9. Ciro
9
CIRO
I ’m still worked up as fuck as I leave the club, slipping out the back and into the chill of a classic Russian night.
I can barely believe what just happened. And that I fucking bailed on her when she was ready to go. For fuck’s sake, I’m still ready to go!
It’s got my head reeling, my stomach in knots.
She felt more incredible than I could have imagined.
Normally, I would just enjoy it. I would indulge in it. And the fact that she’s kind of my boss would make it even fucking hotter.
I was dominating her, that she was letting me, that she was liking it, and that she wanted me so bad in return that should have been enough to send me over the edge to take her right then and there.
But I hesitated. I held back.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed it. Too much.
The main thing I kept thinking about was how much I didn’t want it to be a onetime thing. Like a sad sap. Who am I? Adriano?
Or maybe the way things have gone the past year really have broken something inside me. No outside contact. Lost in a frozen hell.
I stalk down through a more or less familiar alley, heading toward a street I know pretty well. It’s been a few weeks of driving, doing errands, training. I’ve always been good with directions.
The first thing I made sure to learn when I got here was where not to walk.
Sighing out a gust of frosty breath, I almost cave and turn around, go back. Then I almost cave and buy a pack of smokes. Alessandro always had one when he was stressed. Sometimes I’d join him, just to let him berate me for smoking.
Bad habit, little brother. Ha. Speak for yourself, Aless.
Condescending asshole.
I miss him.
For the first time since I arrived, I have time on my hands. Time to consider bad news, to speculate on what might be going on out there. With my brothers. With the Diamante family, our assets, the extended members of the syndicate across the globe.
None of that was ever really my concern.
Now, it still isn’t. I’m so far removed. Yet it plagues my dreams. My idle thoughts.
Who will lead? Will our empire fall apart completely?
Somewhere, I know Adriano and Gloria must be in hiding. Maybe he’s biding his time. Maybe he’s trying to find me.
Or they’re doing what Alessandro and Isabella are doing and moving on with their lives. Starting a family. Who knows?
“Pyotr,” I mutter, scowling. “He has to know more.”
Thinking back on our interactions so far, I can see it. He knows more than he’s been willing to tell me. Probably to use, to keep me on a leash. To bait me and keep me in line.
It’s exactly what I would do in the circumstances. Given everything that’s happened recently, I’m a handy little bargaining chip if he can figure out when to play me. Either to offer me up to an enemy, or use me as an attack dog.
Why they even wanted me as part of the Bratva to begin with is still beyond me, but now I am in, for life. And that in and of itself has me at odds with myself.
If my family is really gone, then fuck it.
If they aren’t…I may have signed my own death warrant if I ever see any of them again.
At least I have Matvey. Vanya. Not that I’m ready to let somebody crack my shell, really let them into my heart, let alone my pants. Vanya, not Matvey.
Ugh. I need to pull my head out of my ass.
I’m sick of my own bullshit by the time I reach the pier, flinging stones along the surface of the canal. It’s so fucking cold here. But I don’t want to go back yet.
So I let my feet wander through different parts of town, getting to know the side streets, the signs, the landmarks. St. Petersburg is stunning. But it’s also so different from my history.
The one thing it has in common is that old-world feeling.
Iconic.
Brighter lights around me signal that I’m in a new part of town, somewhere different. At this point I’m just walking to keep from freezing.
Maybe I should just run. Not right now, although it would get my blood pumping.
But in general. Like Adri wanted me to do.
Leave the life behind. But I know I would fall back into old habits. Gambling. Which would inevitably lead to taking shady jobs for cash. Smuggling. Hit man. Then I’m right back in the life again. Assuming the Bratva wouldn’t immediately track me down and kill me if I bolted.
“Stay the course, young Zero,” I whisper, hearing my uncle Giancarlo’s voice. “Or better, show these assholes who you really are. Show them what Diamantes are made of.”
Because that is what has really been warring inside me. This spark to prove myself. To win.
I hate how much I want to show Fyodor, Pyotr. All of them.
Maybe it’s time to stop being the spoiled, lazy shit I’ve always floated by on, and make a name for myself.
Or maybe I’ve been walking all night getting caught up in typical semidrunk all-nighter overthinking nonsense.
With that in mind, I turn toward home, intent on getting a few hours of sleep before going to see Pyotr or Fyodor. I need a task. I need a goal. I need answers.
I’m stomping along with my hands in my coat pockets, my collar shrugged up to my ears, when I hear something ahead. Down a side street.
Sidling up to the corner, I sneak a peek.
Two guys. Roughing up an old lady, holding her at knifepoint in the front of her café.
