33. Konstantin
33
KONSTANTIN
After I leave Emily and Nadia, I quickly work over a plan in my head. Emily’s suggestion is actually brilliant.
And she’s right.
There’s no way that I can convince the Americans that my intentions are benign unless I offer them something that they want.
Peace and security from me.
But before I can sit down with them, I have to remove one final obstacle. It would take too long to gather my men from Croatia. What I need are locals I can hire to assist me.
There’s no need to split hairs. I need killers who won’t ask too many questions.
And as it happens, I know exactly who to call.
The Chechen, I think, as I call for a private car. That’s who I need to see.
There are many notorious guns for hire in the States, but in New York City where the lines are still so rigid between the various sides jockeying for power, only a handful exist.
When the black car stops in front of me, I climb into the back seat .
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“Brooklyn.” That’s where The Chechen holds court. I open my phone and glance at my messages. There’s nothing from Sima just yet. But it doesn’t matter.
The path before me is clearer than ever.
And it’s all thanks to Emily.
I used to think I worked fast. But the Chechen is putting me to shame.
Within minutes of us meeting and hashing out a deal, one that will leave my bank account much lighter, the burly man with his shaved head and crooked nose has already organized a group of his own men.
Our destination: a small hole in the wall place by the name of The Ruby Slipper .
“If you want to go talk to a rat,” he tells me, laughing hoarsely at his own joke. Then he puts a bullet between his teeth while loading an Uzi, biting down like it’s a cigar, and hands it to me. “You’ll need the proper incentives.”
I gladly take the weapon he offers. His generosity doesn’t end there. The Chechen surrounds me with his personal guard, all of them kitted out with visible guns and straps of knives. It’s as if I’m in the middle of a mobile armory.
The Ruby Slipper is on a far corner of the Lower East Side. Staring up at the neon high heel that dances in a halting stop-motion, I nod at the front door.
“Do you want to do the honors?” I ask.
The Chechen chuckles gruffly, setting a hand with carrot-size fingers on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t dare take that from you, Konstantin Yurevich. ”
I know the entire bar will be exclusively made men from the Ferrata Mafia or their associates.
But it’s the owner that I care about.
I have to move quickly and be decisive, or else everything will fall apart before it even starts.
The curved handle on the door bends in my grip and I push it open. The acrid scent of tobacco assaults my nose, stinging and burning. The bar is larger inside than it seemed from the street, the room stretching back until the walls fade into a blue hue where the vibrant lamps can’t sear the shadows.
Multiple faces turn to look at me. The men are in various stages of relaxation. Some lounge around the pool tables, holding cues and laughing. Others sit at the bar with drinks in their hands. The gamut of height and stature is limitless, but I ignore them as I search for my target.
We spot each other at the same time.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing the pakhan of the Siderov Bratva in my little corner of the world?” A tall man in a fitted gray suit, standing by a half-open door across the room, asks.
The orange light above makes his tan skin look gold. When he scowls at me, I notice one of his teeth is actual gold.
The Chechen sees what’s going on and says something to his men in Russian. All of them level their weapons.
“Mateo Zampa.” I greet him. “I have a special request for you.”
“You know, it’s not a good look for you to come to me like this.” He laughs as he adjusts his tie, the rings on his fingers so numerous you could sell one hand’s worth and buy a high-rise in this city. “Not here. What can I do for you, my pakhan? ”
“You’re going to tell me exactly where Domenico Ferrata is.”
“That’s a tall request,” he says. “You planning on finishing what you started in Capri?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I go on, tucking my gun into my jacket. “What do you say, Zampa? One last betrayal. That’s all I’m asking of you.”
Zampa looks from side to side as his men start reaching into their jackets. He raises a hand to stop them.
“I was afraid that this day was always going to come.” He sighs. “Ever since you added me to your payroll. You know the hell that’s going to break out in this city after you do this?”
“Oh, I’m aware.” I nod. “But it won’t be my concern anymore. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me. And in exchange?—”
“Safe passage out, clemency for my men, and being forced to give up this lovely little establishment.”
“It’s how the game is played, Zampa.” I raise my hand. The Chechen follows suit, and soon, all of us are standing here, unarmed. “Do this for me, and I’ll guarantee your safety.” I stare at the men around him. “All of your safety.”
“You’re one heartless bastard, my pakhan.” Zampa sighs as he looks around wistfully at the bar, at his men, and finally back at me. “With no sense of sentimentality.”
“It’s actually because of my sentimental heart that I’m coming to you right now,” I say. “I need your help, Zampa.”
“In that case.” He laughs sadly as he pours two glasses of whiskey. “Here’s what you need to know.”