understood that. But he could never see himself as anyone but Michael. His name was the only thing of value his parents ever gave him. His gaze travelled over his brother. He seemed tired too. They were well past their childhood, but they carried it with them still, probably always would. It was their secret to hold. To keep.
Burak left their childhood home first, when he was 18. He could walk away legally without worry that his parents would bring him back. Michael was just 14 and Burak was hesitant, thought perhaps Michael should come with him. But Michael refused. Together, they would be too easy to track, to find, to bring back. Separately, they would have a chance. Burak saw the logic in Michael’s argument, then made Michael promise to finish his schooling before he left. It would help him in this world. Michael promised Burak he would.
Two weeks after Burak left, Michael broke his promise. As young as he was, Michael knew how to survive, but he wasn’t quite sure how to escape. At the time, his father was known to his political partners as a Canadian liaison to Russia. But it was a power he horrifically abused. Not just brutal to his family, his sons, but also to the boys and girls that moved through his human trafficking operations. Burak and Michael saw too much, heard too much, felt too much. His father wanted to raise them as hard, brutal men, like himself, no conscience, no care. And he’d succeeded.
At 14, Michael was already his father. Smooth and elegant on the outside, brutal and dead on the inside. After he left his home, he stayed on the streets for days, the plan he’d had was half-baked and unrealizable. His father had loyal men and a long reach. Michael had to lurk in the shadows until he could find a means out of Moscow. The opportunity came in the middle of a night as he was skulking in a putrid alley, trying to find food, discarded but still edible. He was not yet a thief, that would come later.
He heard the cursing, the yelling, the fight. He ran towards it. Two boys, one a little older and one about his age. They were pummeling each other, the younger one brutal and fast, his punches making dents in the other boy’s body where none should be. And then the older boy heavily fell, striking his head on the hard surface of the concrete. Blood in his eyes, his right arm bent at an awkward angle. His opponent pulled a knife, clutching it in one hand, standing over him, breathing hard. Pure hatred twisted his face. The fallen boy stared up at him, defiantly, no fear, no resignation – just pure loathing. And Michael was stunned that someone could be that brave in the face of death.
Then as the boy with the knife raised it, Michael stepped from the shadows and shouted, “No.”
That stilled the boy’s hand long enough for Michael to reach him and grab his arm. He twisted the knife from the boy’s grasp. He had an advantage in that he was neither winded nor bruised and it helped him to fend off the rain of punches that fell on him. The kid had an anger that exploded through him to Michael. Michael knew the kid would have easily overcome him if they’d faced off on equal terms. But the kid was already brutalized by the vicious fight he had with the boy on the ground. Michael struck him hard in the jaw and he staggered back and fell on his ass. Michael stopped then and the boy scrambled up. As he retreated, he called Michael weak and soon dead.
Michael crouched down to the boy on the ground, offering him his hand, hauling him to his feet by his uninjured hand. The boy winced, then offered a pain-filled smile. “You saved my life – now we are brothers.” That’s how he became enemies with Rusya Yur’yevich Savisin. That’s how he met Dmitrii L’vovich Mikhalev. That’s how he met Jackman.
Michael took another sip of the brew Burak served him. “How are things for you?”
Burak shrugged. “Good and bad. The new government is working in our favour, but they are not circumspect enough. They want everything too fast. They are subjugating the women and placing too many restrictions on media freedom. They need the women’s support until they are solidly ensconced. Until no one can force them out. Then they can move forward.”
“If they get greedy –”
“Yes, exactly. I don’t want to have to step in. I have too much else to attend to. But I will. I’ll blow them all up if I have to.” He took a large swallow of his drink, then swiped his sleeve across his lips. “But you didn’t come here to discuss my business. What trouble are you in, little brother? Do you need me to have someone killed?” Burak’s dark eyes glittered.
Michael smiled. Burak always prodded at Michael to give up the solitary life. Partner with him. But that had never been who Michael was. He loved his brother, but he also loved Jackman like a brother. As much as he saved Jackman’s life, Jackman had saved his. Jackman’s family was grateful to Michael and rewarded him with a rank and protection. And they’d sent his father back to Canada in a casket.
Michael wondered what his brother would think when he told him. “I want Las Vegas. I want to rule it.”
Burak raised his eyebrows slightly, then scratched at his beard. “Why?”
“It’s personal, Burak. I want to bring Jack Creed to his knees and take his empire.”
“I see the anger and hate, Michael. I’m not opposed to it. But you need to cool down first.”
Michael nodded. “I know. Jack is not first on my list. I have another job to do first. Once it’s complete, my head will be back where it needs to be.”
Burak shifted in his chair. “I’m pleased that you came to me, Michael. But I’m curious about why you aren’t having this conversation with Dmitrii L’vovich.” Burak had always refused to call him Jackman. He told Michael it was silly to hide behind such an alias. Michael tried to point Burak to the irony, but his brother stubbornly refused to see it.
