Chapter 1
Chapter One
Tolya
“Three minutes in total. One to get in, one to hit and one to get out. We go in hard. Clean. Fast. No Mistakes.” My voice cuts through the thick air of the space in the SUV. My Russian accent isn’t thick but there is no mistaking my origins.
For all intents and purposes I am the Bratva in Chicago, the one Russian to be feared above all others.
Born Burcov Anatoliy Ivanovich, my reputation precedes me and now I’m simply known as Tolya.
I pride myself on my ruthlessness, the swift and cruel manner by which I rule my territory.
It’s rare for me to lead my men in the field. But this is a special occasion.
I rose to the position of Pakhan at only 19 years of age, building my reputation on blood and legacy. I took no time establishing my worthiness as the leader of the local Bratva faction, and I’ve held it for more than a decade and a half. Now my name alone strikes fear in the hearts of my enemies.
“They’ve been pushing into our territory, all while giving the pretense of negotiations.
Now they are attempting to make deals with our vendors and our business associates under our noses.
It stops now. It’s time we send a message; it will not be tolerated,” I instruct the men.
My voice is strong, calm, lethal as I give the orders.
No one else speaks. My presence on this mission is all the indication they need to understand the seriousness of the situation.
My glacier-blue eyes sweep over the crew one by one: Yaro in the driver seat, Vlad, Sacha, and Artyom in the back.
Five men in total, including myself, each built like a tank, stone faced and deadly in their own right.
Turning slightly in the passenger's seat, I address the three in the backseat directly. I have dozens of men I trust within my organization but these ones, they are the ones I wanted at my back when things go wrong. I trust them implicitly.
“You three take the front, push through the guards and detain the Don. You hurt him. But you don’t kill him. Am I clear?” A trio of grunts and nods come from the back of the car. “You call me and Yaro when you have him. I want to deliver this message personally.”
Yaro shifts in the driver's seat beside me, the leather of his coat creaking. As my second, and my oldest friend, he doesn’t have the same qualms about asking questions as the others.
“Do we have any idea where in the house the Don will be? A layout perhaps? Any point of reference?”
I don’t answer right away, shifting back around and settling in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. The house is in sight now, its dark windows and wrought-iron perimeter discernible under the light of the streetlamps ahead.
With a deep breath, I take a moment to check my watch.
1:45 AM. Right on time.
“This house is for business only, for the Don and high ranking members of the family. No wives, children, sisters or other family members are allowed here. A good portion of his men are away with the Sotto Capo this evening, leaving the house lightly guarded. The Don will be in his office. Upstairs corridor. Third door on the left,” I finally answer, my voice matter-of-fact.
“How do you know all that?”
Only Yaro would dare to ask such a question. My second-in-command has been with me too long to shy from such open inquiry.
“Someone inside have a big mouth?”
The men in the back exchange a look. My eyes shift to the rearview mirror at the movement.
None of them would dare to ask how I’ve gleaned that particular piece of information.
They all simply accept that I have my ways, as I always do.
One of many reasons I’ve succeeded in so many ways when others have failed before me.
“Let’s just say someone owed me a favor,” I say, pulling the pistol from inside my coat pocket, sliding the mag out to check it then locking it back into place. “And if they lied, they’ll wish I would have put a bullet in them instead of the penance they will pay at my hands.”
Silence falls. No one, absolutely no one, would want to be on the wrong side of the Russian Pakhan.
I crack my knuckles as the SUV slows on approach, “Remember, this is not a negotiation. It’s a message. Let’s make it a clear one.”
Sliding parallel to the curb Yaro throws the shifter into park and the locks click open. The back doors fling open an instant later. I am the last one out of the vehicle, slipping from the passenger’s seat with my eyes trained on the house with cold, calm calculation.
Yaro is there in an instant, beside me, clearing the path around us with precision as the others surge ahead. The five men move like wraiths in the night, decades of combined experience in this life making them more than effective. They are downright lethal.
Artyom and Vlad reach the door first, reaching for the latch, the knob turning without resistance. Unlocked, just like I arranged for it to be.
They exchange a glance, looking to me for affirmation. At my nod everyone explodes into action. Artyom is the first through the front door, taking down the first Italian guard with a strike to his throat. A muffled gurgle and the man collapses in a heap on the floor.
The second guard comes rushing at us, reaching for his weapon.
But Vlad is faster. He has the man disarmed and on the ground in a matter of moments.
It's clear the Italians weren’t expecting company.
There are only two guards posted in the foyer, granting us easy access to split up and search the rest of the house.
I follow the men closely, the fabric of my long black trench coat billowing around me like a cape. Yaro stalks close at hand, like a nightmare coming to life. All the men are armed but the instruction was clear—non lethal force unless utterly unavoidable.
I'm still hopeful that I will be able to muster a mutually beneficial agreement with the Italians. Since becoming Pakhan I’ve been able to get all the major players in Chicago to get onboard with a more organized underground.
Everyone except the Italians. I wasn’t eager to continue hunting down their operations.
Putting more blood on the street would only make it harder to get all the underworld houses inline to sign the accords.