“I already paid you this week. You Volk said that I would have till next month to make the rest of the money and to come back. I was told by the boss himself!”
“Oh yeah? Which boss was that? Me?”
“Ha, right? We don’t care who it is that you think you know. Give us more money right now to ensure that we don’t bust up this place.”
“P-please. There is no need to?—”
“Hey,” I say before I can stop myself. Stepping out into the open, I grin my best “fuck you” smile.
“Well, if it isn’t the giggling wonder?” One of them sneers, his eyes looking glazed. Drunk.
“Yep. Always good for a laugh.”
“Only because you are a joke!”
“Hey, we’re all brothers here.”
“Bullshit, you’ll never be one of us. Get the fuck out of here.”
“Or better, since you think you are Volk, keep watch while we take care of this old lady. I think she has a pretty daughter upstairs in college, no?”
“Hey, maybe she can pay…”
I watch the older woman’s face go pale. Well. Shit.
Guess this is happening.
“Fuhgeddaboudit. That ain’t gonna happen, boys,” I say doing my best impression of my uncle Giancarlo. “How about we all take this little party outside? We can sit down and have a cuppa coffee and call it night, eh?”
Just as I thought, one of them watches American films. And my thick accent has him chuckling and slapping his friend on the back.
“You talk like American gangster from the movies! This is cute. Too bad you are weak-assed American punk, instead.”
“Come over here and I’ll show you exactly how weak I am. I’ll show you a good time.” My lips peel back in a teeth-gritting rictus.
Bring. It. On.
And the stupid shit rushes me headlong, raising his fists.
“I will show you how to talk to me, bitch!”
I really need to learn my lesson about getting myself into these situations. Just for the sake of not breaking so many asshats’ bones.
His first swing flies wide, careless. I slap his hand aside, kneeing him in the groin, dropping him to his knees. Winding up my right hand, I open my palm full, striking him across the face hard.
“Who’s the bitch now? You gonna act like a bitch, you’ll get slapped like one you piece of shit!” I cackle in my best Jack voice. Another slap drives him to the pavement.
Right in time to welcome his buddy, whipping out a switchblade.
Small time, low-level d-bags.
“What is this? East Side Story ? Put that shit away before I break your wrist.”
“I will gut you, swine!”
“Rum-digga-tum,” I sing, swiveling on my feet and leaving an opening. He lunges into my trap, stabbing the blade straight forward, right between my arm and ribcage. Pinning his arm tight, I beam down at his stunned expression. Right before I ram my forehead into his nose.
It’s a classic move and one he should have seen coming, especially with that crooked nose. Now it’s broken again.
Being used to that pain, however, he struggles, tugging his arm to free himself. All I have to do is twist my arm slightly, and his wrist snaps, driving him down. Then I take him right in the teeth with my knee, knocking most of them out.
He’s spitting blood as he helps his buddy up and they scurry off.
“We’re telling Pyotr about this!”
“Please do. Tell him exactly why I had to kick your asses, policing you sons of bitches for treating our people like shit.” It’s bad enough for the rabble having to pay taxes to the Bratva, they could at least be fair about it.
They’re cursing in Russian as they head off, leaving the alley silent.
Except for the dozen or so eyes watching me from behind curtains, through windows. Definitely going to regret the attention this brings.
Always gotta play hero. Make a scene.
“Are you alright?” I mutter, leaning down to help the old lady back to her feet.
“I am fine. You should not have done this.” She tuts, tapping my arm with one finger. She’s Turkish, if I’m not mistaken. If the sign above her little shop is any indication.
“You let me worry about that. Those guys should know better than to treat the people they’re supposed to protect like that.”
“Protect? I know you are not a stupid boy.”
“Well, I have been known to be pretty thickheaded. Still.” I shrug, escorting her to the doorway.
“Thank you.” She turns, giving me a nod.
“I’ll see you around.”
“Where do you think you are going? Come, I must repay kindness with kindness.”
Knowing better than to argue with my elder, I follow her into the café, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. The store smells incredible. Baking bread. Coffee.
We head back through the quaint storefront to a little table in the kitchen, likely meant for her children or grandchildren and I plop down. The spread is simple. But it’s hot and delicious.
Oats, berries. Toast, eggs.
Still a little fuzzy from my night of partying, I’m stuffing my face like a heathen.
“Do they not feed you in the Bratva?” A wry smile accompanies the jab.
“Not as much as I would like. And I got in the habit of eating as much as I could, when I could in the Gulag…”
“Ah. Yes.” A shadow passes over her expression.
