“What word would you like for me to send back to your son?” Kuznetsov asked, pleased with the effect the message had on Alexander. He pulled out a cell phone to record the message so that it could be smuggled back to Erik.
Alexander with his last breath, raised his head and looked directly into the lens of the phone. His eyes were red now, his voice stronger for the moment. “Kill him,” Alexander seethed. “Kill Dmitry Medlov.” Giving out, his head fell back on the pillow and the monitor behind him blared. Nurses could be heard running down the hall toward his cell. There was nothing else to live for, nothing else to dream about. His eyes averted to the ceiling, and he allowed himself to release his soul from his body, uncaring of who came to claim it.
Kuznetsov ended the recording and put his phone away, moving out of the way as nurses ran in and started to work on the old man. A smile pulled at his lips as he turned and walked out of the cell. Alexander Popov was no longer a problem for him. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for Dmitry Medlov.
Chapter Three
Memphis, TN
The Medlov Compound
Two Days Later (4:00 p.m.)
I n the serene silence of his opulent home office, Dmitry stood facing toward the panoramic windows behind his credenza that gave perfect view of the back of his vast estate. The manicured grounds, a testament to his wealth and admiration of natural beauty, was decadent in design. It donned plush green grass tended to daily by a team of professional gardeners, exotic flowers from all over the world planted in very intricate gardens of the most precious stones, large hedge bushes cut into quirky designs to amuse his children, bird ponds picked out by his wife, concrete statues of the saints dedicated to his Catholic faith and a general personality of warmth and happiness that all in his home enjoyed.
Every day, he would stand here in this window and admire it all; thank God for all that he had, ponder on all the tasks before him and think about his life. Sometimes he was catapulted by cruel memory back to the years before when heartache and loss had crippled him. Other times, he was able to think of the joys of his life like his darling children, his brave son and nephew and the triumphs of his existence. Regardless of where his thoughts took him, every day, after he had pondered for a while, he came to one singular conclusion - he did not deserve any of it.
But while he knew that he was not deserving of all that he had amassed, he was unwilling to give it up. He had fought long and hard to arrive at this place in his life and nothing short of death would take it from him.
As he stood today, the glow of the late afternoon sun had just half an hour before fed his grounds and bathed his estate in its golden hue, but now a storm was on the horizon, carrying with it dark, heavy clouds and the rumble of angry thunder. A hollowing wind ripped through the air and cracks of lightning flitted through the sky, blotting out the sun and bringing the promise of rain.
Dmitry’s glimmering blue eyes were affixed to the coming storm, watching it with care as he picked up his violin. A song was in his heart. It had been lingering there for several days, playing a somber tune inside of him. Unable or unwilling to fight it any longer, he had pulled his instrument from its black leather case and decided to play in hopes that after the dread he felt deep inside might finally go away.
With the sleeves of his tailored blue dress shirt rolled up mid-forearm, exposing the intricate mafia tattoos he had been given decades before, he placed his shiny violin just below his collar bone, cupped it under his stubborn chin, making sure to keep it horizontal and angled to the left of his straight forward position, and picked up his bow. Turning his wrist slightly, he gently glided the bow across the strings of the violin, hearing her come alive in his embrace.
Ahh, what a beautiful, magnificent sound she made. Exhaling a deep breath through his nose, he closed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw and played.
The two lowly guards standing in the hallway immediately perked up, like dogs to a whistle, when they heard the foreign sound, but alarm quickly dissipated when they realized the origins. Boss was playing again. Very rarely did he do so, but when he did, it was understood that he was not to be interrupted. They glanced over at each other with a knowing stare and then resumed their protective stance on either side of the double-door entrance.
The impending storm was steadily approaching even as Dmitry serenaded his haunting memories, bringing with it a trepidation that was not yet willing to reveal itself. The sky had turned dark with a blanket of gloom. Silver bolts of blinding lightning streaked across his grounds before finally a heavy rain fell, beating against his windows.
Still, Dmitry kept his eyes shut. Swaying as he played, the recess light above him shining down on his blonde and gray mass of curly hair, he belted a tune that was so powerful it seemed to consume everything around him, even the guards who stood outside his doors.
It was as if he played to fight away the melancholy, to fight against the pain inside of him, to fight against the anxiousness that stirred him out of his sleep for the last few weeks, to fight against the memories that tried to cripple him with guilt. He fought it all with a bow and a violin. He fought against the tears that dared to drop from his eyes at the thought of his brother, Ivan, when he was just a young innocent, beautiful boy running up and down the streets of Moscow playing kickball, at the thought of his young mother fixing borscht in their small apartment when she wasn’t turning tricks to feed them, at the thought of his best friend, Davyd’s boisterous laugh after a dirty joke, at the thought of his late wife Catherine when she tried to learn how to box atop their king-sized bed in London before she started to truly battle with the cancer, at the thought of his ex-girlfriend Elsa frolicking down an Angolan beach after dusk, at the thought of his son Anatoly finally revealing himself as his son at Mother Russia Restaurant, at the thought of his daughter’s birth into this world and later her abduction by his own sister, at the thought of him kneeling before his wife on the snowy streets of Moscow to ask for her hand in marriage and then the thought of Ivan raping her, even as she carried his first child. He thought about having to kill his mentor’s son because he knew that if he did not, Popov would have come after him and all that he loved. He fought it all. So many thoughts. So many memories. So much pain. So much betrayal.
