44. Alexei #3
“Dios mio, Lex.” Renata’s voice shakes. “This bastard lies far too well.”
I squeeze her hand. “You still getting this, Dom?” I say.
“Si, claro.” His voice is low and almost as furious as I feel. “We got every fucking word.”
“You asked me what I want?” Silas Thorne stares straight at Roman, his eyes gleaming with spite. “I want fucking justice, Borovsky. And if I could take a moment of your time in private, I’ll explain to you how I plan to get it.” He cuts his eyes pointedly toward the rest of the group on the deck.
They all glance at Roman, who gives a curt nod that makes them all stand.
“If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Roman says politely, gesturing toward the stairs, “Dimitry will show you to a private suite.”
The crime bosses stand with alacrity and follow Dimitry downstairs. The two bureaucrats follow close behind, leaving Marty Hunter Jr., still with his politician’s grin, sitting beside Lance Ryder.
Here we go.
“Marty,” Roman says, “why don’t you go and check on your daughter? Here.” He produces a large bag of cocaine and hands it to Marty Jr.
“Of course, of course.” Almost snatching the bag, Hunter stands up, albeit rather unsteadily.
“Lance,” Roman goes on, turning to the journalist, “why don’t you show Marty to his daughter’s cabin and organize some drinks for them?”
Grinning like a maniac, Lance ushers Hunter toward the stairs.
Renata glances at me. “Ryder is going to get all this on film, isn’t he?”
“Fucking bingo.” I grin at her. “In Technicolor, as Dom says. Hunter and his entire family will be front and center on the Darkside by dawn, doing blow in a yacht that just happens to belong to a known criminal.”
“Damn.” She shakes her head. “You’re an evil genius, Petrovsky. Did I ever tell you that?” Despite the joke, her voice shakes, and she’s still pale.
I keep my hand on hers. “Roman,” I say, “stall him until the others are in place and watching.”
“I think we need another drink, Thorne, don’t you?
” Roman puts his finger to his lips and gestures below deck, as if implying that people might still be listening.
He goes to the bar and pours. “My staff are discreet,” he says to Thorne.
“And the suites are soundproofed, so once the doors are closed, we’re entirely private. ”
Thorne nods carelessly. He’s definitely a man who gives little thought to anyone he considers beneath him.
On screen, I see Marty Hunter Jr. cutting lines on a cabin table, while his wife and daughter roll up bills eagerly, and Lance Ryder lolls on the bed, his pocket camera pointed right at them.
He waits until they’ve all snorted a line before he flicks on the widescreen, showing the feed from the deck, which makes Kristi giggle.
She obviously thinks she’s getting special treatment because Roman wants to fuck her.
Oh, sweetheart, I think, without an ounce of sympathy. For what you are about to receive, I am truly fucking thankful.
Meanwhile, Knut, Benson, Luca, and Rico take their seats in another suite, in front of a television showing Silas and Roman on the deck.
They take the drinks Andrew has poured them, and Rico gives me the thumbs-up through the camera.
The two prospective lawmakers look like they’re in an underwater tank with hungry sharks swimming all around them.
Which is exactly why you’re here. If you’re going to work in my swamp, you need to be aware of what kind of animals you’re dealing with.
“You’re good to go,” I say into my comms.
“You were saying?” Roman asks Thorne politely.
Thorne leans forward importantly, making a pyramid of his fingers like he’s some kind of alpha male. “The Miami shit show is no accident,” he says, nodding toward the fireballs and chaos in the distance, which have continued unabated throughout the meeting.
“Oh?” Roman raises his eyebrows. “This is your doing?”
“Not tonight’s violence, perhaps,” Thorne says, “but my friends and I certainly lit the fuse that set it into play.” He smiles coldly. “Hunter, obviously, is an idiot—but I plan to make him a useful one.”
“Really,” Roman murmurs, sipping his drink. “Do go on.”
A glance at the security cameras shows Hunter, the cocaine in front of him forgotten, leaning forward, frowning at the screen.
“Hunter was on Petrovsky’s payroll for years,” Thorne says. “The trail of corruption tying him to Petrovsky is wider than Biscayne Bay. I have evidence connecting the two of them to everything from the cartels to that Lucchese scum you just sent downstairs.”
Watching Rico’s dark, dangerous eyes, I could almost feel pity for Thorne.
Almost.
“Hunter’s daughter is a whore,” Thorne carries on, blissfully unaware of his growing audience, “who Hunter has pimped out to every donor in Miami since she was an underage cheerleader.”
He’s so caught up in his narrative he seems totally oblivious to Roman’s silent contempt.
On the security cameras, a white-faced Marty Hunter Jr. stares at the screen in stunned silence, while Kristi pounds on the door, demanding to be given her phone. The dragons, standing outside and grinning, ignore her completely.
The only one unbothered by the situation is Hunter’s wife, who is still snorting lines.
“Since Kristi is pocketing fifty percent of the profits from Compass,” Thorne goes on, “her blow jobs are also the most expensive in history—but worth it in more ways than one.” His mouth twists knowingly.
“The Compass Initiative has turned out enough votes to ensure that Hunter will be our next governor. With your support, of course.” He addresses Roman almost as an afterthought.
“Of course,” Roman murmurs.
“I thought about killing Petrovsky for what he did to my son.” Thorne’s eyes actually light up as he says it, and he looks at Roman as if he thinks just saying the words makes him Roman’s equal.
“But then I realized there’s a better play to be made.
One that I think you are going to like, Borovsky. ”
“Oh, I like it already.” Roman sits back, hooking one ankle over the other knee and regarding Thorne as one might a circus freak show. “Do continue.”
“I own Hunter,” Thorne says importantly.
“Obviously. Or perhaps I should say that we do,” he says, smiling ingratiatingly at Roman.
“But on the surface, I’m squeaky fucking clean.
There’s not a single digit connecting Hunter to me.
” He leans forward. “Hunter is Petrovsky’s bitch, and I’ve worked tirelessly to make sure everyone knows it. ”
His self-satisfaction is visible.
“And how, exactly,” Roman says, “have you done that?”
In the Hunter suite, Kristi and her father are having a vehement argument, while Lance Ryder discreetly films every word.
“I’ve been setting Petrovsky up for months.
” Thorne sits back with a smug smirk. “I have him on tape planning the murder of Ron Watkins, who was in witness protection for a case that bitch Renata Cardenas was planning to make against Hunter. I figured that instead of just killing Watkins, we could use his death, so I had my contacts in the FBI facilitate his escape.”
Roman just shakes his head in amazement and stays quiet.
“I sent Watkins into one of Petrovsky’s clubs with a pile of drugs,” Thorne continues.
“Then I had Kristi Hunter go into the club and buy cocaine from him. I have a clear recording of Petrovsky, on the phone to Hunter, stating that he’ll take care of Watkins.
” His face darkens. “Renata Cardenas got ahold of that recording and cleaned it up, which unfortunately made it clear it was Marty requesting Petrovsky make the hit. Fortunately, the mayor is also on my payroll, so she took care of stealing it back.”
His self-satisfied smile returns. “I let the mayor keep it. It’s always good to give people the illusion of power. Makes them more compliant, don’t you think?” He looks speculatively at Roman.
Like I said. Lars’s voice rings through my head. This fucker is dangerous.