He looked her up and down, unimpressed. She was skinny, wearing a short black skirt and black pantyhose with black leather flats and a crisp white button down. Finally, his eyes landed back on her own. “I’m here to see your chef,” he said, Russian accent thick and unmistakable.
“Is he expecting you?” she asked, looking just beyond him as the drunk diplomat and his entourage pulled out of their VIP parking spaces and headed down the pedestrian street. They didn’t even notice the exchange she was having with the stranger. Alas, she was alone and even more vulnerable now.
“He won’t turn me away once he finds out that I’m here,” the stranger assured.
She nodded her compliance. “If you would just stay here, I’ll go and call on him,” she said, letting go of the door handle as she darted away from him into the restaurant.
The man was tall, strong and unwilling to take orders from a young, skinny girl. Walking in behind her, he looked around the small establishment. “I’ll wait at your bar,” he said, closing the door and locking it behind him.
Her eyes went to the lock and then back to him. “We don’t have a…bar,” she said, motioning toward the nearest table. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be right back with the chef.” Passing the other wait staff as they cleaned, she headed toward the kitchen where she found Chef Farkas speaking with the sous chef.
“Sir,” the waitress said, voice high-pitched from distress.
Farkas glanced up at the girl as she entered and paused his conversation. Turning to the woman, he frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“There is a man here to see you,” she said, glancing back toward the kitchen door. “He said once you knew who he was you wouldn’t turn him away. He insisted on coming in…wouldn’t wait outside.”
“Okay, what’s his name?” Farkas asked, walking toward the door.
“He didn’t say,” the hostess answered, voice trembling. “I…forgot to ask.”
Farkas opened the door to the kitchen and looked around the small restaurant to see a familiar face perched on a chair toward the door. Glancing back at the hostess, he rolled his eyes. “Have everyone clear out of here. They should arrive two hours early tomorrow to prepare for lunch.”
Nodding, the girl and the sous chef went immediately to tell the staff, while Farkas stepped back out into the dimly lit restaurant and made his way to the man.
“Leave us,” Farkas ordering the staff cleaning up the dining room. On command, they quickly left their boss alone with his guest and the half-swept trash in the middle of the floor.
“It’s good to see you brother,” the stranger said, standing up from his chair and straightening his suit jacket. A side smile crossed his lips as he raised a dark brow. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He looked around theatrically to make his point. “Very, very well.”
“Thank you. It’s good to see you too, Yuri,” Farkas said, stopping only a few inches from the stranger. His gaze landed on the briefcase. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not just passing through?”
“I’ve never just pass through. I’m here on business. Time to call in that favor,” the stranger said with a nod. “Straight from Old Man Popov.” He tapped the briefcase. “It was his dying wish, but don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated for your trouble.”
Rubbing his temples, Farkas let out a sigh. “So, he’s dead? When?” In another life, he had worked for the Popov family as muscle, doing wet work of a very specific kind when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty. He thought all of that was behind him, but evidently, he was wrong.
“Old Man Popov kicked the bucket a few days ago, after he found out that Alexei was dead. Everyone thinks it did him in.” Yuri answered. “He’s finally gone to a better place.”
Farkas seriously doubted that, but he didn’t bother to comment on the matter. It was typical, however, that the old man’s dying wish would be to kill someone.
“Who’s the target?” Farkas asked, unbuttoning his white chef jacket. It was clear that for the moment, he would have to put his restaurant and his new identity on hold.
“Dmitry Medlov,” Yuri answered, watching a varied reaction wash over the man’s face. He expected such. Even he was taken aback when he received the orders.
Farkas’s gaze narrowed. “The fucking Czar?”
“The one and only.” Yuri turned and opened the suitcase. “Four million in Euro, up front and untraceable. I’ll deliver the other four once it’s completed. There is only one chance at this. If you don’t kill him the first time, you won’t get a second chance. Our recon team has done the leg work. We’ve been watching him for a few days. His estate is impenetrable – too many guards, too many guns, too many variables. His movements are unpredictable for the most part. He always moves with a team of men. From what we’ve been able to determine, there is only one place he’s truly vulnerable. We’ve made arrangements in advance to ensure he is there for you to do the job. All of details on the location and times are on this.” He held up his right hand and revealed the small drive.
Farkas walked up to the table and looked at the money. It was enough to pay his loan off where he would own this building free and clear. “And if I do this my debt to the Popov family is paid?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Yuri.
