Chapter 5 #2
I shake my head. "Not true. Everything's for sale.
" I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, letting him see the scars on my knuckles, the evidence of a lifetime spent solving problems with my hands.
"We both know that. The only question is whether you're smart enough to name a price, or stupid enough to make me take what I want. "
Victor reaches for his glass of vodka with fingers that are perfectly steady. He takes a sip, savoring it, making me wait. The power play of a man who doesn't understand how little power he actually has in this moment. It’s almost amusing to watch.
"You know what I find fascinating about men like you, Mr. Moses?
" He sets the glass down with deliberate care.
"You build your empires on violence and intimidation, and then you convince yourselves that you're different from men like me.
That your violence is righteous. That your intimidation serves a higher purpose. "
"The difference between us isn't the violence." I keep my voice level, controlled, because the rage burning in my chest would consume us both if I let it slip its leash. "The difference is who we use it against."
"Ah." Victor's lips curve into something that wants to be a smile but doesn't quite make it.
"So you're a protector of the innocent. A guardian angel in an expensive suit.
" His pale eyes drift to the briefcase. "Tell me, does your guardian angel status extend to women you barely know?
Or is there something more... personal about your interest in the Bellrose girl? "
The air between us thickens. Around us, I'm dimly aware of people starting to move toward the exits, expensive shoes clicking against marble as they abandon their meals and their pretense of a civilized evening.
"No. I have plans for that family." Victor's voice drops to barely above a whisper, intimate and obscene.
"Years of careful cultivation are at work there.
The father was easy, drowning in dreams that were bigger than his talent.
I gave him rope, and he hanged himself with it.
The mother broke so beautifully after he died, shattered into pieces that I've been watching gather dust."
His tongue darts across his lower lip, quick and reptilian.
"And the daughter. Katriana. She's been paying me in desperation for years now.
In hope that dies a little more with each passing month.
In the slow surrender of a woman who's running out of options.
My establishments always need fresh faces.
" He pauses, savoring the words. "Resilient ones.
She will learn to be grateful for the opportunities I provide. "
The ice in my veins turns to something darker. Something that tastes like blood and smells like burning bridges.
"She will never set foot in your world." Each word comes out sharp enough to cut. "Not tonight. Not ever. The only thing you're going to get from that family is the money on this table and the memory of what happens to men who forget their place in my city."
Victor's reading glasses catch the chandelier light as he tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"You can't buy what I've built, Mr. Moses.
The slow erosion of hope that happens when a person realizes they have no way out is a glorious thing to behold.
Those things have value beyond currency.
You can only buy the number on the ledger, and the number is just the beginning of what they owe me. "
I reach across the table, my fingers finding the cool metal latches of the briefcase. The click of them releasing cuts through the silence like a gunshot, sharp and final. I lift the lid slowly, deliberately, letting the moment stretch and breathe.
The chandelier light glares across the stacks of bills inside and transforms them into something almost holy, crisp green rectangles arranged with the precision of a man who wanted this moment to have weight.
Three hundred thousand dollars. More money than Katriana has earned in her entire lifetime of servitude to this man, laid out like an offering on an altar of polished leather.
I catch sight of Victor's expression over the top of the briefcase. For just a moment, he looks like what he truly is. A twisted monster wearing the skin of someone's grandfather.
"I'm buying the number." I meet his unblinking gaze and hold it, letting him see the promise of violence that lives just beneath the surface of my control. "And you're going to accept it. Or I move up your death on my timeline."
Silence stretches between us, thin and razor-edged.
Victor's fingers drum against the tablecloth in a rhythm only he can hear.
His eyes move from my face to the money to Luca standing guard behind me to the chaos I've left in my wake.
The guard with the broken nose is being helped to his feet by a waitress who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
The one I stepped on hasn't moved, his breathing shallow and pained.
"You would start a war over a woman?" Victor asks finally.
"I would and then I’d end it." I watch as the meaning of my words settle in his shriveled brain.
More silence. The restaurant is nearly empty now, only a few stragglers remaining, their phones out, probably recording everything. Good. Let them. Let the whole city see what happens when Victor Kedrov overreaches.
"The Red Letter Syndicate isn't what it used to be.
" Victor's tone shifts, probing, testing.
"Magnus Sterling's death left holes in your organization.
The fire at Redthorne exposed vulnerabilities.
There are people who think perhaps the old order is ready to fall. People who see opportunity in chaos."
"People like the ones you've been meeting with at the docks." I don't phrase it as a question. "People like Sergei Markov and his ambitious little faction." I have no problem putting people on the spot and laying down names to see who gives themselves away.
Something tightens in Victor's expression.
His shoulders shift almost imperceptibly, a micro-adjustment that someone less observant might miss entirely.
