Anatoly Medlov: Complete Reign

by Latrivia S. Nelson

  On his back, he looked up at the sky and tried to breathe when the momentum slowed. His chest felt as though it would cave in. He heard cars screeching around him, trying to stop for the man lying in the middle of the street. Then he heard a car door open, heels pound the pavement and a woman screaming.

  “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry,” she squealed from afar. She ran up to him and dropped to her knees. “Can you move? Oh myGod!”

  Anatoly tried to move, tried to breathe. He reached for his helmet, to pull it off and inhale fresh air. She helped him remove his head gear. Her perfume greeting him as he emerged. Sparkles of white light blinded him. Sweat formed on his forehead from the pain. Then he heard familiar, Russian voices. His men. They came running and pushed the woman out of the way.

  “Boss, boss, are you alright?” one voice asked.

  “Call an ambulance,” another voice ordered.

  “I’m so sorry!” the woman said again.

  “Help me up,” Anatoly finally ordered as his vision came back to him.

  “Boss, I don’t know if you should move,” one of his bodyguards said concerned.

  “Help me up,” Anatoly insisted, making his body move. If they wouldn’t help him, he’d get up himself, then there would be hell to pay.

  His men pulled him up while a few others picked up his bike. Anatoly looked around. Cars stopped, and people looked on with their hands on their mouths. Great, he had become a spectacle.

  Limping, he went over to the sidewalk and sat down on its edge near a gutter. His men gathered around him as if he had just been shot. He wanted to scream at them, to demand some space, but he was too tired to bark. Instead, he slumped over and rubbed his bloody knees. He hated road rash. This shit will leave scars for years, he thought to himself. He winced as he touched the exposed, torn flesh mingled in denim jeans. Fucking bad driving women, he thought to himself.

  As he looked across the street at the woman, who had evidently hit him, Anatoly could tell that she wanted to come over. She stood in her red suit with her cell phone to her ear talking to someone – probably the police – about the accident and staring at him.

  “Should we get you out of here?” Vasily, his bodyguard asked.

  “No, go on to restaurant. Tell McNamara that I’ll be late for our meeting. See if he can reschedule for later this evening. Find out when his flight leaves and make any arrangements that he needs,” Anatoly said, still looking at the woman.

  “What about her? You want us to...”

  “No,” Anatoly said, looking back down at his aching knee. “Just go and do what I told you to.”

  “Yes, boss,” he said, taking a few of the men with him.

  The woman couldn’t help herself any longer. She put away her phone and ran through traffic

  Anatoly looked at her and automatically thought of Victoria. Her chocolate skin glistened with perspiration and her full lips curved into a pensive frown.

  “Sir?” she looked over at the bodyguards who sat with him. Stepping back a few feet, she raised her voice. “Is there anything that I can do? I’m so sorry. I didn’t look up in time. It was my fault.”

  “I know it was your fault. I couldn’t have done this to myself,” Anatoly snapped. “Do you have insurance?”

  “Of course.” She looked over at her Audi. “I can go and get my card. Are you alright?” She looked back over at him.

  “Do I look alright?” Anatoly asked.

  The woman sighed and put her hand on her heart. She wiped the tears quickly from her face. “I’m so sorry. I was...not paying attention.” Her voice faded.

  A police car pulled up with its lights on and siren blaring. Anatoly looked over and rolled his eyes. Great. Now the pigs come.

  A fat, stubby, white officer pulled himself out of the car and slowly made his way over, wobbling with every step and determined to take his time. He looked at the odd group with a frown. A black woman, a biker and a group of misfits in suits?

  He pulled out his notepad and pen as he got closer then stopped when he saw who was sitting on the sidewalk. Not just any biker. It was Anatoly Medlov. Turning around, he grabbed the radio on his shoulder and called in something.

  The woman looked over at the officer then at Anatoly. “He sure is taking his time,” she said offended. “Officer!” she called out. “Is an ambulance on its way?” She pointed at Anatoly.

  “I don’t need ambulance,” Anatoly said gruffly, getting up without his men. They knew better than to help him in front of the cops.

  “But you’re bleeding and injured,” she protested, putting her hand on her hips. “Excuse me, officer?”

  The fat cop turned around and swallowed hard. He walked up to the group and looked at Anatoly. “Can anyone here tell me what happened?” he asked in a slow, southern drawl.

  “We had an accident,” Anatoly said, ignoring the pain. “We were just about to exchange insurance information and be on our way.”

  “Who was at fault for the accident?”

  “Me,” the woman said, raising her hand.

  Anatoly eyed her. Damned right it was her fault.

  “And what’s your name, ma’am?” the officer asked.

  “Destiny,” she answered with a ring in her voice. “Destiny Palmer.”

  Anatoly looked over at the woman as she explained what happened to the officer. She had a Southern accent, sounded like she was from Memphis, looked like something out of a magazine with her busty curves and striking features.

