When he told suppliers that Dmitry was a Vor, they complained about him being too low level. When they found out who his old captain was, they worried that Kirill could not be trusted. Plus, Kirill had all but ignored them since his call about the price gouging. Now, they were basically out of business unless they found a go-to guy. Yet, Davyd continuously promised Dmitry that he would find someone soon. Just be patient, he would grumble right before he jumped back on the phone with his small notepad in one hand and a gnawed-up pencil in the other.
Since speaking with Kirill, Dmitry had been watching the news more. Kirill had been right about one thing. The USSR was crumbling. Based on the news reporters from London, his home country was a horrid place of oppressed peoples dominated by socialism and poor spending that had led the country to bankruptcy. Everyday, he learned a new term. Often, he would write them down and study them in his room. From what he gathered of the mess back home, it wasn’t so much about the fear that people lived in or the control the government had over the smallest liberties of life, it was about the mighty proverbial dollar. And the USSR had run out of rubles.
When Dmitry wasn’t glued to the news, the rest of his day was spent roaming the city alone or with his brother. Dmitry had a strategy. After his run-in with the half-ass gang in the alleyway near the abandoned warehouse the week before, he decided that the Medlov Family should make a better name for themselves in Brixton. They had to let people know that they were not going anywhere soon and were running the place.
Dmitry thought the best way to do that was to figure out what other criminal elements were around. Reconnaissance for later, he had explained to Ivan. His brother had of course returned with a snub question, “What the fuck is reconnaissance?”
When he wasn’t roaming, watching television or working out a strategy with Davyd, he slept. Every time that he could steal away a moment, he made his way to his bedroom, where he hid out from the world. Buried in books, he seemed to constantly smell of ink. However, he was searching for something, and while he could not exactly articulate what it was, he knew when he ran up on it, he’d recognize it.
***
It was two o’clock in the morning when Dmitry finished reading War and Peace. Closing his book, he rolled over in the bed and scribbled his thoughts in his journal right under the entry he had made a few nights before on The Art of War.
He pulled the pillow under his aching neck and hit his pen on his leg to loosen the ink. Two totally different concepts, he wrote in his journal. But I am very proud that such a great work of art was written by a fellow man from the mother country. I think I’d like to have been part of an aristocratic family. I would have liked to have been a part of any family at all. My choices would be different now, and I imagine that I would be assigned to some great station in life.
He scratched his brow, placing pen in between his delicate lips and teeth as he flipped back in his journal to look at some other entries. The intoxication of deep sleep started to come over him in heavy waves. His eyes fluttered for a moment and then the leather bound journal fell between his thighs. Sleeping deeply, he dreamt of Tolstoy’s book and even of what his mother might have looked like as a respectable woman.
As Dmitry rested, the door to his room creaked open then closed quietly. Petite footsteps slowly made their way across the hardwood floor, carrying with them the smell of cherries. Emma stood only inches away, watching him sleep. Amazed, she folded her arms in front of her as she bit her bottom lip and thought sensual thoughts that had long since the Free Right been forced to the back of her mind.
Dmitry’s muscles were taut and defined. His body appeared to be a perfect human anatomy chart. Shirtless and only wearing boxers that were pulled down low enough on his hips to see curly, dirty-blonde hair leading from his navel down into the depths of his bulging, black underwear, Dmitry rested unaware of his new guest.
Emma found his vulnerability alluring. Had she not been pressed for time, she would have simply taken a seat and watched him sleep all night. Unfortunately, she needed him up now. Stepping forward, her cherry scent wafted up to Dmitry’s nose. With somewhat of a start, his blue eyes opened, and he quickly turned towards her, pulling his arm from behind the pillow to brandish a black nine millimeter.
She stopped in her tracks. A whimper escaped through her rough exterior. Swallowing hard, hands raised, she spoke softly. “Your brother, Ivan, let me in and told me to come up,” she explained. “I wouldn’t have if…”
Dmitry lowered the gun. Sitting up in the bed, he clenched his jaw and gazed at her. His eyes swept over her, making a small zinger shoot through her body. He looked like raw, unadulterated sex.
“Why were you watching me sleep?” he asked, turning the alarm clock towards him to see the time.
“You looked so peaceful,” she said, finally putting her hands down. “I wasn’t sure that I wanted to disturb you.” Her eyes would not turn from his many tattoos.
“Where you just going to stand there and spy on me all night?”
“I might have,” she said in a low, soft voice.
His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away. “I came here to place another order,” she continued.
Dmitry nodded, knowing that she could have easily done that over the phone. Looking down in between his legs, he realized that his fly was open. Adjusting himself, he reached over on the floor, grabbed his jeans and stood up.
