Chapter 7 #2
I don’t want Tre going anywhere with just Sera and some Mancinelli jackoffs.
But I have no right to intervene, and even if I did, I couldn’t explain why.
I can’t say the bratva just killed four of our guards and stole a hundred and fifty kilos of Colombia’s leading semi-organic product. I don’t mean lab-created honey either.
If it isn’t one thing, it’s a-fucking-nother.
As much as I protested, I was looking forward to seeing her tonight.
I would’ve given in and agreed to accompany Toria.
Now I’m going to spend the night dealing with this shit.
Not only will we check on the warehouse and our employees, we’ll strike back.
The bratva’ll anticipate that, so we’ll have to think on the fly to come up with something they won’t guess.
Since we all drove our own cars to Javier’s, we have to go to the garage where we keep our SUV fleet.
We pile into Jorge’s and Alejandro’s cars and head across Queens to Jackson Heights.
It’s time we don’t want to waste, but we need the armored vehicles.
They have reinforced everything. They’re veritable tanks.
Bulletproof, IED-proof, fireproof. All of it.
It takes an hour to get across Queens, then another thirty minutes to get to the warehouse.
By the time we’re there, the remaining guards cleared away the bodies and took statements from the employees.
The men brief us on how the bratva swooped in, knew exactly where to go in the warehouse, cleaned out the stash, and took off in less than five minutes.
The bratva were trained by former KGB operatives with paramilitary precision.
Trained by men used to defending labs in the Amazon, we’re not without skills.
While we move with synchronicity, we also prefer guerrilla warfare.
We move in small units that rely on stealth, hit-and-run tactics, and sabotage.
“It’s Thursday night. They have that poker ring running in Brighton Beach.”
Pablo glances at his watch as he speaks.
He’s been eyeing the underground gambling for a few months.
There are some high-rolling Polish and Albanian players.
We haven’t taken much interest in them until recently.
A Slovenian oligarch is in town, and our intel says he’s playing tonight.
The guy’s made millions through the O’Rourkes’ investments in Eastern Europe.
He’s trying to play both sides of the fence by now spending money with the New York Russians, hoping they’ll invest in some projects in Slovenia. He needs to share the wealth.
“Do we go as hunters or players?”
I sweep my gaze over the group. If we’re going to hunt men down to either end them on the spot or take them to our bodega on Long Island—the place where we handle things in private—then we stay dressed as we are.
If we’re going to join the games, then we need to change back into our suits.
No one can stop us from joining the games—none of the bratva men would dare kill us—but they’ll call the Kutsenkos.
“Players. Let them come.”
Pablo’s smug response would sound easygoing to anyone who doesn’t know him. But there’s no love lost between any of us and the bratva; the relationship is particularly complex for Pablo. He grew up next door to the bratva leader’s wife. They were more like siblings than neighbors.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back in our regular daily outfit—suits and ties—and walking into the Russian-owned restaurant.
Everyone stares openly, which only makes the five of us grin.
We called Tío Enrique on the way to make sure he sanctioned this.
If he hadn’t, we would’ve found something else to do.
He laughed and wished us “?Buena suerte!” or good luck.
“Nyet.” No.
The bouncer tries to block us, but he takes a shoulder check from each of us.
He’s a decent size and could fend off one or two guys like him.
But five men my family’s size? Not a chance.
With diners in the restaurant, he won’t make a bigger scene than our arrival naturally does.
The guy who runs the games isn’t even aware we’re here yet, but he’ll know soon enough.
It won’t matter. We’re the Cartel’s royal family, so we’re untouchable to men this low on the food chain.
There are three tables in the basement playing poker and two playing blackjack.
We spread out, each of us taking a seat at a table.
We pull out enough cash to buy in and wait for our chips and cards.
When one of the dealers takes too long, Javier—shocking that my middle brother isn’t in the mood to play nice with a stranger—pulls out his knife and flicks it open.
He places it on the table before reaching out his hand for chips.
“You don’t need to hide that you’re texting Maks or his family.”
I speak to the man sitting across from me.
He thinks he’s slyly using his phone on his lap, but it doesn’t take much to recognize what he’s doing.