  Her thick, naturally arched eyebrows brought out her bright, brown eyes covered by wing-like lashes. Her cheekbones were high and rosy; her nose was carefully carved, and her lips were covered in a gloss that made them perfect for kissing. She wore a tailored red suit – red being his favorite color – that discreetly covered her well-kept body.

  He trailed her arms down to her long fingers. Manicured nails. No rings. Not married. She wore red-backed, leather heels that highlighted her thick, muscular legs, and she clenched her Blackberry as if it was her only lifeline.

  What was odd to Anatoly was that she smelled like sex. It was strange that woman dressed so conservatively would smell like something so lustful, but the perfume that she wore screamed words that were so provocative he was certain that under all the layers of fine clothing, she was wearing lace. He looked at her hips as she stopped explaining.

  She and the officer looked over at him for his version of the story and caught him before he could take his eyes off her perfect butt. He smiled as he looked up - didn’t even bat an eye.

  ***

  Anatoly’s bodyguard pulled up to his boutique, Dmitry’s Closet, and dropped him off at the front door. Aching from head to toe, he limped inside, letting the door slam behind him.

  The patrons looked up as he made his way through the store to the back office with his head down and his leg dragging.

  In the corner by the dressing room, Renee, the store manager, watched him dumbfounded. Excusing herself, she left her assistant, Miriam, to see after the customers while she followed Anatoly to the back.

  As she came through the door, she saw him wince and sit down behind the credenza. After making sure the door was locked behind her, she strode over to the office refrigerator and pulled out an ice pack, then walked over to the desk. He looked up at her with a don’t-even-ask scowl.

  Renee ignored him. With a smirk, she put the ice pack on his forehead, applying more pressure than needed to his reddened face.

  “What gave me away?” he asked, putting his hand on hers as she applied the ice. He looked up at her with a boyish grin. His lip was busted and bruised, but he smiled anyway, forgetting the pain.

  “You’re all scarred up,” she said quickly. “Pretty hard to miss. What happened?”

  “I got hit by car,” he explained. “On my bike,” he continued.

  “I told you that thing wasn’t a good idea.” She stood back up and crossed her arms. “Now look at you.”

  “Ugh. You are so afraid of everythin
g, Renee. I had to buy you a Hummer to keep you from being afraid of road.”

  “That’s the company car, remember? My name isn’t on it,” she corrected him.

  “Well, you’re the only one who drives it...so...,” his cell phone rang. He rolled his eyes. Who was it now?

  The pain shot through his arm as he reached into his pants and pulled out his phone. His bloody knuckles scrubbed against the denim and stained his pants.

  Renee winced for him.

  “I’m alright,” he said more for her than him. Renee didn’t blink an eye. She didn’t believe him. He needed a doctor, but he was too bullheaded to call.

  Sitting back in the chair, he looked at the number for a minute. His face turned pale.

  Turning away from Renee, his voice lowered, and he nodded as he spoke in Russian. There were a hundred pauses between his stuttered words.

  Renee watched him from across the room in awe. She’d never seen him talk to anyone with such careful measure – not even Dmitry. He finally looked up at the ceiling, grunted, then finished his conversation and hung up.

  Turning around, he slipped his phone in his pocket and bit his lip. Renee was compelled to stay and pry. Unable to obey her instinct to leave him alone, she cleared her throat.

  “Bad news?” she asked.

  Anatoly snapped out of his daze and looked up at her. He swallowed hard again and tried to shake something off.

  “You could say that,” he finally uttered. He gave a weak smile. “My...my mother just died.” His eyes watered.

  ***

  Like his father before him, Anatoly sat at the head of the Medlov Crime Family table in the basement of Mother Russia as the council talked. As he listened while they argued, his mind traveled back to the voice on the phone, a young, desperate boy of a voice – his little brother.

  It had been so long since he had laid eyes on his family, so long since he had hugged his mother. Wh he left many years ago, his mother had told him to never return, to never look back. He had taken her advice. Even when he was in Moscow, only miles away from his childhood home, he never visited. His mother never answered his calls, even when she knew that it was him. Word had traveled to her that her son was a Vory, was a boss, was a somebody. But how could he ever remain, if people were to know where he had come from? So she disowned him out of love, and now she was dead.

  Anatoly snapped out of his daze and cleared his throat. The loud room quieted. They were all sympathetic for the boy’s loss, but they had seen him harden over the years. The quiet lion had grown from a cub to a king through crafty business deals and cold-hearted killing tactics. They knew that he would recover soon from his newest wound.

  There would only be a few more evolutions before Anatoly was the exact replica of his father—an act of betrayal so cruel until he would never recover, the loss of a true friend or a lover, and the torn ties of family bliss. Each boss had experienced each pain in a different way, but the story was always the same.