As he rose up from the bed to his seven feet of enormity, Emma’s breath caught again. He was like a giant sculpture. His male scent and the heat from his body were like edible pheromones drawing her to him. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was be invited to his disheveled, book-infested bed.
“How quickly do you need this order? I imagine that it must be pretty urgent,” he said with a spiked brow. His deep voice vibrated through her chest.
“One week,” she answered.
He growled and pulled on a long, black flannel shirt to cover his rippling muscles. “How much product do you need?”
So much, she thought to herself.
Emma fished a list out of her pocket and passed it up to him. He looked down at her and took the list carefully. Opening it, he read it standing in front of her then walked over to the fireplace. Tossing it into the flames, he turned around and contemplated his next words. If he told her the truth – they currently were without a supplier – and turned her away, she’d just find someone else to help The Free Right. But if he asked for more time, he could possibly use the last ditch effort over the Christmas holiday to find someone willing to work a deal with him.
“Why did you just throw that away?” Emma asked confused, looking at her smoldering list as it burned in the fire. She turned her furrowed brow on him.
“I memorized it,” he answered. “Relax. We don’t write orders down around here.” He walked past her. “But I am going to need some time. More than a week.”
“How much time?” she asked, looking at the fire.
“Right after new years.”
“That long?”
He walked up behind her, using the last thing he knew would change her mind. Running his hand through her hair, he lowered his voice. “It’ll be worth the wait.”
Instantly, her sex clenched tight. Repressing the urge to turn towards him, she nodded her head. “Alright. You have until three days after the New Year. I won’t wait a minute longer,” she said in a quivering voice, hoping he understood her double meaning.
“I won’t disappoint,” he whispered seductively.
The chill returned to Emma’s spine. She could feel his words resonate deep within her, and suddenly she knew that he would not disappoint her on any front. Closing her eyes for a minute, she pulled herself together and then turned to him. He was too tall to make eye contact with face-to-face, so she focused on his rock-hard abdomen.
They stood in the silence of the room, the fireplace crackling behind them, making love in their thoughts. His sexual energy consumed her, and suddenly she was as hot
as the glowing embers popping in the pit.
Why won’t he just take me? she asked herself. “I should go then,” she said finally.
Dmitry did not answer. Instead, he walked to the door and opened it. Lowering his head, he leaned on the wall as she passed him. Her cherry scent lingered in his nostrils. He savored her fragrant smell. Feminine. Beautiful.
As she closed the door behind her, he went back to the bed and laid down, this time fully awake. Dangerous adrenaline swiftly flowed through his body. He ached to have her, ached to have any woman. But he had to tread carefully with his money, because that was still what she was to him - a payday. Thoughts of his mother slipped into his mind. And in the moment he knew the truth. Emma was a glorified John.
Chapter Three
Even in Brixton, Christmas Eve was highly celebrated. People marked their businesses, homes and apartments with lights and signs in honor of the holiday. However, the Medlov place was gravely quiet and obscenely dark. While Ivan was out with some of the gang partying, it was just another Tuesday for Dmitry and Davyd, who sat by the television watching the news and making plans.
Out of over twenty calls, only one viable lead was being considered as a supplier. A man, who went by the name General, was interested in doing business with Dmitry and his crew on large orders dependent upon what happened in the next 48-72 hours in the USSR.
Dmitry thought it was a long shot, but Davyd seemed to think otherwise.
“It almost seems unreal that he’d be interested in going lower than our former rates with Kirill,” Dmitry said, thumbing through his papers and eating a chicken sandwich. How he wished for borscht this cold night and maybe even some caviar.
“No, this is the tide of change I was telling you about, brat. With the Federation folding, there will be new opportunities for us. There couldn’t be a better time to do what we do. He is probably a real general. And this is more than likely his retirement plan,” Davyd explained.
Dmitry grinned. “If he’s not bullshitting us, we stand to make considerable gains. And not just here, we can cover most of Europe.”
“Easy, boy. Walk before you run. First, we have to find someone interested in making a very large order.”
“What about Emma?”
“The Free Right may not have that type of money.”
“I get the feeling that they do, and I want in. All I have to do is encourage her to trust me.”
Davyd gave a smug grin. “You always know how to encourage women to do what you want. Now, if a man was in charge, I’d be concerned.”
“I don’t think Emma is in charge, but I think that she has the ear of whoever is.”
“Well, let’s cross our fingers and hope that the next couple of days bring good news. Then, we can move forward.”
The front doors flung open and a barrage of people came barreling through, one of which was Ivan. In one hand he carried a bottle and in the other a gun. Dmitry looked up from his paperwork and eyed him as he came waltzing into the kitchen.
“What are you boring old farts up to?” Ivan asked, pulling out a vacant chair and plopping down. His gin sloshed out on his hand.
