Chapter Twenty-Six
Anyone who says the universe is random has never experienced their own unexplained instance of cosmic connection.
I have. Many times.
I’ll tell you about one that’s currently amusing me to no end.
Shortly after taking over, I began collecting on some of the debts from when Arturo was still active.
Back in the seventies, he’d acquired a whole slew of ports across North America.
For the cartel, having control of ports is like having an ATM in your convenience store.
Not only do you make a percentage just for having one—that’s money without lifting a finger—but they also draw business.
And if your store is cash only, well, then they’re a necessity, aren’t they they?
Ports are obviously only found in cities by the water, where ships come and go, delivering cargo.
Bigger ones yield higher volume, but they’re more heavily guarded by the coast guard and homeland security post-9/11, which means bigger risk, and ultimately much higher losses in hazard pay.
This is why smaller ports can often be easier to manage.
Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be a lesson in organized crime, though I could undoubtedly teach that class at the doctorate level.
The reason I’m talking ports is because my predecessor had been letting some things slide around his port territories.
When I came to The States, one of my most important orders of business was to get things back on track. By any means necessary.
Our ports are all over; Miami, San Diego, Port Isabel, East Boston—fun fact, that is where I first encountered Joy Jameson, while getting my port back from her overly confident, yet ultimately shrewd, hot-head of an Irish mob boss father.
Nonetheless, it was our port in New York that introduced me to someone who would become a key player in many aspects of my business going forward. For better or worse.
The port in Brighton Beach wasn’t as much of hassle to reclaim as some of the others. Just the usual introductions and minor bloodshed as a sign of good faith, to show them I was serious. Brighton Beach belonged to the Russians, who brought in good money.
So we struck a deal. They could continue using my ports in exchange for thirty percent of their business. Their boss wasn’t exactly thrilled, but hey… No one wants to pay taxes. But you do it, unless you want Uncle Sam to shoot out your kneecaps with a shotgun.
And yet, there are still people who try to stiff the goddamn IRS.
After collecting our first tribute, I got a call from Mateo claiming he’d been shorted by some asshole in an old black Cadillac. This meant I had to go all the way out to Gravesend, to the guy’s house, and shoot him in the face in front of his family.
Totally throwing off my afternoon.
I arrived with Kent and Nestor in tow, and we marched up the front stoop of his simple little Brooklyn home.
I rang the doorbell, pulling my pistol from behind my back while waiting for him to answer the door.
Yelling came from inside, though not directed at me, or even related to my presence. This was clearly a marital dispute.
Ringing the bell again, I followed it up with a few impatient taps on the door with the butt of my gun. Because I’m not a marriage counselor, and I don’t care if you’re fighting with your wife. I’m here to kill you, and you’re holding me up.
The shouting persisted, and I rolled my eyes, muttering to my men, “Sounds like I’ll be doing him a favor…”
Nestor grunted by way of amused agreement.
But then a different sound caught my attention. Some rustling in the bushes around the side of the house, followed by footsteps. It someone like someone had just climbed out the window.
I nodded for Kent to go check it out, but before he could, a kid came storming up the driveway from the back, clutching a backpack. I could tell from one look at his face that he was fleeing this house, and most likely the arguing inside.
He was sniffling, and his cheeks were pink, face lined with a displeased scowl.
The kid couldn’t have been more than thirteen, pale skin and platinum blonde hair dyed faded blue at the tips, like the color had grown out.
Interestingly enough, though, his emotions were the most radiant of his features.
A depression so fervent it was visibly stressing him out.
The three of us were just staring at him, wondering if he had anything to do with the man I was there to confront. My bet was yes, but I didn’t know for sure. Not until he noticed us, and stopped.
He stood still in the middle of his driveway, staring at me; this sort of doe-eyed expression on his face until his gaze fell to the gun in my hand. His expression grew grim, while still not showing any shock or panic.
As if men showing up at his house with guns drawn wasn’t all that surprising to him.
“C-can I… help you?” He asked me, tightening his grip on the strap of his backpack.
I offered him a sharp grin. “As a matter of fact, you can.” I flicked my gun toward the door. “I’m here to see someone about an occupational hiccup… But I can’t seem to get his attention. Can you tell me if Alexander Reznikov is in there?”
