21. Fyodor
CHAPTER 21
FYODOR
It’s been an interesting three days, and I wish I could say the excitement started and ended with the taste of Katya’s hot little cunt, which is still thick on my tongue despite the intervening hours. However, my problems seem to grow in my retirement rather than diminish.
Anatoly called this morning to let me know he heard rumblings. He couldn’t be more specific than that, just that the younger guys were all talking about something they were quick to shut up about when he came in. Could be meaningless shit-talking, which they enjoy, or something more important.
What I’m most concerned about is the change in energy from my sons. I’ve never known them to go from demanding three million to fine with one hundred thousand inside of a couple of hours. Irakily and Daniil have gone from a constant stream of complaints to what’s effectively radio silence. Trusting my sons seems preferable to my other options, but that just doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen anytime soon.
My breakfast sits in front of me, and I’m considering eating it with Katya instead when my phone vibrates. I pull it out and find a text from Gianna Bouchard, the wife of the head crime boss in this region, in control of far more territory than my sons, and the line to the port, a line we have solid access to despite a bloody disagreement or ten last year. While his wife is the brains and balls of the operation, I’m still surprised to see her texting me. Any business since our original talks has gone through her husband.
Gianna: Fyodor, my old friend. Would you meet me for lunch at the winery?
Me: You flatter me and offer me the company of a beautiful woman? How could I say no?
Gianna: Whatever time works for you.
Me: Is there a reason for the rush?
Gianna: I would never waste your time, Fyodor.
Me: See you at two.
Gianna: Perfect.
That only gives me an hour to get ready and out there, but this, compiled with my son’s silence, has convinced me to meet her without complaint. I head back to my room to shower and change. As I’m walking, I pass Marta, my housekeeper. She’s been in a pissy mood the past couple of days, and I’m not sure what about Katya’s presence offends her so much.
“The girl has been crying again.” She doesn’t mince words, and that’s something I’ve always appreciated about her, but this time, she’s really pissing me off.
“The girl will stop soon enough.”
She shakes her head. “There’s something wrong with her.”
“Her legs and ankles are broken, and they got infected.”
“No, it’s not her legs or any infection. She’s no good. Just give her back to your sons.”
“You have anything else you want to say, Marta?” The clear threat in my tone silences her, and while she’s silent, she stares for a long, hard minute.
Finally, she shuffles past me, off to do her regular tasks.
I don’t want to consider what Marta says too deeply. Katya is just dealing with a lot. She’ll be fine.
There’s something wrong with her.
I decide to check on Katya before I leave. It’s a little early for her medicine, but I’ve given Marta instructions in case I’m not back. So I don’t really have an excuse for it other than wanting to see her, wondering if she’s really that low or if Marta is trying to teach me a lesson about bringing home sex slaves.
I unlock the door to find her lying flat on the bed. She hasn’t messed with the IV or done anything that outwardly concerns me. The way Marta was acting, I thought she might be covered in shit. Red-rimmed eyes find mine, and she quickly wipes a hand across her cheek to catch the stray tears.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I ask her softly, not sure why I’m talking to her like a broken bird.
Her nose wrinkles. “There isn’t one.”
“Of course there is. This is a guest room, not a jail cell.”
I expect her to snort or say something sassy like the first night I brought her here, but she doesn’t. Her look is somewhere between the serious, untouchable one I saw on the stage and dissociation. The hutch sits in front of the bed, and I slide it open to reveal the TV.
“The remote is next to you.”
“Thanks.” But she doesn’t move. It occurs to me that between the deathly sickness and all the fucking, she hasn’t done much asking or complaining. I would think young girls like her would be demanding a phone, access to the internet, their friends... I know she’s been through a great tragedy in the loss of her boyfriend, but there’s more happening here.
Something is wrong with her.
I go to the bedside table and pull out the remote for her, turn the TV on, and flip the channels until I find something light. This old comedy movie used to play on daytime TV all the time, and it’s a cheesy sort of comfort. That seems like a good option for her if she isn’t willing to choose for herself. I put the remote down next to her hand, and she looks up at me with the prettiest gray eyes. I see her curiosity, but whatever her question is, she doesn’t ask.
“I have to go out for a while, but Marta will be here to give you the next dose and check on you.”
“I’d rather she didn’t.” It’s more than I expect her to say, and it draws a hint of anger out of me.
“Why?”