By now, the storm was right on top of his estate. Furiously, it poured itself atop of his mansion, drenching his beautiful grounds, filling him to the brim with something akin to agony. Hot tears streamed down his face. Gripping the bow, he played harder. His melody poured out of his office, down the hall and into the house.
The maids stopped to listen. The butler stopped to wonder. The guards stopped to think. The children stopped playing their game of hide and seek down the hall. The world stopped…
Dmitry had drifted into another world. He had stepped back in time and was floating among his memories. It drew him in to its center even as the flashes of people long lost to this world danced around him like a tornado. He could see them all looking at him, judging him, crying out to him – foe and friend, family member alike. He played for them now, crooned a melody of desperate longing and departure. His chest swelled with emotion and for a second, he felt it nearly impossible to breathe, but he allowed himself this vulnerability for just a second, because he knew this storm on top of his house was a sign. Trouble was coming yet again, and there was nothing he could do about it but fight.
Resigned to that fact, he finally lifted his chin from the violin and removed his bow from the strings. He dropped his arms to his sides and looked directly into the storm. Tilting his head, he wiped his face just as a huge clap of thunder rocked the house and then a white dove came crashing into the window in front of him and the family photo of all of his children and Royal fell face first on the desk. He watched as the small foul fell to the concrete outside and fluttered before dying.
Blinking slow, he slouched his wide muscular shoulders and lowered his head. It was a sign, an omen. He would have to kill again very soon or lose his family.
As Royal hung up the phone in the kitchen after her call, she looked toward the arched doorway that led out to the hall, hearing her husband’s violin. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had heard him play. Wiping her hands with the towel on the granite countertop, she twisted up her lip. If he was playing that violin, he was surely in no mood to hear the news she had just received, but there was never a good time to announce death.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Anya asked, sitting at the island bar eating a snack while watching the Disney Channel on her tablet. Glancing up at her mother, she read Royal’s body language and knew that something wasn’t right.
Royal raised a brow and tried to smile, but her expression betrayed her. “Nothing, baby. Just grown up stuff,” she managed to say with a heaving breath. Leaning her back against the counter, she tried to control her breathing
“Why is Daddy playing his violin?” Anya asked, the innocence gone from her striking blue eyes. She was ten now, but so much older emotionally. Narrowing her gaze on her mother, she waited for an answer.
Royal put a bowl of mandarin oranges in front of the girl. “Sometimes, Daddy just likes to play,” Royal answered. Anya made her uncomfortable when she asked too many questions. Her daughter was too inquisitive, too aware of the world. “Eat your snack. I’ll be back, okay.”
“Are you going to go and check on him?” Anya asked, pushing her tablet away from her and grabbing an orange.
“Yes, I am, nosy,” Royal said, pulling off her apron. She was right in the middle of cooking dinner, right in the middle of trying to be normal. Damn it to hell. Glancing over in the corner, she nodded toward Marat, who was quietly watching the exchange and had already picked up on his cue to keep Anya busy while she was gone. Striding out of the kitchen, she moved past the help who tried to busy themselves when they saw her.
The walk down the long, limestone hallway seemed to take forever. She could feel her husband breaking through the music. It ripped through her, making her want to sprint toward the door. But instead, she kept her head up, her stride slow and her face unreadable.
Halfway down the hall, the music abruptly stopped, and a loud clang of thunder rocked the house, making the lights flicker. That was odd. Nothing ever seemed to disturb their electricity. Arriving at the door, she moved past the guards, who dared not stop her, and grabbed the brass knob. Opening the door, she stepped inside to find Dmitry staring out of the windows with the violin in his hand.
His stance was wide but not aggressive, more defeated then anything. Still in his dress shirt and dark blue slacks from a meeting earlier, he had been in this confounded office for hours. She watched him, gigantic and beautiful, breathing heavily with his back to her.
He didn’t have to ask who it was. There was only one person in the world who entered his office with more command than he did. Slowly, he turned to her and swallowed hard. The look on her face was ominous, making him prepare for the worse.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in a deep, thick Russian accent, putting the violin back in its case.
Royal walked up to his desk. “The doctor called. Anil’s mother won’t make it much longer. She’s suffering…badly. They think it’s time.”
“Time to what?” Dmitry asked.