We make it through five rounds of blackjack at my table before the bratva enforcers show up.
By the time they do, we’ve cleared out all the tables.
By luck, by skill, and by cheating, we’ve won hand after hand.
We don’t disguise our intentions by letting others win. We take, take, take.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Misha, pleasure to see you.”
Pablo tosses his cards onto the table before leaning forward and pulling all the chips toward him. He’s being dramatic when he uses both arms to scoop them up like he’s in some movie. He picks up a stack of chips and drops them one by one as though it’s raining money.
“Get the fuck out.”
“I know you can say more than that. We learned English at the same time.”
I smirk as I speak to the blond guy who shot me in the left thigh in high school. I suppose it was only fair since I shot him in the right shoulder about thirty seconds before that.
“Misha, I know it’s past your bedtime, but you shouldn’t have been out past curfew.”
Pablo’s a few years older than everyone but Maks and the next Kutsenko brother, Aleksei. He’s always loved to lord it over the other syndicate men since he’s the oldest of all of us, albeit only by a month with Maks and Luca Mancinelli.
“Don’t you have a wife to torment, Pablo?”
Misha pulls his gun and cocks it. No one in my family reacts, but it’s the cue the Russian players waited for.
They scramble to leave, and the bratva men draw their guns.
We’re outnumbered, and we knew we would be.
With the tables cleared of bystanders, Pablo gestures for Misha to sit across from him.
“You stole from us, Misha. You just didn’t know how we’d get even.
Our take from tonight doesn’t come close to what you owe us.
It was just fun watching your men squirm.
Several will have to explain to their wives why they can’t afford groceries next week.
Give back the product, and we’ll walk away with just our winnings. Refuse, and we’ll keep going.”
“Bullshit.” He’s not wrong to distrust us.
I draw Misha’s attention from Pablo as I continue our taunting. I slouch in my chair, my right arm on the table holding my cards. I lazily tap each side as I turn them over.
“That textile shipment you have coming in from Japan won’t make it through customs, Misha. It’s going to be a nightmare when the shipping container leaks, and suddenly the drug dogs notice there’s liquid cocaine all over the material. Orange is your color, and you’ll be so adorable in a onesie.”
I mock him, but he knows I’m telling the truth.
We export the same product they import, so we know exactly how they disguise it.
It’s possible to make cocaine into a liquid that’s dried onto fabric or another porous material.
When it gets to its destination, it’s basically rehydrated and converted to powder.
We could steal the shipment while it’s off the coast, but we don’t need it despite the loss we took tonight.
Getting the bratva tied up with customs and DEA is a long-game win.
Misha glares at me, using anger to disguise his surprise that we know about that.
The fucking arrogance in that family. His older brother Sergei and his counterpart, Anton, both went to UPenn and studied computer science.
They’re the bratva’s chief intel gatherers and hackers.
They act as though they’re the only ones who went to an Ivy League.
Fuckers, I did too.
And a way better one at that.
I’m not the only syndicate member who went to Harvard, but I’m definitely the smartest. Everyone assumes I’m the laziest member of my family—hell, the laziest man in the NYC syndicates—yet—somehow—I always had the best grades.
That’s because I always finished my schoolwork so quickly it looked like all I did was waste time.
I was done first, so I had plenty of time for video games and Legos with Javier.
Go figure, cabróns.
“It’s too late. I don’t have it anymore.”
“Bullshit, Misha. Turn the fucking boat or plane around.”
Pablo’s getting hangry. We skipped dinner to deal with this.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then it’s a good thing your wife’s a nurse.”
My knife goes sailing through the air and embeds itself in his right thigh. I made sure not to hit his femoral artery. I don’t want him dead, just in pain.
“Krutee peedalee paka nye dale.”
Laura speaks fluent Russian. My brothers and I heard her use that phrase in a bar during college when some guy got too handsy.
He was some Belarussian twat, so he understood what it meant.
We didn’t, so she explained it means pedal away while still not beaten up.
Basically, fuck off. Once we understood how vulgar the phrase is—Laura can swear like a sailor, but she doesn’t usually—we knew the guy touched more than we thought.
He lost all his fingers that night after we took Laura and her friends home.