Chapter 2
Viktor
“Killers don’t announce themselves,” I say as I carefully wipe my gun for prints and place it down a drainage pipe. “One minute it’s just you. And then nothing.”
I look over toward the dead body slumped against the warehouse wall.
A shot to the chest, and one to the head.
Game over.
It’s not that I take any joy in killing. I don’t. It’s just part of my life. A part of the business. I know that one day it could be me slumped, my eyes open but blood pouring down my face. Business is business.
I take a final look around the warehouse, more out of habit than anything else, and walk out onto the gravelly road at the rear.
My black BMW is pretty low key. It’s not the newest model, and it’s certainly not the fanciest either.
But it gets me around the city and does so in a way that lets me fly under the radar.
Over the years I’ve seen men rise up in this game and the second they get some status or money, it’s all about the flashy cars and expensive champagne bottles at the club.
Fools.
Each and every one of them.
Men like that never last long. They get exposed, targeted, and taken out. It could be a jealous rival, a drugged up psychopath in the club, or even a disapproving pakhan. But however the end comes, it’s always been a case that the dead guy could have prevented it simply by not acting the fool.
I’m forty-three and don’t have enough fingers on both hands to count the men I’ve seen fall because they couldn’t keep their ego in check. Hell, I’ve killed a couple of these men myself. Sometimes on orders from above, and sometimes as a means of survival.
Either way, I’ve pulled the trigger with no remorse.
As I said, business is business.
And now I’m standing at the top of the tree. Well, as close to the top as a man like me can get. I’m a pakhan—a boss, top dog, head of the family. However you want to put it, it all means pretty much the same thing,
I know there are international bosses above me, and senior pakhans who never move close enough to the day to day business to even know their names. But when it comes to a citywide, street level, I’m as senior as it gets.
And, yeah, I still do my own dirty work when the occasion demands it.
In this case, the dead asshole who ate my bullets was a treacherous piece of shit who not only thought he could enter into collusion with the feds, but skim profits from me too.
Either one of those crimes carries a sentence of death.
Both of them together? Forget about it.
Some pakhans don’t like to do their own killings. And I get that. Why risk associating yourself to a capital crime? After all, it’s not like you haven’t got men to do all that for you.
But for me, it’s about honor and showing the organization that you walk the walk as much as you talk the talk. No one messes with my organization, and I’m more than ready to personally make that clear.
And so far, my approach is working too.
In the four years I’ve been pakhan, we’ve had relatively few incidents like this. I’m not saying I’m the perfect leader. Far from it. But I’d say with some confidence that I’ve brought a stability to the family that hadn’t been there for the previous twenty-five years.
I’ve got good men around me. Loyal men. Smart men too. For me, it’s all about building a trusted inner circle that has the right balance of killers, scholars, and businessmen. And as for me? I’m probably a combination of all three.
Although on the streets, they call me The Devil.
Or that’s what I’m told. I guess my years of carrying out hit after hit as I worked my way up left an impact on people’s minds.
Still, there are probably worse nicknames I could have.
And if my reputation makes people think twice about trying to cross me, then I’m not about to start getting all prissy about it.
But devil or not, I can’t hang around here while a dead body lays prone in the corner. It’s time to move.
“All done?” my driver asks, his eyes flashing up to the rearview mirror as I climb into the SUV.
“Just drive,” I reply, shaking my head. “Of course it’s all done.”
“A figure of speech. Call it politeness. Call it…” my driver says, his chirpiness knowing no bounds. But I like him. The fact this his attitude occasionally borders on insolent actually makes a refreshing change from some of the sycophants I’ve become accustomed to. “Anyway. Where are we headed?”
“Café Collage,” I answer. “Across town. Near the arts quarter. You know it?”
“I know the area,” the driver replies. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I answer, taking my phone out of my pocket. “No more questions. I need you to focus on the road. The last thing I need is being pulled over by the police.”
“You’re the boss!”
I shake my head and begin to type…
Viktor: Work done for the day. Research still to complete. Proposal close to being confirmed—expecting a confirmation on site later today.
I put my phone away. The replies can wait. All I need now is to sit back, watch the city draw in closer as we cross the bridge and head toward Café Collage.
Yes, I’ve got things to do.
But before any of that, I need the kind of coffee that’s going to wash away the last thoughts of that low down sonofabitch lying in a pool of his own blood back at the warehouse.
Business will always be business…
I wait in turn at the café. It’s busy. The morning rush looks like it’s coming to a conclusion, but there’s still a sizeable queue. This is my first time here, but I’ve heard good things. It’s not like I’m a coffee snob or anything, but I do have a taste for the good stuff, that’s for sure.
And unlike some of my colleagues, there will be no queue jumping for me.
I might be standing amongst students, office workers, and yoga moms, but there’s no way in hell I’m using my status to push myself to the front.
When I’m out in public, it’s all about moving through the crowd unseen, going about my business like I’m a lawyer waiting for his casefiles to upload, or whatever it is they do to justify their damned extortionate prices… I digress.
“Double espresso,” I say, making brief eye contact with the barista as he whirs back and forth between the counter and the coffee machine. “Make it the Bolivian.”
“You got it,” the barista replies, smiling briefly before getting back to work.
He’s certainly got hustle, that’s for sure.
I glance across the counter toward what looks like a specialist juice bar at the other end.
I could always pick a juice up later. Hell, it’s not like I’ve eaten healthily this last week.
Between an overnight flight, a late night drinking session with my oldest friend, and a lot of high pressure business, I’ve barely eaten.