“Someone you know?”
“My son, Demir.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It is the way things are. Life is hard. So you look for small joys, like feeding a young man with good intentions.”
“I see your point.”
“Keep making efforts, young man. And come see me from time to time if you need a hearty meal.”
“I will. And you give me a call if anyone bothers you.” I rise, jotting down my burner cell number on a napkin.
She probably won’t call. Proud, stubborn.
But I feel better trying. The same way I feel right leaving a couple of bills tucked under my plate for her trouble.
Heading back towards the compound, I realize the sun’s just peeking over the horizon.
Great. Maybe I can get an hour or two before someone attacks me or drags me out of bed for sparring. Seems like everyone wants a shot at me.
I’m about to knock on the pedestrian door beside the gate when it suddenly rattles open, a car rumbling right inside. And what a delight, the guy behind the wheel glares at me, pointing one finger as he lurches a few more feet to pull alongside me.
“Hey Fyodor. Looks like somebody shit shards of glass this morning.”
“Get in,” he barks.
“Uh, I was gonna?—”
“Get in, or I will have to whip your ass.”
“Whoop my ass,” I correct, very politely.
“What?”
“The saying.”
“I am saying I will get whip and give you lashes, ah? Get the fuck in the car.”
“Cool.” I duck in, snapping my seatbelt as he guns the engine of his sleek burgundy Porsche.
“So…Flattop’s looking extra flat today.” It dawns on me that maybe the reason he has a flattop is so that he can fit his colossal ass in this tiny sports car.
Fyo’s nostrils flare, but he ignores the jibe. “Got a tip. Another secret shipment. Movement all over docks. I want to check it out.”
“Without backup?”
“There’s you and me. We are each other’s backup. Or are you gandon ?”
“I will never understand that insult. So I’ll just say, no I am not chicken shit.”
“I disagree. You are all the shits. But I know you can fight. Da ?”
“ Da .”
Several quiet minutes later, we’re in the dock district, easing along behind a warehouse.
“What’s the game plan?” I ask, rubbing my hands together.
“You tell me. You’re a newbie. I want to see what you have. You’re apparently expert in all of these ways. Show me I can trust you.”
Not sure how me having to make sleepless tactical decisions equates trust when he made me come here…but.
“Super. I vote we call in an aerial assault. Drones. That way we can go back to bed,” I mumble, getting out of the car.
Fyodor growls something filthy in Russian as he hands me a piece and I give him a coy smile and bob a curtsy of thanks. Tucking the gun in the back of my pants, I lead us around the side of the main building, across the yard toward a maze of shipping containers and pallets.
A quick assessment says this is a terrible plan.
Too many places to hide. Too many vantage points.
Asshole probably brought me out here to kill me and hide my body.
Around the wharf, skirting the dock entrance, I find a gap in the fence and slip through. He gestures that our goal is up ahead where I can hear voices.
“You sure there’s something happening here?” Not a lot of movement. Nothing feels out of place. Or maybe I’m losing my edge.
“Just keep moving.”
Skirting another crate, I spot the group of men, sitting around eating and talking in low voices. Not from around here, but definitely not the caliber of guys we fought the other night. These guys just look like some poor migrant dock workers, taking a break from unloading a shipment.
Two of the guys smile as hand-rolled cigarettes dangle from their mouths.
Definitely poor. Clothing unkempt. But they could be the same nationality as the others…
I wish I had Adriano’s factoid brain. He would know where they’re from based on the weave of the fabric in their outfits or the smell of their farts or some bullshit.
Not my forte. I’ve always been better at putting on a show.
So I do.
Stepping out, I walk boldly forward, tucking an imaginary document into my jacket and smiling tightly. “Gentlemen, I am from the port authority, need to check your papers.”
Glancing around like I own the place, I step right into the middle of the gathering, crossing my arms.
Two of them look at me, their eyes popping slightly as they exchange uncomfortable glances. As expected. They don’t speak Russian.
The others, however, scowl. So those two understand me well enough.
“Well? Just need to see some documentation and you can go about your business. Shipping manifesto, passports. Come on, guys, you know the drill.”
One of them backs away, the other fishing in his pockets for something. Hopefully not a gun.
Either way, I know Fyodor is waiting in the wings, likely ready to fire. I hope. He could be leaving me as bait to get shot on purpose.
The dockhand that tried to slip away suddenly yelps, drawing my attention.
“Oh, look at that,” I muse, flapping my lips as several men in black jackets spread out, all four dockhands holding their hands high.
I guess I was right about these poor guys.
But so was Fyodor.
And this is definitely an ambush.