“I can’t go to Dimi, Burak. He won’t want me to do this. He won’t give me the support I need.”
Burak grunted, “Why are you so loyal to him, Michael? If he repays his loyalty like that.”
Michael scratched a flaw in the table. “Jack Creed is an associate of Rusya Savisin’s. When a war starts in Vegas, Savisin will throw his support behind Creed. Jackman’s not ready to move on Savisin and he won’t want me to rain brimstone down on Creed.”
Burak grunted and stretched his back so he could stare at the ceiling. “How long until Dmitrii L’vovich is ready?”
“He’s too fucking careful. He’s waiting for everything to align.” Michael’s voice echoed his frustration. “They will never align, Burak. Stars don’t align, they just fucking shoot you.”
“You are less loyal to him now?”
Michael shrugged, struggling with indecision. “Dimi is like a brother to me. We share a history. But he’s always the boss and sometimes that makes it difficult to work with him. Once I tell him what I’m planning, that will end it for us. Unless he agrees.�
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Burak shook his head. “You know I don’t wish to work with Dmitrii L’vovich.”
“I know.”
“Brother, you have my resources to do this. But not yet. Not until you’ve finished your other personal job. And not until you’ve talked to L’vovich. Once it’s established that L’vovich has refused to back you, then we will go in together. We will make sure that Vegas has a new boss.” He waved over his young serving girl to refill their drinks. “More food too, Eda,” he said in Turkish.
After she had retreated with the plate in hand, Burak leaned towards Michael, his forearm on the table. “Now tell me about the woman, Michael. The one that’s compelling you to slaughter Jack Creed.”
Chapter Thirty
Michael stayed with his brother for five weeks. Cyprus was good salve for his soul. A Mediterranean mecca rich in sandy beaches, friendly locals, and savory food. Some days he and Burak sailed, other days, they scuba-dived. And there were days that Michael drank himself into a coma and slept it off. His brother offered him a beautiful woman or as many as he needed to help him forget, but Michael turned him down. All the women were stunning, but none were Isabelle. He couldn’t find the interest to touch another woman. Maybe in time, he thought but it wouldn’t be necessary. He’d soon have Isabelle back. He grinned at the thought. Once she’d been the queen of Vegas. Soon she would be again, with a different king by her side. It would be her life, whether she wanted it or not.
When he left Cyprus, he flew to Russia, to Jackman’s compound. But Jackman was not his first priority. Instead, he sought out the Disappearist, finding her in her office. It looked different, she’d done a bit of decorating. Little bits of fluff scattered about. Not much style, but brighter. “Michael!” she said, looking up from behind a computer screen, a smile in her voice. Her Russian accent gave her words a beautiful lilt that always tugged at his heart. “I was not expecting to see you for a while.” She didn’t get up and greet him with a hug. He didn’t expect her too. It was only a few months ago that he’d threatened to kill her boyfriend. It was fair that she was still wary of him.
He sat down in a chair in front of her desk and studied her. “You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.” That last time, he and the cop, Finn McQueen, rescued her from a deranged doctor who was intent on using his scalpel to slice Nika to shreds. Rusya Savisin wanted the information the prodigy in front of him held in her head. They didn’t get there quite in time. Nika would carry some scars for the rest of her life. But now she seemed to be flourishing. She was still sleight, but a few extra pounds added some pretty curves. The clothes she wore were bright and feminine. Messy long hair, solemn brown eyes, an open pretty face. She was a treasure. The cop was lucky.
“I am better, Michael.” Nika came out from behind the desk and sat on a chair next to Michael, swiveling it so she could face him before folding herself into a cross-legged position. “I am changed, but everything is better now.”
“And Finn?”
Nika’s lips dipped down slightly. “He is not here. He is in training. Out in the field, on a survivalist course.”
“He’s too soft for that, Nika,” Michael scoffed.
“He’s not, Michael.” Nika’s eyes were wide, her face solemn. “He’s never been soft, but now, with all the training he’s had, he’s bigger and harder. Everywhere, Michael. Everywhere.”
Michael grinned. “Maybe he just seems bigger and harder everywhere.”
“No. I measured, Michael. I made sure.”
Michael roared with laughter. “Nika, do you understand the concept of oversharing? Finn wouldn’t like other people to know that you’re measuring his dick.”
Nika frowned. “Are you sure, Michael?”
“I’m sure Nika.”
She had the good grace to flush. “Perhaps I should stop telling people then.”
Michael covered his eyes with his hands and groaned. He should be grateful. For the five minutes he’d been in Nika’s presence, he had not thought of Isabelle once. It was a blessed relief.
“What do you want, Michael?”
Ah, the million-dollar question. Nika was naïve and unsocialized, but she was far from stupid and studying patterns was a hobby of hers. Michael rarely came to her. Talked with her. Engaged her. Only ever about business. “Isn’t it enough that I was concerned for your well-being?”