“It-it doesn’t matter.” Whatever bit of fight she had dies out of her, and she slumps so far into the mattress she’s at risk of the two of them becoming one. She seemed like she was doing better last night, but I know well enough that grief isn’t linear.
“I’ll be back later.” I turn the volume down a click or two in case she wants to sleep. “Marta will be here.”
“Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Kotyonok.” Anything for you . I don’t understand my own motivations, but it’s true.
I pass Marta in the hall, and neither of us says anything, but she gives me a knowing look. I ignore her, not wanting to hear an “I told you so” from yet another person telling me to hand my Kotyonok over to my fucking sons.
A check in the mirror tells me I’m as handsome as I’m going to be for this meeting, and I take my private elevator down to my garage. My one complaint is that it’s not as fast as the one connecting the main entrance and lobby. I admit I’m nervous as I pull out my phone and see that I still haven’t heard from my sons today. When I step out, I call each of them, and I’m not surprised when they don’t answer.
Six cars sit in a line, and they’re all mine. I’m not having a midlife crisis or anything like that. I’ve always had an affinity for cars and the feeling that we’re defying God’s plan for us as we race across the pavement. I’m a Catholic, and I believe in God with all my heart. My soul belongs to him, but I’m a bad man, and I’m fairly certain he won’t let me into heaven since I no longer repent or seek penance. I understand; my sons have disappointed me too.
I race through my level, waving the key at the gate that allows me to pass through the general parking garage for tenants and then onto the street. My knuckles whiten as I grip the leather wheel and dig my toe into the gas pedal. As I drop over the small hill and onto the street, the airborne feeling shoots a giddy little thrill through me.
The winery is about an hour away, still well within Bouchard territory but far enough away from the city for a picturesque little vineyard and pig farm. Nikolai has a reputation for feeding his enemies to those pigs, and I was informed the last time I dined with him that’s what he fed me.
I’m not sure what he thought he would get out of it, but everything eats something else. Mushrooms can grow off corpses and shit, and people still sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce. I don’t give a shit if their pork is delicious from eating dead street thugs, even if some of them worked for me.
The trip moves quicker than it should as I press the gas pedal just to see how fast I can go. City streets give way to rolling hills, and before I know it, I see their sign. A nicely illustrated pig with “Pigs Fly Winery” emblazoned beneath.
The pigs don’t fly, they eat fucking corpses.
The giant house on the top of the hill belongs to them. The pigs are farther down the road, but on the right side there sits a parking lot and restaurant, farm-to-table fare for prices that are anything but fair.
I pull up to the valet stand and hand off my keys before going inside. I expect to tell the host I have a reservation, but he recognizes me immediately.
“Right this way, Mr. Domalachego. Mrs. Bouchard wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.”
The restaurant is all white and wood, light, airy, lovely, if not a bit pretentious and stuck-up. He leads me into a lightly seated dining room. I was already mildly suspicious about coming here after our last few meetings, but I’m not the big boss anymore, and I’ve always known Gianna to be a woman of her word.
Gianna Gemelli—now Bouchard, sits at a table with what appears to be a glass of wine, but I doubt that’s what it is. Her brown curls surround her face, her olive skin glows, and I can’t help but appreciate how much better she looks since I saw her last.
Gianna stands, widening her arms in a gesture of welcome, her face breaking out into a smile. Her round belly greets me before anything else, and I can’t help but warm to the sight of her. A beautiful woman with a big pregnant belly is always a sweet sight.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Fyodor. It’s always good to see you, though I wish I had a better reason for the invitation.” She retakes her seat, and I take the one across from her.
She signals to a server, who pours me a glass of wine a moment later.
“While I’m always happy to see your beautiful face and drink your soft husband’s very expensive wine, let’s not waste any more time avoiding whatever issue you have.”
She laughs a little and gives me a half smile. “My soft husband is actually nearing the end of his patience. As it turns out, once it’s gone, he’s rather violent.”
She picks up a piece of bread and dips it in oil mixed with herbs.
“Why would that be?”
She gives me a hard look and raises one elegant eyebrow.
“You’re telling me you don’t know what’s happening with Irakily and Daniil.”
“I’m telling you I don’t know what’s happening with Irakily and Daniil.” She seems to accept this. There are very few times it’s helpful for a man in my position to play dumb. Intelligent men who play dumb simply look dumb.
“Your sons seem to have issues sticking to the letter of the agreement you made.”
This doesn’t surprise me. Irakily made his intentions clear, yet I hoped he would think better of them anyway.