  They looked at him now, going through one of the three pains he was promised as boss. His mother had just died and with her any thought of kindness or conscience. The death of a mother was one of the two leg weights lifted off a man in Anatoly’s position.

  When his mother passed, what was left of his humility would shed like old snake’s skin. The new man who emerged would always be tougher, more resilient and more dangerous.

  The older men in the council had nearly applauded when they heard the news of his loss, realizing that the boy’s alienation from outside people only made him more astringent.

  “I’ll be gone at most two weeks. There are a couple of meetings that were coming due anyway,” Anatoly said, looking down at his pale hands. His voice was dry. “I’ll make the best use of my time while I’m there.”

  “Before you leave, we should discuss one looming problem,” an older man on the council, Yuri, said from the far end of the table. He sat forward and looked around. The other men looked on.

  “Yes,” Anatoly gave his permission to speak.

  “Lieutenant Nicola Agosto,” he said with a deep growl. The room tensed with the mention of the Italian police officer’s name. “His investigation is getting closer and closer. We have only two options, turn him or kill him.”

  “Killing a cop at his level isn’t that easy to do,” Anatoly answered. “I have contacts in his shop. Let me reach out to them to see what can be done to neutralize him, but per the request of my father,” Anatoly tapped his pen on the table, “We have been advised to tread very carefully with Agosto.”

  “Why?” Yuri asked.

  “Because it brings far too much ention back to us in ways that we won’t be able to hide. There are ways to muddy the waters for Agosto without actually touching him.”

  “Does he have something on us?” Yuri asked. “We do not negotiate with police officers...”

  Anatoly snarled. “Don’t mistake my youth for ignorance, Yuri. I know that we do not negotiate with officers, but we also do not expose ourselves and show our hand without cause.” His hand hit the table as he looked around the room. “I’m getting really tired of being reminded of the code, like I do not know it.”

  “We meant no disrespect, Anatoly. We only wanted to address the issue with the pig,” Yuri retracted.

  “Agosto’s a boy scout. I doubt that he has anything, otherwise, he would have already used it, but we have men close to him who know what he’s up to and keep us ahead of him.” Anatoly sat up in his seat. “So, nothing happens to Agosto or his family while I’m away.” He stood up and stretched his aching back. “I’m done...anything else comes down the pike, pass it through Vasily. I’ve gotta get some rest.”

  ***

  The sun had finally set by the time that Anatoly walked outside of Mother Russia. The wind blew through his blonde locks and filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath and looked up at the stars shining down on him. A tight pain was growing again in his chest – too much stress. He bit his lip and slipped into the back of the car at the front of the restaurant waiting to pick him up.

  His driver, Vasily, drove quietly through the streets without bothering his friend. He watched Anatoly look out of the window, staring out into nothingness. He wanted to ask him if he was alright, but he knew better. A Vor thrived on pain, on anger. It only made him more powerful. Their type was bred on hopelessness, so when hope emerged, they knew where it came from.

  ***

  Pulling up to the gated compound only minutes away from downtown, Anatoly was escorted back home in his Mercedes. The bodyguards stood guard in the hut, watching their boss as he was escorted up to the front of the large, plantation-style mansion, lit up at dusk with lights. In the driveway was a black Hummer.

  Evidently, Renee was visiting.

  Anatoly looked at the truck and gave a sigh of relief. He needed to see her face tonight.

  Grabbing his backpack and his IPod, he walked up the stairs slowly. As Vasily opened the door for him, he smelled food drifting through the corridors. Anatoly tried to conceal a grin.

  Dropping his backpack in the corner, he checked the mail on the table in the foyer and yawned.

  “Do you need anything else, boss?” Vasily asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of him.

  “Net.” Anatoly grabbed an envelope off the table and slipped it in his pocket. “Take the rest of the night off.”

  “Spesiba,” Vasily said, bowing his head. He turned and headed down the back corridor to his room.

  When his man was out of view, Anatoly headed toward the kitchen. He walked softly down the marble floors in the darkness of the house into the large kitchen.

  Renee had the television going while she cooked up a small feast. With her back turned and her IPod attached to her hip, she sang as she put the final touches on the fried chicken that she placed on a silver platter.

  Anatoly stood in the darkness of the corner watching her with his arms folded in front of him. He could watch her all night if she left him.
>
  Outside of his mother and his step-mother, she was the only woman that he knew who loved to cook. She took immense pride in it, but because she was alone in Memphis, away from her large family in Atlanta, she only got to cook for more than herself when she came to see him.

  In her favorite apron, she whirled around the kitchen moving plates and flatware to the island bar for the two of them. In between cooking, she drank straight out the wine bottle and sang Al Green.

  “Are you just going to stand in the corner like a pervert, or are you going to help me fix the table?” she finally asked, without looking away from the mixed greens stewing on the stove.