49. Ivan
CHAPTER 49
IVAN
The samovar hisses, steam curling from its spout as he pours the hot tea into a delicate teacup. He can almost hear Mama's voice, a faded memory from his Siberian childhood, from the time when he was lost in the middle of nowhere, pine trees and snow.
Vanya, patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.
That's what his mother would always say.
His lips twist as he takes a small sip. Patience. He had been patient for most of his life. Serving the Solovey family, doing the bidding of a man who saved his wretched life. Without questions. Without judgment. He's a soldier. Always has been. It's not in his nature to asks questions. Or perhaps he was never taught that. Perhaps the cold place he still calls home didn't want him too curious. He can be curious now. He knows it. But he doesn't care.
With Vlad lying unconscious in a hospital bed, it's time for action, not for curiosity.
Fruit is to be plucked now.
He sips the tea, scalding his tongue. Just like that day, months ago, when Vlad had summoned him here, to this very room in the back of the house. The only room still bearing the bright reminders of where they both come from. A picture of an Orthodox saint on the accent table in the corner. A candle. A wooden table, custom-made by a Russian artisan somewhere in the countryside three hours away from Moscow. Two out of four walls are decorated by thick rich carpets with bright swirling designs. There's a shelf filled with matryoshkas . A samovar and a tea set.
"If anything happens to me," Vlad said that day. "I don't want Roberto or Salvatore Morelli to be in the picture."
Ivan simply nodded. He understood. Roberto Morelli was a nuisance. A wildcard that needed to be removed from the deck. And Salvatore… He didn't deserve to live at all, but since Tony had spared his life before his death, it wasn't up to Vlad to take it. Still, Salvatore could be taken out of the game permanently.
Setting down the teacup with a clink, Ivan rises and strides out of the room. He's ready to implement the plan.
Outside, the Vegas sun sears the pavement, but Ivan moves through the shadows of the alley where he is supposed to meet his contact like a ghost. He's wearing a pair of worn-out jeans, a shirt, and a baseball cap. He doesn't look like himself and he knows it. That's the idea. Not to be recognized. Even though he has no reservations about his height or build or the accent.
Officer Mendoza is already waiting, his uniform sharp despite the heat.
"Mr. Belyaev?" he asks carefully.
Ivan nods curtly and hands Mendoza a yellow envelope with a photo of a man inside. The officer takes a look and then asks, "So what do you want us to do? Scare him off a little?”
Ivan shakes his head once. "No. Need enough to put him away for a decade. Possession with intent to distribute will be fine."
"The Morelli have good lawyers," Mendoza says matter-of-factly.
"Let us handle the lawyers."
Mendoza's eyes widen briefly before he schools his features. "Consider it done."
"You have my thanks."
They don't shake hands. It's not a transaction that needs to be celebrated.
Instead, Ivan watches his contact melt away into the city's underbelly.
Step one completed.
Next, on his agenda is the meeting with Silvio Rossi. The attorney shark who handles most of the Morelli criminal cases. But even sharks could be bought for the right price.
Ivan finds him later that day at his usual place. A Japanese restaurant right off the Strip where Rossi dines three times a week.
Rossi eats alone during weekdays and has company on Friday nights. Different girl every time. Escort. Ivan doesn't care. Tonight is Tuesday and Rossi will be available for a one-on-one.
Ivan doesn't encounter any difficulties accessing the private room. All it takes is an apron and a tray with some side dishes.
He sits himself in front of Rossi operating a pair of bamboo chopsticks and sidesteps all pleasantries. "My employer would like your help eliminating Roberto Morelli."
Rossi doesn't pause. He chews for a few more seconds, swallows, then looks up from his plate. "How much?"
Just like Ivan thought. Everything is for sale when the price is right. "You tell me."
Rossi scribbles a number on the napkin with the pen he pulls out from his jacket's pocket and hands the napkin to Ivan.
Ivan nods. "Fine."
"What kind of help does your employer require?"
"Roberto Morelli is going to be arrested in the next forty-eight hours. Possession with intent. Make sure he goes down. Hard."
"Very well." Rossi smiles and sends another piece of sushi into his mouth. "But tell me, why does your employer want Roberto out of the picture? The man is a harmless drunk."
