4. Alexei #3
“Do you, now.” I roll my Scotch glass in one hand, fingering the four-inch self-defense tool in my pocket with the other. Designed to resemble a carpenter’s pencil, it is crafted from a high-strength epoxy resin that doesn’t trigger metal detectors.
Thrust through an eye, it can kill a man instantly.
He looks pointedly at my hand. “Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”
I’ll give it to Mr. Owens—he’s got a certain level of balls.
Or just a death wish.
“You are our first choice to run Miami, Mr. Petrovsky. We can whitewash your business, just as effectively as we can Marty Hunter Jr. But make no mistake.” For the first time, his smile disappears.
“If you decline our offer, you will be replaced. I hear the Novikov bratva have had a change of leadership. Kiril Novikov’s older brother was found in the Mississippi River this afternoon—or rather, his headless body was.
I understand that Kiril not only has ambitions to expand beyond Atlanta, but also good reason to want you, specifically, gone.
He is brutal, ambitious—and so far, extremely cooperative.
” He leans forward. “I suggest you call the number on that card, Mr. Petrovsky. Sooner rather than later.”
There are cameras in every corner. I’d need to get this fucker to a public bathroom outside the lounge to kill him discreetly, and even then, it’s the kind of risk I don’t like taking.
I’m still fucking tempted. It’s been a long time since anyone has dared to make so blatant a threat.
Either way, this asshole is about to join Ron Watkins.
“I suggest you buy yourself a drink at the first bar you see, Mr. Owens.” I meet his eyes and smile coldly. “Make it top-shelf, since it’s the last one you’ll ever have.”
“Good evening, Mr. Petrovsky.” It’s almost offensive how unbothered this fucker is. “And enjoy Paris. I’m told it’s beautiful this time of year.”
I hit Dima’s number as the unobtrusive gray suit walks casually toward the lounge exit. “There’s someone I need found,” I snap. I give Dima a rundown and send him a photo of the card on the table.
“You want him in the swamp?”
“Not yet.” I’m still wired for the kill, but as satisfying as I might find it to wipe any trace of a smile off that smug fucker’s face, Owens isn’t the problem.
Like an avatar in an online game, another would only spring up in his place.
“I want to know who he’s working for. Follow him, find out what you can.
And keep this close, until we know what we’re dealing with. ”
“Renata?”
“Keep her out of it for now.”
“Copy that. Anything else?”
“Our friend mentioned a change in leadership in Atlanta. Looks like Kiril Novikov got tired of taking orders from his brother.”
“Fuck.” I hear Dima light a cigarette in the background. “We should have taken care of that sadistic little fucker when we had the chance.”
“Kiril was still young when I made peace with his brother. Under the circumstances, I thought an exception was called for.”
The circumstances in question being that the Novikovs had made the mistake of taking Vilnus Orlov’s side during the coup.
By the time they realized their mistake, Kiril’s father was hanging upside down with his throat cut, bleeding out on the floor as his sons watched.
I gave the brothers a choice—peace or death.
“The elder brother gave me his word he’d stay in Atlanta,” I remind Dima. “He promised to keep the peace—and keep Kiril under control.”
I carved the Petrovsky eagle onto both their backs, just in case they were tempted to forget that promise.
But the truth is, I already knew Kiril was a long shot.
He might have been only a teenager back then, but I’d played the part of rabid dog long enough to recognize the real thing when I saw it in his eyes.
“There isn’t a leash in existence that could control that deranged svoloch,” Dima says resignedly.
“Well, it seems the deranged scum in question has a hard-on for Miami.”
He gives a dark laugh. “He can fucking try.”
“Make sure it stays that way.”
“Copy that.”
I end the call and give the card another hard look, but it’s as ubiquitous as the gray suit. Just the name John Owens, a phone number I’d lay money is a burner, and the global logo with lines through it.
I pocket the card, order another Scotch, and put the soon-to-be-deceased Mr. Owens firmly out of mind.
Two hours later, I board a Paris-bound flight paid for in cash, under a fake passport that I’ll ditch as soon as I land, since the John Owens encounter suggests it’s already blown.
I accept a complimentary drink as the plane makes a wide circle over the Everglades, staring down at the rippling saw grass in which I’ve spent so many dark nights doing dark deeds.
I’m going to Paris.
To see Ofelia Borovsky.
And for all I know, I could be away for a very long time.
I have a sudden, almost euphoric urge to laugh.
Fuck you, swamp. And fuck John Owens, too.
Let someone else feed the gators for once.
As Miami fades slowly from view, I settle back in my seat and raise my Scotch in silent salute, unsure if I’m toasting a farewell or a new beginning.