Chapter 4 Matei
MATEI
The phone vibrates against my thigh.
I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen. Taylor, Omnia. The club owner who looked the other way when our crew removed the bodies without asking questions because he knows better than to ask questions when men like me put money in his hand.
I answer on the third ring.
"Mr. Ionescu." His voice comes through ragged, like he's been running. Or hyperventilating. "Sir, I… there's a problem."
I say nothing. The lights overhead cast harsh shadows across the concrete floor of the basement room. In front of me, a man slumps in a chair, zip ties cutting into his wrists. Blood drips from his split lip onto his stained shirt.
"She didn't show," Taylor continues, words tumbling over each other. "Jordan. The girl you requested. I told her six o'clock. I made it clear it wasn't optional. But she, she didn't come."
I turn away from the prisoner, walking toward the far wall where three of my men stand.
"I sent someone to her apartment," Taylor says, desperation creeping into his tone. "No answer. The lights were off. I think she's…" He trails off. "Mr. Ionescu. I think she ran."
Interesting.
Most people in this city would crawl through broken glass for the kind of money I offered. They'd sell their dignity, their safety, their soul if the price was high enough. Los Angeles teaches people to compromise.
But she chose fear over cash.
"Sir?" Taylor's voice pitches higher. "I can get you someone else. Better, even. I have a blonde, stunning. Great tits. Very professional. Or brunettes if you prefer. Whatever you want. Just say the word and I'll have her ready within the hour."
The silence stretches as I glance back at my prisoner.
Taylor starts to stammer. "I mean, I understand if you're upset. The money's already been… I can refund it immediately. Or I can…"
I end the call.
The phone goes dark in my hand.
I pocket it.
It's interesting that she'd run. She knows I have her ID, her address, her full name, and date of birth.
And instead of showing up, she disappeared.
The prisoner lifts his head, squinting at me through swollen eyes. His face is a mess. Broken nose, split eyebrow, bruises blooming purple across his jaw. One of my men worked him over earlier, softening him up.
"You ready to talk now?" I ask. The man nods slowly.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the blue vial, holding it up between two fingers.
"Tell me what this is."
The prisoner's eyes focus on the vial. His tongue darts out, wetting his cracked lips.
"That?" He tries to laugh, but it comes out wet and broken. "That's money, friend."
"I didn't ask what it represents." I step closer. "I asked what it is."
He spits blood onto the floor. Red droplets scatter across the gray concrete. "Why should I tell you anything? You're gonna kill me either way."
"Yes, but how I kill you depends entirely on how cooperative you are."
He forces a swallow, then shakes his head.
"It's called Siberian Ice," the prisoner finally says, his thick Bulgarian accent coming through.
"What does it do?" I ask.
"Everything." He laughs again, a wheezing sound that makes his whole body shake against the chair. "Women love it. Men love it. You can fuck for hours and never get tired. Like molly, but cleaner, and you remember it all."
I tilt the vial, watching the blue liquid coat the glass.
"And?"
"And it kills pain." His eyes glitter despite the swelling. "You take a hit of that before a fight? You feel invincible. Could break your arm and keep swinging. Helps with stamina too, not just in bed. Combat. Running. Whatever you need." He cracks his neck. "How you think I put up such a fight?"
I smile. He did. It took two men to restrain him. I was somewhat impressed.
So the Bulgarians are using it, not just selling it. It explains why they've been so aggressive in their expansion, pushing into territories they had no business touching, and being so sloppy.
Chemical courage in a vial.
"Is this why you're here?" I ask. "To distribute this?"
The prisoner's smile reveals blood-stained teeth. "We're here because there's money here. Lots of it. The drug's just how we pay for the operation."
"Which is?"
"Taking territory." He leans back as much as the zip ties allow.
"Flooding the streets with it, making fast cash, pushing out the local gangs who don't know what hit them.
These wannabe LA crews don't know how to run things like us Europeans.
They're sloppy. Disorganized. We get them hooked, they see the cash, suddenly they want to work for us. "
I stand, pocketing the vial of Siberian Ice, as he called it.
The Bulgarians are poisoning the well to steal the water.
It's fucking messy, and I hate messy.
"Who synthesizes it?" I ask.
The prisoner's smile falters. "What?"
"The drug. Who makes it?" I pull my weapon from its holster. The gun feels comfortable in my hand. "The Bulgarians aren't smart enough to create something this potent. Someone's supplying you."
His eyes lock on the gun. "I don't know. I just distribute."
