4. Alexei
Alexei
It’s almost four a.m., and my father has already left for the airport, when Dima and I come through the doors of a private rooftop penthouse in Brickell, having rendered the two security guards standing outside it unconscious.
“Good evening, Marty,” I greet the white-faced congressman sitting at a large round card table. There’s a bag of cocaine on the table next to him and a half-naked hooker sprawled over his lap.
“Don’t bother,” I tell the overweight bodyguard belatedly reaching for a gun. He looks almost as messed up as his boss. “You’d be gator bait before you cocked the hammer, you fat fuck.”
“This was a very bad idea, Petrovsky.” The man sitting opposite the congressman is wearing a hand-stitched Italian suit with discreet gold cuff links. “I suggest you leave, before you start a war.”
“I don’t start wars, Lucchese. I fucking end them.” I stare coldly at the Italian. “But there’s no need for any of that. Your men are fine, except for a bump on the head. Consider this me doing you a favor.”
“Breaking into one of my hotels and knocking out two of my men?” Lucchese draws on his cigar. “Funny kind of favor, Petrovsky.”
“If I were you, I’d think twice before extending hospitality to this piece of shit.
” I nod at the congressman. “He’s already chewed through my very generous donations and borrowed half as much again.
His wife’s online shopping habit is even worse than his gambling addiction, not to mention the fact that by eleven a.m. every day, she’s on to her third martini and can’t remember if she’s fucking the pool boy or the gardener. ”
Marty Jr. leaps out of his chair, spilling the hooker unceremoniously onto the floor. “How dare you—” he begins furiously.
“Oh, I dare, Marty.” I stalk slowly across the room. The congressman’s eyes widen, and he stumbles back into his chair as I near him. I pull it away from the table, almost upending him, and lean down, resting my hands on the arms of the chair.
“I should advise you,” says the Italian from the other side of the table, “that killing Hunter doesn’t align with my family’s goals.”
“Maybe not.” I smile coldly into Marty’s face. “But unless those goals include facing a RICO indictment, I’d advise your family to rethink them.”
Lucchese looks between the congressman and me, his eyes narrowing.
“Our friend here got a little smart for his own good, didn’t you, Marty?” I pull my knife from my suit pants and turn the blade in front of his face, still looming over him. “Had me do some dirty work for him, then tried to frame me to the FBI.”
“That’s bullshit!” the congressman interjects, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“Shut the fuck up, Marty.” I shake my head.
“The only reason you’re still breathing is because I have it on good authority that you’re headed for a federal prison, where you’ll hopefully spend many unhappy years getting fucked by all the petty criminals your terrible policies have put in prison for doing far less than you do on any given Friday night.
“What did he tell you?” I turn my head to look at the Italian, my knife still turning in front of Marty’s face. “That my turf would be yours for the taking, come Monday?”
He folds his arms. “I might have heard something along those lines.” When Marty tries to protest, Lucchese holds up his hand. “Don’t.” His tone is calm, but there’s no mistaking the steel behind it.
The congressman shuts up again.
I keep my eyes on the Italian. “I’d advise you not to take one inch of my territory, Lucchese,” I say coldly. “Not unless you want to start a war. You know what happened to the Orlovs. Don’t think I won’t do it again if you, or anyone else, comes for what is mine.”
I stare at him until I see the fear flicker beneath his calm. Until he’s reminded of who he’s dealing with and knows that I mean every fucking word.
There isn’t a criminal in Miami who doesn’t know that I kept Vilnus Orlov alive long after any normal man would have let him die.
But normal men didn’t watch Vilnus Orlov rape their mother or carve up their sister’s back.
They weren’t strapped to a table at fifteen so that Vilnus Orlov could order a shaking, terrified eighteen-year-old Dima to carve out their eyeball.
And they certainly weren’t forced to take their own knife to the virginal skin of a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl, leaving her with scars inside and out that will never fade and them with a corrosive shame so deep it poisons any hope of happiness they might have held on to through those hellish years.
I’m not a normal man, and most of Miami knows that. But every now and then, it doesn’t hurt to remind them.
“I’m going to be out of town for a while, Marty.” I turn back to the congressman. “Until all of this dies down. By the time I get back, you’ll be dead or locked up for the rest of your life—so this will have to serve as our goodbye.”