I witnessed the mound of the kid’s throat dip as he gawked at me for a few more seconds, likely trying to decide if he should lie. But he seemed smart enough to know better.
“He’s… a little busy right now,” he sighed, almost like the mere act of speaking was draining him of all his energy.
“I’ll say,” I replied, tucking my gun back into my belt. Coming down the steps, I wandered closer to the kid. “Do your parents always fight like that?”
He blinked up at me before nodding, rather solemnly.
“What are they fighting about?” I kept my voice calmly inquisitive.
“My mother’s not… feeling well,” he mumbled. Then he blinked hard and shook his head. “Never mind. Why are you here again?” Regaining a bit of his confidence.
“Work.”
“What kind of work?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is. You’re at my house.” He cocked his head, gaze narrowing.
I liked the attitude on this chiquito triste.
Smirking, I mirrored his expression. “What’s your name, kid?”
As the question left my lips, the front door swung open, a man standing there, hardened glare assessing the situation.
“Dascha, go inside the house,” the man commanded the boy firmly.
The kid, clearly Alexander’s son, gave me one last look before scurrying past us up the stoop. The man stepped outside, watching him with protective worry in his eyes.
He stopped in the doorway. “Papa, is everything—”
“Now, Dascha. Go to your room and lock the door, and do not come out until I say so, da?”
Alexander Reznikov gave his son a look, and my brow raised. It wasn’t a reprimanding look from a stern father, per se. It was almost like an instruction hidden within the words. Like a code.
Twenty bucks says that kid’s got a gun hidden in his room somewhere.
The boy—Dascha Reznikov—nodded and slipped inside the house without another word. And then his father turned to me, features hardening with rage.
“You are The Ivory?”
“Alexander, good to officially meet you.” My eyes shifted to the door. “Your son seems—”
“I will get you your money,” he cut me off.
“It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid,” I hummed.
“Look, it was nothing personal,” he grunted. “Where I come from, we do not simply hand over our money to the leader because he says so.”
“I’m familiar with communism,” I quipped, and he scowled.
Ah, that sterling Russian sense of humor we’ve all heard about…
“I will work with you,” he went on. “Help you in Vegas. Cyril says that is what you want, yes?”
My eyes held his. “Yes, that is correct. But how do I know I can trust you?”
“The same way I know I can trust you…” He grumbled, turning away. “You can’t.”
He strode back up the steps to his house while I chuckled at the cojones on this comrade.
“Tell Mateo I will have your money for him at the shop tomorrow. With interest,” he said, opening the door. “Oh, and Mr. Ivory?”
“Yes?” I sang, rolling my eyes.
“If you want the deal in Vegas to work out, please do not ever speak to my son again.”
“No promises.” I shot him a wink, spinning on my heel and marching toward the car.
And there you have it.
Now, I can’t say for sure that there are no coincidences in this life.
But what I do know is that sometimes even the most random of occurrences feel staged.
Like whoever is controlling the narrative is having fun at our expense, making us think things are just happening, when in reality, it’s all leading us on a very specific and pre-planned course.
I don’t believe that Dascha Reznikov recognized me as he sat, chained up in front of me in Alabaster Penitentiary, roughly fifteen years after that day, when I met him briefly in his front yard. Knowing what I now know about him, it’s highly unlikely.
Though who could blame him? The last fifty-six hours of his life have been quite stressful.
Still, I can’t deny that seeing him again, after all this time, in person—as the newest inmate added to my collection of special little monsters—was a bit of a trip.
Poor Dascha. Honestly, I feel for the kid, I really do.
First, his dad leaves him, then his rather lucrative career in bank robbing is cut short when he’s dimed on by some rat he never should’ve trusted in the first place…
Then he’s framed for killing Russo’s niece by the police and sentenced to life on this island under lock and key.
And to top it all off, the one person I’d assumed wanted to stay here and protect him just freaking took off!
I mean… what in the hell was that??
Kellan Kemper is obviously obsessed with the kid.
He’s been stalking every mention of the kid for years at this point, and yesterday, he flew in here like a bat out of hell the literal second the article about Dash’s robbery came out, asking all kinds of questions, like this is some kind of equal partnership.
The way he reacted to even being in the same room with the kid…