"I don't believe you," I say, waving my gun in front of his face.
"I'm serious." Sweat beads on his forehead. "We get shipments. No labels. No source. Just the product and instructions on where to move it."
I press the barrel against his kneecap.
"Last chance."
"Wait, wait!" He strains against the zip ties, chair scraping against concrete.
But I shoot anyway.
BANG.
He's already lied once, and I hate liars.
The Bulgarian screams.
"I heard rumors. Just rumors. Word is it comes from the Russians. But I never confirmed it. I swear on my mother's grave."
Russians?
If the Russians are backing the Bulgarian expansion, or if the Bulgarians are merely distributors for a larger operation, the war for Los Angeles just became exponentially more complicated.
The Russians don't play small. They don't do anything without long-term strategic value.
Which means California isn't just about territory anymore.
I lower the gun slightly, studying the prisoner's face. His breath comes in short gasps. I can see it in his eyes, he thinks I might let him live if he gives me enough information.
He's wrong.
"Thank you," I say. "You've been helpful."
He exhales, a sound of pure relief. "I can go?"
"No."
I raise the gun and fire once.
BANG.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, echoing off concrete walls. The prisoner's head snaps back, then forward. He slumps in the chair, held upright only by the zip ties binding him.
Blood drips from the exit wound, pooling on the floor beneath him.
I holster my weapon and turn to my men at the door.
"Cur??a?i asta," I say to my men, and they move instantly. "Make sure nothing of him remains."
They nod as they start to cut the zip ties.
I pull the drug from my pocket again and hold it out to the nearest man.
"Duce?i asta la un chimist," I continue. "I want to know exactly what's in it and how difficult it would be to replicate."
He takes the vial carefully. "How soon?"
"Yesterday. Da?"
"Da," he nods.
I walk toward the door, and behind me I hear my men moving the body, the scrape of the chair, the rustle of plastic sheeting. By morning, there will be no trace this man ever existed.
As I make my way upstairs, the name replays in my head.
Siberian Ice.
The name bothers me more than it should.
If the Russians are involved, they're not just backing the Bulgarians financially.
They're using them like a proxy war.
Let the Bulgarians draw attention, take the heat, absorb the retaliation, while the real power sits back in the shadows, watching to see who's strong enough to survive the chaos.
I reach the top of the stairs and push open the door. The hallway stretches before me, all hardwood floors and expensive art on the walls. This mansion was a foreclosure, some Hollywood producer who thought he could launder money through real estate and got caught.
I bought it in cash.
No loans or paper trail. Just clean money transferred to an LLC buried under three other shell companies.
My phone vibrates again. I check the screen.
A text from my tech team with Jordan's preliminary background report:
EMPLOYMENT: Omnia, Freelance (possible escort), Cam Shows (SillySexyKat143)
PREVIOUS: Modeling & Acting. Dropped from agency. Hasn't worked since.
FINANCIAL: Three maxed-out credit cards. Bank balance: $47.23
SOCIAL: Minimal. Instagram link attached. Roommate: Lindsey Jones. No family in CA.
CRIMINAL: None
I scroll through the attached photos and screenshots from social media, old modeling portfolio shots, then finally open her IG account.
Interesting.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk down the hallway toward my office.
The windows overlook the city. Los Angeles spreads out below, lights everywhere, stretching to the horizon.
I pour myself a drink from the bar, a special Romanian liquor from home, clear and sharp. It burns going down.
Taking Los Angeles will be harder than I thought. The Bulgarians are a disease, spreading their synthetic poison through the streets, destabilizing every small-time operation until the whole city is chaos.
And possibly the Russians are the virus.
But diseases can be cured.
Viruses can be eradicated.
I set down the glass and pull out my phone, typing a message to one of my men:
Increase surveillance on all Bulgarian operations. I want locations, supply chains, and contacts. And find Jordan Robertson. Don't approach. Just watch.
The reply comes instantly,
Understood.
I walk to the window, looking out at the city again.
She's out there somewhere, hiding in a cheap apartment, probably trying to convince herself that if she stays quiet long enough, I'll forget about her.
Jordan doesn't know that I don't forget.
And when something occupies my mind, I don't let go.
I finish my drink and set the glass down.
Los Angeles will fall to me regardless of whatever all this means.
And when it does, Jordan will understand that running was never an option. Not after I thought she may be a key to unlocking this city for me.
That from the moment I saw her, touched her face, she became mine to do as I see fit.
She just doesn't know it yet.