Chapter Eighteen
Leonid
In the days that follow our meeting with Viktor, Ivan got to see just how wrong a war with an Italian family would be.
Back on my boss’s boat, he had no idea about them. He just knew that our territories would not overlap due to the agreement between the Bratva and the mafia. This meant that we would not cross paths on the street. He’s now realizing how that would make all of our lives more difficult.
Every day, reports come in from our men. They document the size and complexity of the Pistone family, which is just one of the sixteen families in Florida alone. Owning twenty percent of the Italian restaurants in Miami beach—including Giorgio’s in Little Italy—they use them as a front for their illegal enterprises.
The Pistone’s specialize in racketeering, loan sharking, dealing expensive drugs like cocaine and cheaper ones like crystal meth. They have easily more than three hundred foot soldiers. That number is dangerously close to ours. So, if they asked just one more family to help them out, we would be neck-deep in shit.
The Italians are known to be efficient and tenacious. I’d hate to be outnumbered two to one against experienced henchmen. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if three or more families decided to come after us.
Four days later, we have the information we need.
Our contacts on the street provide us with the name of Tommy-No-Nose, along with some details about him.
Tommy Simeone.
He’s thirty-two with a few arrests, mainly for assault and possession of firearms. In other words, he’s just another henchman. Someone low on the food chain. This baffles me and Ivan even more. What the fuck motivated him to put that bomb in my car? Because I didn’t know he even existed prior to his attack. I’ve never met him in person or heard his name on the street.
Of course, this is only natural since Simeone operates in the southern part of Miami. But still, I am amazed to hear that Clare and I were targeted by this Italian enforcer.
There’s only one way for us to get an answer.
Having a chat with him.
Yet, we can’t do that in public. We can’t just barge into Giorgio’s, guns blazing. We like to keep things nice and neat. Nothing sensational—cops get a hard-on whenever they come across scenes of mass shootings. The Bratva doesn’t like the police breathing down its neck. More than that, Simeone is an experienced enforcer. Taking him out won’t be easy, especially if our first shot misses. We need the element of surprise.
Rurik tries to prove himself invaluable yet again when he suggests putting a GPS tracker on Simeone’s car. But, this time, we don’t need any high tech to determine where we should hit our target. The information we’ve got from our contacts is clear: Simeone loves his strip clubs. In particular, he loves visiting Kayleigh’s Cabaret, a strip club just five blocks away from Ocean Drive.
I can cut tension with a knife when Ivan’s Ford rolls into the underground parking lot of Kayleigh’s Cabaret. I’ve been aching to get a hold of this son of a bitch ever since I woke up in that hospital bed.
“Are you still with me over there?” Ivan asks, throwing quick glances around at the stationary cars.
“Right here,” I say in a steady voice. “We’re looking for a black Chrysler 300C.”
“Not the car I’d choose if I wanted to keep a low profile,” Ivan says.
“He doesn’t,” I remind him, locating the vehicle in question. “There.” I point up ahead and to the left. “Between that red Nissan and a blue Cherokee.”
“Nice,” he praises, his Ford rolling past the Chrysler.
We’re in luck—there is space in the corner, well out of the reach of the fluorescent lights overhead. My brother reverses into the spot.
“If Simeone is our guy, he must have been following orders,” Ivan says. “He can’t have done this on his own—he just doesn’t have the resources.”
I roll my shoulders, feeling a buzz in my head. “I don’t know, bratishka. The whole operation cost him just forty-two-and-a-half thousand. It’s a lot of money for a henchman, but it’s not that much. You’re right about the first part, though. Henchmen don’t take initiatives. They get paid to follow orders.”
“So, what if this guy’s capo gave him the order?” Ivan poses the question I have been dreading. “Won’t that mean we’ll have to take him out, too?”
“I would tear that fucker apart—I know that much,” I admit, my voice bass-deep. “But I doubt Viktor will give us the green light for that. You heard him back there. Tommy dies; nobody else.”
I grip the door handle and get out. There’s a strong smell of gas in the air as I settle my gaze on the strip of concrete between those cars. Ivan begins to speak, but just then, my ears catch voices in the air. I gesture to him to quiet down, spotting three figures well away from our spot. They’re strolling across the parking lot, their chuckles loud enough to reach me.