But I've spent thirty years reading men, and I see the way his breathing changes, the slight quickening of his pulse visible in the hollow of his throat.
He wasn't expecting me to know about that connection.
His tongue darts across his lower lip, quick and reptilian, before he manages to smooth his features back into that mask of cold calculation.
"Chicago has many interested parties," he says carefully, but his fingers have started drumming against the tablecloth in a rhythm that betrays his composure.
"Chicago has one party that matters." I tap the briefcase with one finger. "And you're looking at its representative. Now. The money. Take it. Sign whatever documentation transfers the debt to me. And pray that I never have a reason to think about you again."
The seconds tick by, measured in the thundering of my pulse and the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city. Victor's pale eyes bore into mine, searching for weakness, for hesitation, for any crack in the armor I've spent decades building.
He doesn't find one.
Victor leans back against the red velvet cushions, creating distance, though his pale eyes never leave mine.
His chest rises and falls with deliberate slowness, the controlled breathing of a man forcing himself to appear calm.
One hand moves to adjust his reading glasses, a nervous tell he probably doesn't realize he has, the thin gold chain swaying slightly with the movement.
More seconds tick by. His jaw works beneath the papery skin of his cheeks, grinding over words he's not ready to speak.
His hand hovers over the money for a moment, fingers trembling with something that might be rage or might be fear.
The papery skin of his knuckles stretches white as he grips the edge of the case, and I watch his throat move as he swallows whatever pride he has left.
Finally, with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest, Victor brushes his fingers against the stacks of bills, riffling through them with the practiced ease of a man who has handled a great deal of money in his life.
"You understand that this changes nothing." His voice has lost some of its softness, hardened by the reality of what's happening. "The Bellrose debt is a small piece of my portfolio. A gesture, nothing more. The networks I've built, the connections I've cultivated, those remain intact."
I sigh with the energy of not giving a damn about what he has to say. "For now."
His eyes snap to mine, and for the first time tonight, I see something other than cold calculation in their depths. Anger, maybe. Or fear dressed up as defiance.
"Debts don't disappear just because someone else pays them, Mr. Moses." He closes the briefcase with a snap. "They transform. What you owe me now, that's something else entirely. Something I will collect when the time is right."
I slide out of the booth and stand, looking down at him. This perspective matters. The image of a powerful man reduced to sitting while I tower over him says everything about who holds the power now
"You're a collector, Victor. That's what you do.
You collect debts and you collect people and you think that makes you powerful.
" I button my jacket, smoothing the fabric that his guard wrinkled when he grabbed me.
"But here's something you should remember.
Collectors can be collected on. And I know exactly what you're worth. "
I turn and walk toward the exit, Luca falling into step beside me.
Our footsteps on the marble are deliberate and unhurried.
Behind us, I can hear Victor calling for someone to help the injured guards, his voice tight with the strain of maintaining composure.
The remaining patrons press themselves against the walls as we pass, giving us a wide berth, their faces masks of carefully neutral fear.
Outside, the air tastes like victory and impending rain. The two guards we left at the door have been moved, probably dragged inside by staff who didn't want the bad publicity of bodies on the sidewalk. Smart. Victor's people are efficient, if nothing else.
"That went well," Luca observes as we walk toward the car. "Only five people hospitalized. New personal best."
"The night's young."
He laughs, that dark sound that reminds me why we became brothers in the first place. "What's next?"
I think about the wish burning in my breast pocket. The round letters of her handwriting. The desperation that drove her to drop her hope into a box and pray for someone to answer.
I answered.
"Now I go collect what's mine." I open the car door and slide into the driver's seat. Luca takes shotgun.
"Find out everything you can about Markov's connection to Victor. I want to know how deep this network runs and who's pulling the strings."
"Done." Luca pulls out his phone, fingers already flying across the screen. "And the girl? You're going to her tonight?"
I start the engine, watching the lights of Tsarina grow smaller in the rearview mirror. Victor Kedrov stands in the doorway, his silhouette framed by warm light, his pale eyes tracking our departure with the patience of a predator who has been embarrassed in his own territory.
Let him watch. Let him remember this night and what it cost him.
"Tomorrow." My fingers tighten on the wheel. "I need to figure out how to tell a woman I just bought her freedom that she now belongs to me. In the meantime, get Kon on the phone, would you? Ask him to sit on her apartment building and make sure Kedrov doesn’t get stupid."
“Done.” Luca’s fingers don’t stop flying over his phone’s screen.
The wish sits heavy against my heart, as I weave through traffic. Chicago spreads before us in ribbons of light and shadow and I can’t help but think a war brews on the horizon with factions that smell blood in the water.
And somewhere in this city, Katriana sleeps without any idea that her life is about to change.
I bought her freedom tonight.
Tomorrow, I collect.