She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what you do, Michael. You do not shoot the wind with anyone.”
“Not wind, Nika. Breeze or shit.”
“Enough playing with me, Michael.”
“Yeah. Okay. I want you to find someone for me. I know you’re better at disappearing people –”
“I am equally good at both.” Nika appeared affronted.
Michael nodded. “Of course, you are.” He licked his lips. “You can’t tell Jackman or Finn that you are doing this for me.
Nika frowned deeply, her forehead creasing. “I cannot keep secrets from Mr. Jackman or Finn. Finn hates secrets. And Mr. Jackman,” she paused, clamping her lips together and shaking her head solemnly. “I am lucky I’m still alive after what I did.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and studied the little Disappearist. It wasn’t fair of him to ask this of her. After all, what was he to her? Until last month, an arrogant asshole who patted her on the head in passing and treated her like a child. Until last month. Last month he almost killed her boyfriend, the man who had just minutes before saved his life. And he would have if not for Nika, threatening to kill herself. Then he relented. Not sure if it was for Nika or for the asshole cop that gave up everything to protect this little wonder woman. Finn would have traded his life for her. They were both better than he was. They deserved their happiness.
He leaned towards her, drawing her hand in his, caressing her fingers. He felt her stiffen in his grasp, put she didn’t pull away. “Can I ask you this, then? Can you help me locate this person? I will tell Jackman what you are doing for me. As for Finn, you do keep secrets from him. That’s your job. Keep this one too.”
Nika chewed at the bottom of her lip as she contemplated Michael’s revised request. Then she nodded. “You are right, Michael. I do not tell Finn about my work and he does not expect me to. If Mr. Jackman knows I am doing this, then I consider it work. And I cannot discuss it with Finn.”
Michael patted her hand with his other hand, then gave it a small squeeze before releasing it. “Thank you, Nika. I’ll go talk to Jackman, and then I’ll come back and give you the details.” He stood up and headed for the door.
Nika’s voice stayed him. “And thank you, Michael. For not killing Finn.”
He gazed at her, then nodded and left her office. What a fucking thing to be thanked for.
Jackman was on the phone sitting behind his massive carved desk when Michael entered the oversized private office. It was always guarded by two men in fatigues. But not from Michael or Dean Copeland. They were the two agents who could come and go without an appointment. Maybe Finn now too, because Finn would have told Jackman to go fuck himself the minute Jackman tried to force that rule on him. He hadn’t known the cop long, but long enough to know the stuff he was made of. A good man to have as a friend. His mind lingered on this for a while as he helped himself to Jackman’s best scotch. The kind that costs $500 a shot at the Rosewood. He never ordered it there – that would open him up to scrutiny. But here, he drank it without reserve.
The conversation droned on. Something about a shipment that needed moving. Michael didn’t know what and didn’t much care. He stared moodily at a painting. A Russian artist, moderately successful. Michael hated that painting. It seemed vulgar. But this was not his office and he’d never had any desire to make it his. No interest in challenging Jackman for his organization. And Jackman knew that, which was why he trusted Michael as he did.
Michael turned as Jackman hung up the phone and stood up.
“What the fuck happened to you?” No niceties
, not a hug. Nothing to betray emotion. But Michael saw the worry on his face, the dark shadows under his eyes, a slight crease in his forehead. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. And now you show up here unannounced.” He waved his hand towards him. “And look at you! Your suit is wrinkled, your shoes are dull, and you haven’t shaved.”
Michael looked down at himself. Jackman was right, as far as he could tell he looked like shit. He grinned like the Cheshire cat and tossed back the last swallow of scotch in his glass. “You’re right, Dimi,” he said as he pulled the scotch bottle to him and carried it over to the coffee table, sitting on the couch before pouring himself another generous shot. “And I’m drinking too much.”
Jackman picked up a tumbler and brought it with him to a chair, sitting in it, then sliding the tumbler across the table towards Michael, who deftly caught it, poured some scotch and slid it back.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Jackman said before taking a swallow of his drink.
“Has Anto been in touch?”
Jackman shook his head, a scowl on his lips. “Of course not. Anto wouldn’t contact me directly. Only through you. If you went off the grid, he might reach out to Dean. But you know – no one else.”
Michael stared at the amber liquid in his glass. “How do we know he’s safe?”
Jackman snorted. “Anto’s safe. It’s everyone else that needs protection from him.”
Michael grinned. It was true. “I’ll reach out to him while I’m here.”
“How long are you here?”
Michael took a drink of his scotch and considered the man across from him. Tall like he was, with dark hair and eyes, well-dressed and polished. Tattoos covered him. The mark of the Russian Bratva. Michael had none in spite of his affiliation, despite the derisive taunting of the other men. He didn’t want the marks that would make it impossible for him to blend. He didn’t want to be identified as Russian Bratva. Up until now, he had always sought to stay independent. But with Vegas on his mind, that would soon change.