No, it was time to go after the head of the snake itself.
Movement from the hallway catches my men’s attention as three more Italians emerge.Suddenly everyone is in action, the air filled with sharp snaps and suppressed grunts as the men fight their way further into the house.
We surge forward, precise and brutal just as I planned.
The sound of fists on flesh ring out in the small space.
Two men move ahead, clearing the stairwell.
The other three remain on the ground floor to dispose of any backup.
An Italian comes running from a side hallway, lunging past Yaro headed straight for me with a blade in hand.
He's fast, but I am much faster. Stepping to the side I grab a hold of the man’s wrist, pivoting at the same time and twisting his arm around and behind his back, leveraging it to bring him to his knees.
With a cry the Italian drops the knife as he goes down.
I have to give the man some credit; he doesn’t give up easily.
Twisting on his knees, he tries to lash out at me once more bare fisted.
With a shove I put enough distance between us to cock my own fist back, then drive it straight into his jaw with brutal force.
The man takes the blow. He falters slightly but regrouped enough to rush me, the motion propelling us both into the wall at my back.
The impact pushes the air out of my lungs but I'm already moving.
Gripping my opponents shoulders I push enough space between us to grip the back of his head and drive my knee straight into his face.
The blow is enough to knock the man unconscious and I watch with a smirk as his limp body crumples at my feet.
Straightening, I right the lapels of my coat, turning back to the fray just in time to witness Yaro toss another newcomer into the opposing wall.
“See? Told you. You don't need a damn bodyguard.” Yaro barks at me with a laugh.
I just smirk, a barely noticeable twitch of the lips, as I head in the direction of the stairwell, my second falling into step beside me once more. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, reading the message as the screen lights up. ‘We got him’.
Exchanging a glance with Yaro, we move quicker now, ascending the stairs two at a time. When we reached the landing I count the doors.
There.
The third door on the left. Except it isn’t where it should be. It has been completely taken off the hinges, smashed into pieces. Apparently the boys needed to break it down after all.
When I enter the room I take a quick assessment of the situation, and the state of my men.
Artyom’s lip is bleeding and he has a cut above his eyebrow.
Sacha is rubbing at his right shoulder, talking quietly to Yaro, while Vlad is leaning against the far wall with a hand on the Don’s shoulder, holding him in place.
Three of the Don’s men are knocked out and strewn across the carpet in various places around the room. Most of the furniture has been toppled and fractured all around. It’s a mess, and it will serve my purpose perfectly.
Just one final touch to be added.
Picking my way across the mess of a floor I stand looming over the Italian Don, Onofrio De Mello.
What a piece of work. At 50 years of age he is cruel and greedy beyond imagination.
I’ve been able to broker an agreement with most of the other families to stay out of the sex trafficking business, but not De Mello.
It's the dirtiest, ugliest part of the underworld in my opinion.
Involvement in that particular aspect of crime led to my parents' death and it was the first thing to go when I assumed my position.
I've spent the last seventeen years getting Chicago’s organized crime out of the trade and building less repulsive forms of business. Maybe more brutal, but still cleaner.
Agreeing to this part of the deal was icing on the cake for me.
The Don has been the thorn in my side without reprieve for the entirety of those 17 years as the Pakhan.
While the Italians aren’t officially involved in the dirty business De Mello himself was, and he has made it clear he has no desire to let go of his ‘cash cow’ as he once put it.
Looking down on him, slumped on the floor, face red and slick with blood, favoring an arm that twists at an unnatural angle, I can’t help but enjoy the moment. Maybe I am a sadist. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
“I strongly suggest you reconsider your choices, De Mello.” My voice is ice cold, unfeeling as I spoke. “You thought you could buy your way into my territory? Not a chance in hell.”
De Mello spits at me, a combination of blood and spittle landing on the toes of my pristine black boots. I don’t flinch.
“Better yet, learn to make better choices,” I growl.
If looks could kill, the Don would have pulled his last breath right here and now under my gaze. It only takes one strike, the crack of the older man’s knee echoes through the room as it shatters beneath my boot. The Don screams in agony, then falls silent as he passes out from the pain.
“Message delivered,” I tell the others. “We’re done here.”
I turn on my heel, flicking blood from the toe of my boot and exiting the office.
They follow me, filing out of the room one by one down the stairs in silence, not fazed in the least by the mess we’ve left in our wake.
Italians, groaning or unconscious, line the walls and floor as we move back through the house.
Outside, the SUV waits for us just as we left it, key still in the ignition, doors open.
The surrounding neighborhood is quiet, untouched by the violence that has taken place within.
Yaro, Vlad, Artyom, and Sacha all jump into the vehicle, glancing pointedly at me when I don’t immediately join them. I remain outside the vehicle standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the house, phone in hand.
My thumb hovers for a second before pressing the contact number saved in the phone.
It rings once, twice, then a muffled male voice answers cautiously. “Pronto?...Già fatto?...”
“Da, it’s done. My part of our bargain is complete,” I say coldly. I’m met with silence from the other side of the line. “Your turn. You have four days.”