Ivan's expression hardens. "Nicola Morelli doesn't need distractions right now. And Roberto is a headache the size of the Bellagio."
Silvio Rossi chuckles. "Fair enough. Consider it handled."
As Ivan steps back out into the sweltering evening, he allows himself a small, grim smile. The wheels are in motion. Soon, Roberto and Salvatore would be nothing but unpleasant memories. Footnotes in the rise of Nicola Morelli.
And Ivan, ever the loyal soldier, will make sure it happens. By any means necessary.
* * *
Although he loves all the gaudy glow, he hasn't been able to get used to it. It's grown on him—the collections of tasteless neon lights that illuminate the Strip every night. But he finds this inconvenient. If you're a former military over six feet tall and clearly stand out in any kind of crowd, it can complicate things. But Ivan knows how to make himself invisible, how to become one of the guys on the crowded sidewalk.
Tonight, he's been tailing the older Morelli brother. From casino to casino. Watching him piss away his allowance. It's ten past midnight when Ivan checks his phone again to see the time. Roberto has been making a drunken spectacle of himself at the blackjack table for over two hours. Throwing around chips and insults in equal measure, oblivious to the trap closing in around him.
Ivan shakes his head in disgust. The spoiled little prince has no idea what's coming.
Minutes keep on ticking by, the night growing long and the crowds thinning to a trickle. Finally, Roberto stumbles out into the stuffy desert air, weaving on unsteady feet toward his sports car.
Ivan follows Roberto outside, waiting.
As if on cue, red and blue lights flash from around the corner. A patrol car pulls up, blocking Roberto's path. Ivan smiles in the privacy of his mind. Right on schedule. He watches as one of the officers approaches, his posture wary. Hands on his weapon. He is young. Mendoza's new partner. Fresh out of the academy.
"Sir, have you been drinking tonight?" he asks Roberto, shining a flashlight into Roberto's face.
"What kind of stupid question is that?" Roberto slurs, his voice thick with arrogance and alcohol. "This is Vegas, baby. Everyone's drinking."
The officer's expression hardens. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration."
Mendoza's silhouette lingers by the patrol vehicle, ready to step in when necessary.
But there's no need.
From here on, it's smooth sailing. Roberto fumbles for his wallet with uncoordinated fingers. The second officer moves to search the car, emerging moments later with a large bag of white powder. Presumably found in the trunk of the vehicle.
"That's not mine!" Roberto yells. "I've never seen that shit before! I'm being set up!"
But it's too late. The cuffs are on. He's shoved into the back of the patrol car. Just like that, an obstacle removed from Nicola's path.
Ivan feels satisfaction. He revels in it. It was almost too easy. Roberto will get buried under a mountain of irrefutable evidence. And Rossi will underperform. By the time the older Morelli brother will see daylight again, the world will be a very different place.
* * *
The bar is poorly lit, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air as Ivan slides onto the stool next to a man who goes by Noose. Noose is the one who does all the dirty work for Salvatore. Ivan knows that he'll be harder to crack but it's not impossible.
The man glances at Ivan briefly, then returns his attention to the beer in front of him.
Ivan signals the bartender for a drink and gets the same beer as Noose.
They sit side by side, both silent, listening to some rock tune crooning in the background. Noose gets another drink. Ivan comments on the quality of the brand, striking the conversation. Noose is drunk enough to be friendly. Words are being exchanged. Ivan pretends that he is out of town, looking for work. With the heavy accent, he's limited to what kind of cover he can come with. So, tonight he's Aleksei from Los Angeles.
Noose is on his third beer when his tongue finally loosens up a little and he tells Ivan that work is sparse now.
"Why?"
"Too many changes, man… If you know what I mean."
"I heard the Italians aren't fairing so well."
Noose just shrugs. "It's the end of an era, man… end of an era. Crypto is putting these old families out of business."
"Sounds like I'm better off going back to LA."
"You probably should," Noose laments drunkenly. "The FEDs are cracking down on Vegas. DEA too. Not safe here anymore."
"Tough times, eh?"
"With the DEA breathing down everyone's necks, it's hard to know who to trust. And how you're gonna do business if you don't trust the man you're supposed to partner with?"