“We’re working. What are you doing?” Dmitry asked, trying to control his growing agitation with Ivan’s late night antics.
“I did what you said. I went and cased all of Brixton with my guys.”
“And?” Dmitry asked, covering the papers so that Ivan could not see.
“We discovered what the community is missing.” Ivan put his elbows on the table and looked around at the men with a clever grin as if he had found the Garden of Eden. “They do not have any good places to gamble.” He hit the table pleased with himself.
Davyd shook his head. “They have plenty of places to gamble here, boy. It’s Brixton. Hard working, underpaid men have always gambled.”
“Not like I have imagined,” Ivan said, turning to his brother. “What the fuck do I care about Davyd’s old ass. Dmitry, I need you to hear me out on this one.”
Dmitry sat back in his chair and sighed. He wasn’t sure if he could take listening to one more of Ivan’s hare-brained schemes.
“We can get a small place not far from here and use it as a gambling hall with a few girls and a few drugs,” Ivan pitched.
“No,” Dmitry said, shaking his head. “No girls. No drugs.”
“Why not?” Ivan’s temper flared. “What’s the difference between having a few girls and having a few guns? Your shit kills people a lot faster than a little pussy and a little buzz.”
“Ivan, we have spoken about this a hundred times. We are strictly in the munitions business. We’re not pimps and drug dealers.” Dmitry scoffed at Ivan’s outrageous idea.
“No, I’ll tell you what we are. We’re fucking broke.” Ivan took a swig out of his bottle and stood up. Kicking the table, he stormed off. “You never give me a chance to do shit around here but run your fucking errands! If you’re such a big shot, why don’t you find a way to get us out of this hell hole?”
Dmitry looked at Davyd and shook his head. A clang followed Ivan’s infuriated voice as he knocked things and people out of his way.
Davyd disapproved. “You better rein him in, brat. He’s getting out of control. You’re the boss here. Remember that. Remember to keep all of your men in line, including the ones related to you. In the Vor, there is no difference between the two. There is only you and your last word.”
“Da, da. I know. I just need to find something to keep him busy, out of trouble but still make him feel like he’s actually an asset.”
“I mean no disrespect to you, because this is your crew, Dmitry, but Ivan is no asset,” Davyd said, lowering his voice. “He’s going to end up getting you into a world of shit that you couldn’t buy your way out of if you owned a manure factory.”
Dmitry knew that Davyd was right. Ivan was getting more erratic in his behavior and more uncontrollable. He picked up his sandwich to finish the last of his late night meal, but quickly put it down. His disgust with the entire situation was more than evident. With a huff, he stood up from the table. “I’ll be back,” he muttered as he left the room.
The rest of the crew had convened back on the couch to watch movies with the new VCR they had stolen, but Ivan had retired upstairs to his room to pout.
Dmitry slowly made his way upstairs. The door was locked and the music blared loud enough to rattle the dirty walls and poorly hung paintings. Lately, he felt like a father instead of a brother. Tapping his knuckles against the door, he looked up only inches away at the ceiling. “Ivan it’s me. Open up,” he said, hitting the door again.
“What do you want?” Ivan snapped.
“Stop acting like a little girl. Now open the door before I break it down and pull you out by your hair.” He knew that Ivan knew that he would do it.
The door flew open, bouncing against the doorstopper. Dmitry walked in behind his brother. Closing the door, he looked around the messy room, riddled with cans of beer and magazines. Finding a place to sit, he looked over at the radio and back at Ivan.
Ivan hated that look. Dmitry would bite down and clench his square jaw when he was reaching the point of pounding on him. He quickly walked over at hit the radio. Rage Against the Machine, Ivan’s favorite band, abruptly silenced.
“What is it now? You want to tell me how stupid I am?” Ivan asked, picking up a few of the porno magazines on the floor by Dmitry’s foot.
“No,” Dmitry said sighing. “Look, I know you want something to do.”
“That’s just it,” Ivan interrupted. “You promised all of these opportunities over here, and look at us.” He raised his hands and turned around. “This place is a fucking dump. We aren’t doing any better than we were in Moscow, and it’s been a year already.”
“These things take time. And we are doing better. We own this place. It’s bigger than our old entire apartment building.”
“But it’s a dump.”
“Don’t you ever see the silver lining, Ivan?
”
“No,” Ivan shook his head. “I don’t.” Plopping down on the bed, he focused on his brother. “I see reality. And the reality is that we don’t have near the respect that we did at home.” His voice was strained.
“Is it that you miss your friends?”
“No. I’m not that immature. I want respect.”
“You have to gain respect, Ivan.”
“Don’t talk to me like you’re my father!”
The Chronicles of Young Dmitry Medlov: Book One Page 7