“5’10”, black hair, light build and a beard.”
Dmitri’s description comes back to mind, those three closing in with each passing second. They’re about twenty yards away when I identify Simeone. He’s in the middle. A shorter guy with blond hair and a stocky build is on his left and a much taller, more athletic one on his right.
I reach into the holster around my chest and yank out my pistol, cold metal against my skin. But, in the blink of an eye, that much-needed element of surprise is gone. Ivan leans on the hood of his car, his watch making a short, sharp sound upon making contact with the aluminum.
Those three, they stop laughing, their gazes fixed on the corner. They take their guns out from behind their belts. Tommy’s the first to pull the trigger. The crack of his bullet resounds through the parking lot as I drop to my knees. The side of my head rests against the driver’s door of the Cherokee; more bullets whistle past, some getting lodged into the side of Ivan’s Ford. Smoke rises from the bullet holes. Ivan ducks to avoid the fire.
I steady my breath, understanding that we’re pinned down. Another bullet hits the tire on Ivan’s car and air shoots out. The tire flattens, the rim hitting the ground with a deep thud. I tilt my head back and sneak a peek over the hood of the Cherokee.
Holding my pistol with both hands, I aim at the short guy to my left. By now, he’s much closer, his own weapon clicking on empty. I’m just about to squeeze the trigger when he sprints off towards the Chrysler. More slugs shatter the side of the Ford. The rumble of a powerful engine is clear amidst the chaos.
A trail of gas from underneath Ivan’s car is trickling across the ground. I’ve got to move. Keeping my head down, I crawl away from the Cherokee. I catch the reversing lights of the Chrysler out of the corner of my eye, moving around the front end of the Ford.
My heart sinks the second I notice Ivan lying on his side. There’s a hole in the left shoulder of his jacket. Blood has stained it and has reached all the way down to his forearm. He gazes at the ceiling.
The Chrysler barrels towards the exit of the parking lot.
I shove my gun back into its holster. I grab Ivan by the torso and turn towards the wall behind me, dragging him with me.
My ears still buzzing, I get a nasty feeling in my gut. We don’t have much time. We have to get out of here.
“Can you walk?” I whisper, barely able to hear my own voice.
Ivan gives a quick nod.
I brace myself and lift him to his feet.
My shoes splash in a puddle of gas, and I move my hand down to my brother’s arm. I grip him hard and he staggers forward. We put distance between us and that dark corner of the parking lot. I don’t look back—I know what’s going to happen.
“Run!” I cry at the top of my lungs, almost halfway across that strip of concrete.
Ivan groans in pain as he jogs closer to me. Adrenaline is shooting through my veins, my heart ready to burst from my chest. Somehow, Ivan musters all of his strength and matches my pace.
Our loud footsteps are echoing across the space, the entrance getting closer with each stride. A deafening bang rocks the lot from side to side as the roof of the Ford is blasted upwards. The closest fluorescent lights shatter as the shockwaves shoot across.
My brother and I step out and into the darkness of the street.
We move away from the strip club itself, hiding in the shadows of surrounding palm trees. Customers clamor out the front door. I watch as Ivan leans against the trunk of a tree. I look down at him and drop to my knees.
“Leo...” He croaks, blood pooling in the corner of his mouth, his gaze now fixed and glassy.
“Stay with me,” I command, pulling aside the lapel of his jacket. More blood has soaked his white shirt, its stain expanding around his chest.
He coughs, his body jerking back against the trunk. “Listen. You need to promise me something,” he says in faint voice, his focus settling on me.
“What?”
“Get him,” he whispers. “Get him for me.”
“We’ll get him together,” I promise.
Ivan’s gaze flickers before he tips his head back.
I crane my neck, my heart pounding harder. His eyes close and it’s like someone has shoved their hand into my chest and ripped my heart right out. “No!” I shout, thrusting my hand up to his face. “Don’t slip away! Wake up!”
I exhale over his chin, my breath shallow. Frustration mixes with sorrow. I slam both my fists into the tree, anger soaring through my system. Once again, we failed to do what we had set out to do. Simeone is still breathing. His head is still attached to his body. I don’t have my revenge against him. Instead, I have a bleeding Ivan, and I need to get him the hell out of here.