“Are you having a boy?”
“A little girl, they’re saying.”
I lift the glass of red wine. “To both of your health.”
“Fyodor.” She looks at me with serious brown eyes. “We outlined in great detail where weapons were to be distributed and areas that were off-limits. We left you a city plus some to move your stuff, so why the hell are your guns winding up out here? Why are you auctioning off sex slaves like the damn syndicate?”
I leave my expression perfectly calm, but I’m taken off guard. I didn’t know my little fuckers were selling their guns out here. I can’t imagine why they would anyway. Like Gianna said, we have more than enough space and territory to make our money. The only thing we’d be risking by selling here is that necessary line to the port. How are we supposed to bring in massive arms shipments without the port?
“I’ve heard some rumors about you too, ones that I hope aren’t true.”
My fucking sons.
“What rumors might those be?”
“You’re buying and selling girls now.”
On that one front, I can assure her. “I am doing neither. The girl I ’bought’ simply needed help out of the situation my sons put her in.”
“So you know they’ve been overstepping their bounds.”
“Neither you nor Nikolai specifically forbade skin. The supposed weapons? I would hope they’re not that reckless.”
“Respectfully, your hopes and reality aren’t aligning, Fyodor.”
How poisonously fucking true that is.
“You know about the shift in power in our organization, don’t you? I’m not the boss any longer.”
“I do know that,” she agrees.
“Then why are you and I having this unpleasant conversation when I would much rather be your friend? Shouldn’t it be between your husband and my sons?”
She puts her elbows on the table and steeples her hands in front of me, reminding me of her father, who originally agreed to trade her to me as a wife. Now that I have my little ballerina, I’m glad her husband took care of that problem and stole her from me. She wasn’t mine.
“Can I speak frankly?” she asks.
“It’s what I appreciate most about you, Ms. Gemelli.” She smiles at the reminder of who she used to be. She might be Niko’s wife now, but she was a Mafia princess long before that.
“I don’t want my daughter born into war. My husband needs to be at my side in the delivery room and not splattered in blood. I deserve some peace, at least enough of it to deliver this baby.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you life isn’t fair?”
“I believe I have heard that before.” She laughs as she takes a sip of her wine. “But the difference between me and most people is that luck tends to land on my side. You’ll help me solve this.”
“How will I do that?”
“I’m not sure, but that’s why I’m having this conversation with you and not my husband or your sons. If I told him I knew for a fact your sons are running guns and skin through this territory, he would do something drastic. If my husband does something drastic, your sons will return the energy in kind. None of them are patient.”
“They’re idiots,” I amend.
“Maybe they are, but they’re in charge now, and last I checked, you’re the one who put at least two of them in power.”
“And what’s your excuse for empowering your husband?” The man was a boy before he met her, and he should kiss her ass every day for what he has.
“Weak men can’t fuck for shit. You know that, Fyodor.”
I laugh as I try to swallow, choking on my wine. “True enough.”
“Will you speak to your sons before it turns into something ugly? I’m giving birth in a few months. You have time to fix this for me.” She blinks her eyes at me. I’m inclined to help, if not for her sake, then my sons, who truly cannot afford this fight.
“I’ll speak to my sons and even suggest a conversation without violence for them and your husband, but please understand, Gianna, part of handing things over to them was trusting them to be men enough to handle their business. Their father can’t swoop in and meddle every time they make a mistake.”
She’s more serious than I expect, staring at the table for a moment before she speaks.
“Fyodor, their father won’t need to swoop in if they’re dead.”
The weight of her words lands like a hard punch to the face.
“That’s not a threat, Gianna.”
She doesn’t waver, staring deep into my eyes.
“It’s not, but I’ve seen too many young men die in this life doing far less dangerous things than what they’re doing. They’re asking for trouble, Fyodor, and I’ve never known the devil to ignore a direct call.”
I sigh and rub my face. “I’ve never known the devil to ignore a call either,” I agree. “I will do my best to speak with them, but I can’t promise to control them.”
“That’s the most I can ask of you. Why don’t we eat?”
But I’m no longer hungry after the topic of conversation.
“I would love to,” I lie. “Something quick, though. I have a busy day.”
“There’s a pork special this afternoon.” She flashes me a wolfish smile.
“The circle of life doesn’t bother me, Gianna.” I wink, and she blushes at being caught.
“We don’t do that anymore.” But her soft laughter tells another story.