My knife flashes out, cutting through his shirt.
He yelps in surprise, staring down at his bare shoulder. “What are you—please don’t—”
“I’m doing you a favor, Marty.”
Dima grips him from behind as my blade slices the man’s shoulder with deft, precise strokes, so fast I’m half done before he shrieks with shock. Blood runs down his arm, pooling like mercury on the ground.
“When you get to prison,” I say calmly as I work, “men will see these scars and know that it was me who marked you. These cuts will keep you alive, Marty. They will tell the men who might otherwise kill you that you belong to me.” I make a final flourish and step back, nodding at Dima.
He pulls a leather bag from his pocket, takes a handful of the mixture inside it, and presses it into the cuts delineating the Romanov eagle that symbolizes the Petrovsky clan.
Marty screams as Dima rubs it into the cuts.
“That mixture is made specially for me by a Nigerian medicine man,” I say conversationally as Marty retches onto the floor.
“It’s used by tribesmen in his country for ritual scarification and works very quickly.
Several hours from now, those cuts will get infected.
And no matter what a doctor does, they’ll never heal quite right.
You’ll be left with raised scars, in a shape that will be recognized in every prison in Florida.
But like I said—be grateful for them, Marty, because those scars will keep you alive.
” I smile coldly. “Until the next time we meet, that is, when we can discuss your future again. A little something to look forward to while you rot in a cell.”
The congressman stares at me in terror.
I turn to Lucchese. “Unless you still have objections, I’d suggest you leave, now. Two of my men will keep an eye on our friend here until my mixture has done its work. They’ll remove the congressman when they’re done, as well as compensate you generously for your trouble, of course.”
The Italian, who has grown quite pale throughout my operation, stands up hastily. “That works for me.”
“Your father appreciates fine cognac, from memory.” I smile at him, which only makes him even more uneasy. “I have a Tsar Alexander Cru Grande so good it will make him cry. I’ll send it over tomorrow as a gesture of appreciation.”
“Th-thank you,” he stammers, backing toward the door.
“Now,” I say, turning back to the man in the chair, “unfortunately, I have a plane to catch, so our time together is at an end.” I gesture to the two grim-faced men standing behind me.
“My friends will keep you company until I’m safely out of the country.
We wouldn’t want you calling your friends at the FBI before I leave, now would we?
And while we’re on the topic of the FBI, Marty.
” I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll to a live video feed.
“This is your daughter, in her room at college. I have cameras in her room. In her bathroom. I can watch your daughter shower any time I want.”
He struggles in his chair, his face red and furious.
“But unlike you, Marty, I don’t get off on watching college girls get naked.
So your little girl is safe—for now. But I know where she is, Marty.
I know where your wife is. And no matter where they go or how hard you try to hide them, if you decide to talk to the FBI, I will find them.
Of course,” I say, wiping his blood from my knife with his suit jacket, “so long as you keep your mouth shut, they’ll both remain perfectly safe.
Which is quite the favor, considering your little girl helped you frame me. ”
“She didn’t know,” he gasps.
“Maybe. Maybe not. So long as you keep your mouth shut, it doesn’t really matter to me either way.
But one word about me or my organization, Marty—even the slightest whisper—and there isn’t a criminal organization or witness protection program in the fucking world that will keep them safe. Do you understand me?”
Gulping, he nods.
“Good.” I turn to my men. “I’ll be in touch,” I say curtly.
They nod, putting out their hands for a brief grip as Dima and I leave.
“Any trouble with the Luccheses,” I say to Dima as we climb into the limo on the street, “call me straight away. The old man owes me a favor. And we’ve always worked well with the Italians.”
“What about the Cardenas boys?” He glances sideways at me. “Those pricks are going to fucking love this. They’ll try to take advantage.”
“I’ll call Rodrigo Cardenas in Colombia. He knows that if his family loses us, they lose access to the Miami market, especially with ICE breathing down their necks. He’ll keep them in line, and if he can’t, he’ll kill them.”
Dima tilts his head like he’s weighing this up as an option.
I shrug. “The only reason I haven’t carved them up before now is out of respect for Rodrigo, or more to the point, for his father. But that tolerance stops the minute they put you or any of our people in danger.”
He looks narrowly at me as the limo turns onto the freeway. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not planning to come back anytime soon?”