The extra vitamins and minerals from a healthy juice would probably make all the difference.
Or I could just have an extra espresso and worry about my health later…
But just as I’m about to turn my attention full back to my impending double shot of Bolivian caffeine, I catch a glimpse of the hottest boy…
Sandy blonde hair.
Alabaster skin, plump lips.
Cheekbones and a smile to die for…
Fuck. He’s gorgeous. And by the looks of things he knows how to make an appetizing juice too. But there’s something different about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
The barista making my coffee is a coffee lover, a seasoned pro—the way he moves and the look in his face when I asked for the Bolivian bean told me that coffee is his passion.
But juice boy looks distracted, like he’s a million miles away as he preps his customer’s strawberry and passion fruit drink.
“One double espresso. Bolivian,” the barista says, bringing me back into the real world. “Oh, and take this.”
I absent mindedly take the flier from the barista, say thank you for the espresso, and head over toward a window seat in the corner alongside the lush greenery and rich, plaster colored walls.
As I sit, the aroma from the espresso takes me a million miles away from the coffee shop, memories of the warehouse, and pretty much all the other day to day tribulations of being Viktor Volkov.
I cast a quick eye over the flyer, something about an art show, a gallery opening of one kind or another. I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to art. Sure, I know what I like. But to be honest, it’s never been an area of my life that I’ve been able to devote much time to.
No, I’ve got bigger things on my mind.
As stable as the business has been since I became pakhan, there have been murmurs about other families building their business assets quicker than us.
Now, I don’t give a damn about status. Or money for that matter.
But the cold, hard reality is that unless we’re seen to be keeping up with the other families, it could give an impression that we’re weaker, unambitious, and vulnerable.
And if that’s the perception, then I’d be a fool not to expect hostilities—from both inside and outside the family. I might have a fearsome reputation, but that will never make me immune from threats.
So with that in mind, my business advisor has found some properties downtown that are ripe for purchase and redevelopment.
And not only will that enhance our commercial value—and legitimately too—it will also show the other families that we’re looking to grow rather than stagnate.
Anyone getting any ideas about either me or the family in general would then be wise to think twice before trying anything stupid.
I’m broken out of my thoughts though as my phone vibrates and flashes on the table. I can see it’s from Niko, one of my generals. After a quick sip to finish off my espresso, I pick my phone up to find out…
Niko: Message received. Operations clear on my side, problem resolved. Limited breakages required. Whisky tonight?
I reply with a single thumbs-up. Niko knows that I can’t resist the offer of a whisky. Niko and I grew up together. School, the streets, a life in this business, we’ve been by one another’s side the whole way.
I might be the pakhan, but when it comes to our social life, it’s very much a case that we’re operating on even terms. Niko is tough, brutal, and utterly ruthless. But in times of grief or tragedy, he’s always been there for me when I’ve needed him. And I’ve done the same for him too.
We might not share the same biology, but we’re as close to brothers as you can get. I’m the older brother, of course—even if that does piss Niko off from time to time.
I’ll look forward to meeting Niko later and sinking a whisky or three.
But right now, it’s time to grab an espresso to go and pay a visit to this gallery. Suddenly, I’m in the mood for making the current owner an offer that he’ll find very, very difficult to refuse…
I take a look around the gallery space. It’s big, bare, and seems like it’s being prepped for a new show. Unless this is the show, some kind of modernist commentary on something or other. Whatever. Like I said, art ain’t really my thing.
But business on the other hand…
“Hey, I said we had art for sale, not the freakin’ building,” Milo says, a tell-tale tremble in his voice as I step closer toward him. “The answer is n-n-n-n-no.”
I can see that it’s only a matter of time before Milo sees sense and accepts my very generous offer to take this building, plus the other gallery he owns down the block off his hands.
“Like I said, I’d be more than happy to let you rent the gallery space,” I say. “Nothing would change on that front. And you’d be a few million dollars richer too. I’d develop the upstairs into apartments. We both win.”
“B-b-b-but,” Milo says, a mixture of frustration and fear in his voice. “I don’t need the money. I’ve got my own plans for these buildings.”
I place my hand on Milo’s shoulder and apply a hint of pressure.
“Plans change, my man,” I say. “I’ll arrange for my lawyer to contact yours first thing tomorrow. I assume by then you will be ready to accept my proposal.”
And with that, I turn and walk toward the exit.
As the leather of my sole’s clip on the smooth polished concrete floor, I suddenly become aware of someone else in the gallery. I flash my eyes over toward the far reaches of the ground floor and spot a figure darting behind a pillar.
Who the hell was that.
Fuck it.
Probably some damn intern…
But as unimportant as it is, my curiosity is piqued. Even as I exit the building and shut the door behind me, I can’t help but feel like I need to know who that was, hiding in the shadows, clearly determined that I didn’t see them.
“Let it go,” I grumble to myself, checking both sides to make sure that there’s no one tailing me.
Call it old habits, but every time I leave a building, there’s always a sense that I might be in trouble…
cops, assassins, whoever. Most of the time, I’ve got security with me, but today I came alone.
I don’t ever want to get to a stage where I’m not able to move alone, to walk the streets like I used to.
And if people see me alone, then good. I want them to.
I might be pakhan, but the world needs to know that I’m not too big to walk amongst them. And in my eyes, that makes me more dangerous than even the most notorious crime lords around.
But right now I’ve got something else on my mind.
Whisky… and plenty of it.