Was it not apparent? Her frown was instantaneous though she took care with her tongue. “To let her go,” Royal said, clearing her throat. Since she had been taking care of her husband’s son’s mother, she had grown close to the woman. She had come to love her, even though not a single word had been spoken between them. So, the news that she was delivering was not easy for her, but she tried as the mistress of this house to have some decorum. “It’s time to pull the plug and let her…” her voice strained, “go with God.”
Dmitry picked the picture of his family back up from where it had fallen and placed it carefully against the base of the lamp on his desk. Nodding, he tried to avoid eye contact with Royal. “Very well. I’ll tell Anil.”
Royal put her hands on his desk. She knew that he had not loved the woman, but surely the news was painful for him in some way. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking at Dmitry.
Dmitry lifted his head and looked down at his wife. He almost grinned at her fury. She was so full of life and love and passion and never able to control how it controlled her. How could he explain something to her that he didn’t even know himself? Why worry her? It was clear she had enough on her plate. Reaching across the desk, he ran a hand over her soft brown cheek. “Nothing, love. I’m fine, just have a lot on my mind.”
Royal could see the redness still in his eyes from where he had been crying, but she had learned long ago that the best way to be his wife was to keep him strong, not to break him down. Her voice softened as she put her hand over his. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower? I’ll send for you when it’s ready.”
Dmitry smiled at her in appreciation. She was always trying to take care of everyone. “I should go and talk to Anil first. Then I’ll come to dinner, da.”
“Okay.” Royal nodded and stepped back. It was clear that he needed a few minutes alone. Besides, she had said what she need to say. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” Pausing at the door before walking out, she turned and looked back at him. She wanted to pry, to find out what was going on inside of his head, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she did the only thing she could do – comfort him. Her voice was soft now, like a gentle breeze to cool his heated temperament. “I love you, Dmitry.”
Dmitry sat down in the chair behind his desk and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. With his long legs cocked open and his back pushed against the chair, he swept a gaze over his wife in her black yoga pants and T-shirt and felt a sudden urge to take her. She was most beautiful when she didn’t try, most beautiful when she was busy being a good wife. “I love you always, Royal Medlov,” he said sincerely. Waving her off, he tried to make his voice more chipper. “Now, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Go cook your dinner, before I think of something else for you to do.” A naughty grin crooked at his lips.
Royal blushed and shook her head at his inuendo. Maybe he wasn’t as sad as he first seemed. “You’re a hound, you know that?” Grinning, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Dmitry was smiling until the door closed, but as soon as he was alone again, he felt the dread return. Pulling out his cell phone, he sent a group text to his son, Anatoly, and his nephew, Gabriel. Both were out of the city doing deals, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to ignore the omen. Something was coming, and the only way he could protect those he loved was to keep them close.
Stop what you’re doing and come home now. I’ll explain when you get here.
As soon as he put his phone down, it rang again. He started to ignore the call, but then he noticed who it was from. Zoya, a young spy he was using to do some very clandestine work.
“Hello,” he answered.
“I finally made contact…well, sort of. He noticed me today. I’m sure I’ll have a conversation with him by the end of the week,” she answered.
It was just the news Dmitry needed. Despite his internal alarms warning of danger, something was working out as planned.
Chapter Four
Budapest, Hungary
District V
78 József nádor tér
The Golden Bull Restaurant
A stone’s throw from the breathtaking view of the ancient Danube River and ideally situated on the public square in the city’s centre, the high-end restaurant, The Golden Bull, known for its fine cuisine and upper echelon patrons was finally getting ready to close for the evening. After a full day, a successful wine tasting and a private birthday party for a very needy diplomat, the staff patted themselves on the back for a job well done as they ushered the last of the patrons out into the night air.
“Jó éjszakát,” the hostess said, bidding a jovial goodnight with a bright smile as she held on to the brass
handle of the large oak door leading into the restaurant.
It was good to see them finally go. It was even better to know that she’d be in her bed studying her books soon, after being on her feet for six hours straight. But first, she had to hurry back inside and help clean up the dining room. A gentle breeze came rushing from the west and danced through her auburn asymmetrical bob. Taking a moment to enjoy its coolness, she tucked a wild strand behind her ear and glanced down the empty walkway toward someone who seemed to supernaturally draw her attention.
A man was stalking toward her in a determined stride. He was covered by the shadows of the evening with only glimpses of his tall frame as he passed the romantic iron lamps attached to the buildings. With a briefcase in his left hand and his head down, he seemed to take up all the space around him. There was something menacing about his presence and as his head finally lifted to reveal black-as-night eyes that landed on her, she felt him to be a threat.
The hostess nodded his way and prepared to step back inside, but he quickly caught the door with his large hand before she could safely take her leave. The abrupt action stirred her senses awake, making her eyes widen.
She hesitated at first and then tried to apologetically retreat. Her fingers gripped the handle harder, making her knuckles turn white. Pushing back against the door, she planted her petite feet on the ground and looked up at the man. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re closed now,” she managed to say, green eyes flashing with a tinge of fear at the man’s dark brooding glare.
Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7) Page 4
