Chapter 9 - Maksim #2
I peer through the tinted windows at the figure slumped against the leather. Middle-aged, wearing clothes that have seen better days, and tattoos marking his affiliation on his neck like a damn idiot. That kind of nonsense will get you killed in a heartbeat out here.
“Who is he?”
“Jordan Portelli. He’s been running errands for the Kozlovs, but my sources say he was working both sides. Selling information to whoever paid the most.”
“And you think he knows something about our little gift?”
“I think he knows who wanted those bodies found and why. But he’s not going to volunteer the information.”
I look toward the house, where Alyssa is probably settling in with her book, completely unaware that we’re about to torture a man fifty yards from her bedroom.
“East wing,” I remind him. “And keep it quiet.”
“That’s not up to me.”
We drag Portelli’s unconscious body through the service entrance and down a hallway that leads to a section of the house I use for storage. There’s a room back there that’s soundproofed and windowless, originally designed as a wine cellar but repurposed for occasions like this.
Portelli starts to come around as we secure him to a chair in the center of the room. He blinks in confusion for a moment before the reality of his situation sets in.
“Fuck,” he mutters before testing his restraints.
“Good evening, Jordan,” I say, pulling up a chair to sit in front of him. “I hope you’re comfortable, because we’re going to be here for a while.”
“I don’t know who you think I am, but—”
“We know exactly who you are,” Akim interrupts as he produces a file folder from his jacket. “Jordan Portelli, age forty-three, two arrests for assault, one for armed robbery. Currently employed by the Kozlov organization as what they generously call a ‘logistics coordinator.’”
Portelli’s face goes pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Let me refresh your memory.” I lean forward in my chair. “Three nights ago, someone left three corpses in one of my shipping containers. Two Kozlov soldiers and one Ukrainian. Someone wanted to start a war and pin it on my family.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I think you do. I think you know exactly who planted those bodies and why they thought it was a good idea to drag the Barkov name into their little feud.”
“You’re crazy.”
Akim moves to stand behind Portelli’s chair, and suddenly, the room becomes much more frigid. “My brother asked you a polite question, Jordan. It would be wise to answer it.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything about any bodies.”
“Wrong answer.”
What happens next is brutal but effective. Akim has years of experience extracting information from unwilling subjects, and he applies that knowledge with the detached professionalism of someone who’s done this hundreds of times before.
I watch it all without flinching. This is part of the business, part of protecting my family and our interests. Portelli made his choice when he decided to involve us in whatever game his employers are playing.
After twenty minutes of Akim’s persuasion techniques, Portelli finally breaks.
“It was Moreau!” he gasps, blood running from his nose. “Vincent Moreau hired me to plant the bodies. He wanted to start a war between the Kozlovs and the Ukrainians, let them destroy each other while his people moved in to take over their territory.”
“And framing us?”
“Insurance. If the plan went sideways, you’d take the blame instead of him. Something about you deserving it because you took something that belongs to one of his men.”
Well, shit. Vincent “Viper” Moreau, the pretentious leader of the Serpents who thinks he’s tougher than he actually is, is tying this to me as payback for protecting Alyssa. He’s even dumber than I thought.
“What else?” I demand.
“That’s all I know, I swear. Moreau paid me fifty grand to plant the bodies and disappear. I was supposed to be in Mexico by now.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Plane got delayed. Weather. Then your men found me at the airport.”
The mundane explanation is almost funny under the circumstances. Portelli’s entire plan was derailed by a thunderstorm.
“Who else knows about this?” Akim asks.
“Nobody. Moreau wanted to keep it quiet, minimize the number of people who could connect it back to him.”
I study Portelli’s battered face, noting the way his eyes flit between Akim and me. This is bigger than we thought. Moreau is actively trying to eliminate the competition by turning them against each other and using my family in the process.
“What about—”
The sound of footsteps in the hallway cuts me off mid-sentence. Heavy, rushed footsteps that are moving in our direction.
“Maksim?” Alyssa’s voice calls out, getting closer. “Are you back there? I heard—”
“Down here!” the idiot shouts at the sound.
The door opens before I can react, and she steps into the room just as Akim drives his fist into Portelli’s ribs. The sound of impact ricochets off the walls like a gunshot.
Time stops.
Alyssa stands frozen in the doorway, taking in the scene with horror dawning across her face. Portelli slumped in the chair, blood on his face, Akim standing over him with raised fists. Me, sitting calmly in front of it all like this, is just another Tuesday afternoon.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Alyssa, don’t—”
But she’s already backing away from the door, her face white with shock and something that looks disturbingly like fear. Of me. Of what she’s just discovered about the man who’s been protecting her.
“I’ll handle her,” I tell Akim as I stand up.
“Maksim—”
“Just finish with him. Find out everything he knows.”
I push past my brother and sprint toward the door, but Alyssa has already disappeared down the hallway. I can hear her footsteps rushing through the house as she runs from what she’s just seen.
From what I really am.