Ivan grunts, taking a long pull from his bottle. "You're telling me. It's like they're always one step ahead. It's why I left LA in the first place." He leans in, voice low. "They're closing in on all cartel operations there. Following the crumbs. Starting to shake the tree. Lots of good men are about to do time."
"Isn't LA La Alianza's territory?" Noose asks, looking sober for a moment.
"Yes." Ivan supplies in a whisper, "I've got a buddy on the force. He says they've collected enough evidence to put away everyone who's ever been involved with La Alianza. And for a long time. They're just waiting for the right moment to strike."
Noose shifts uneasily, his grip tightening on the bottle. "Shit. If they really start taking down everyone, we're all fucked."
Ivan nods. He enjoys playing this game a little too much. He's already spoken to Vlad's contact in the DEA. The rumor mill is working. All Salvatore needs to do is to make some inquiries and his name will come up as one of the DEA's targets.
"I hear everyone with the record and low on the food chain will go down first."
"No shit?"
"Yeah. But you didn't hear it from me, buddy," Ivan says, rising from his stool and tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "If I were on the narcs' radar, I'd be getting the hell out of Dodge. Maybe lay low in Mexico for a while, until the heat dies down."
"Then why don't you?"
"No record, man. Plus I'm a free agent. You?"
"Thanks for the heads-up," Noose replies, deflecting. "Good luck with the job search."
The seeds are planted. The false information is about to spread like wildfire through Salvatore's inner circle. It's only a matter of days now before younger Morelli tries to flee.
* * *
Several days later, Ivan gets a report from one of the airport employees that a private jet left for Mexico earlier this morning. The man on board of that plane matches the description of Salvatore Morelli.
Ivan's phone buzzes in his pocket at night. He answers, "Belyaev."
"Ivan, my friend. It's Esteban," the voice on the other end greets him. "My people saw Salvatore a few hours ago. This side of the border. In Mexico."
"Good." Ivan's tone is clipped, businesslike. He knows Vlad and Esteban are friendly. But Ivan doesn't trust the man completely. After all, Vlad almost died while being a guest at Esteban's property. "Can you make sure he stays there? I need him as far away from Vegas as possible."
Esteban chuckles, the sound harsh and humorless. "Don't worry, amigo. The Arellanos will run that Italian shit all the way to Brazil if we have to. He won't be coming back north anytime soon."
"Appreciate it."
"How is Vladimir? Is he on the mend?"
Ivan doesn't like the question but he doesn't lie either. "Still unconscious, but vitals are great. Doctors are certain he will wake up any day now. Business will go on as usual."
"Glad to hear it." Esteban's voice is sincere. "Take care of yourself, Ivan. These are dangerous times."
Ivan ends the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket. Another threat neutralized.
* * *
That evening Ivan strides through the sterile hospital corridor, trying to ignore the sickening scent of antiseptic in the air. He reaches Vlad's room, his hand pausing on the door handle. It's been a week since the accident. A very busy week for Ivan.
Finally, with a deep breath, he turns the handle and pushes the door open. The lights in the room are dimmed. The steady beep of the heart monitor is an unchanged soundtrack. Vlad is motionless on the bed, his once-powerful form reduced to a shell of its former self. And there, sitting beside him, is Nico, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"Who the fuck let you in here?" Ivan growls, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the tired sight of the young Morelli heir.
"I did." Seven steps out from the corner, his muscular frame casting a shadow across the room. "Is there a problem, Ivan?"
Ivan ignores Seven, his gaze locked on Nico. "You should go home, Nicola. Worry about your own family. I hear your aunt may be in need of some company, now that your cousins have gotten what they deserved."
Nico rises to his feet, his jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with something a lot like anger. "Since when do you care about what happens in the Morelli household?"
Ivan steps closer, wondering if Nicola Morelli is guessing that Roberto and Salvatore are his, Ivan's, doing. But even if Nicola does, he says nothing.
"I don't," Ivan hisses out. "But I do care about what happens to Vlad. And right now, your presence is a distraction he doesn't need. He's like this because of you."
The air crackles with dark tension, but Ivan remembers that Seven is in the room. So he lets his words hang between him and the Italian.
Finally, Nico breaks the loaded silence, his tone measured, controlled. "I'm not going anywhere."
And Ivan knows that Nicola Morelli is not bluffing. And that's okay with Ivan if that makes Vlad happy when Vlad wakes up.