“You do this, and your debt is paid, and your name forgotten. You can go back to being 3-star Michelin chef Bandi Farkas, and never hear from the brotherhood again, unless we really do stop by to have a meal.” Yuri squared his shoulder and waited for a response.
Farkas’s left eye twitched. Something inside told him to turn down the job, but when a man came with cash on hand and the specifics of a high-profile hit, you either took the job or died. “When does it need to be done?” he asked, voice croaking.
“You leave tonight, headed for Memphis, TN in the United States. We have a handler for you. She’s waiting at the Ritz Carlton down the street. Room 605. Code name, Cox. Meet her as soon as you close up tonight to go over everything before you board the jet.”
Reluctantly, Farkas closed the briefcase and took the jump drive from his old friend. For a short time in his life, he honestly thought he had gotten away from this shit. That had been stupid of him to believe life was that easy. “Consider it done,” he said, facial expression unreadable.
London, England
Billionaire’s Row
The Popov Estate
Life was supposed to be great right now. Erik Popov had avoided being implicated and carted off in exile with other Russians after the English witch-hunt to identify those responsible for poisoning of Russian spies; his legal companies were showing considerable profits for the quarter despite the looming trade discussion between the U.S. and China; his illegal businesses were growing despite the uptick in Interpol investigations, and his new marriage to a 23-year old underwear model from Belgrade had not fizzled yet – like the five marriages before her. For all intents and purposes, he was living on easy street.
However, everything paled in the wake of the news that his brother, Alexei Popov, had been killed by that overblown, ego-maniac, Dmitry Medlov. It was both a moment of pure celebration and infinite anxiety for Erik. Celebration because Alexei had always been his father’s favorite son, even though he was a complete idiot. Celebration because now the family solely belonged to him, and he no longer had to deal with a continuous power struggle. Celebration because he could now wage war on Dmitry Medlov with legitimate reason, and once he was gone, become the most powerful man in the Russian underworld.
But the news also filled Erik with anxiety, because if this hit was not done with absolute precision, if the head was not completely cut off the snake, then the snake would turn more into a mythical hydra, rising from the ashes with five-times the power and five-times the problem, especially since there were at least five families on the global council who backed Dmitry’s every play.
This hit simply had to be done right, and he had gone to great lengths to employ the most covert and skillful
sharp-shooter he could find. Now, all he needed to put his plan into action was a simple yes or no answer from his captain, Yuri, who had been personally sent to handle the details in Budapest.
Impatiently, Erik Popov sat in his favorite winged-back chair looking out of the bullet-proof bay windows of his second-floor study, watching a young blonde walk her dog down the street or rather allowing her dog to walk her. She glided down the walkway like she owned it, nose high in the air, lips parted in deep thought. Her presence immediately struck a chord – a small tremor of attraction zinging through him even as his paranoia kicked in. She was incredibly tall and shapely, ass firm enough to bite, breasts large enough to palm like basketballs, long sculpted legs of an athlete, diamonds in her ear, designer heels on her feet and a seductively little outfit that mirrored her desire to be always be the center of attention. Just his type. Not a day over 25, again another prerequisite for his wayward shaft. She screamed sex – completely fuckable and completely out of place.
For many neighborhoods, the sight would have been nothing short of a commonality, but in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world, her domestic task was not only beneath her but curious for him. People on Billionaires’ Row had the help do everything for them, including walk their damn pedigree dogs. But every night, around the same time, this blonde fuck-bot ventured out with her pet on a leash, prancing around like she owned the place.
Just as he was about to move the curtain to get a better view as she walked out of his sight, he caught her looking up toward the window directly at him. Shit! Pushing back in his chair to avoid being caught, he glanced at his watch and heaved a frustrated sigh. Budapest was only an hour ahead of them. The restaurant surely had to be closed by now. So, what the hell was the hold up?
He stood up from his chair, knocking over the small ottoman in front of him as he darted over to the piano and grabbed a crystal tumbler of scotch he had left their minutes earlier. He hated being nervous. It made him pace. It made him pissed!
“What’s got you rattled this fine evening?” a voice asked from across the room.
Erik turned to find his uncle, Peter, standing in the doorway with his fists buried down in the pockets of his slacks. Turning up the glass, Erik sucked down the expensive spirits before answering his only elder. Placing the glass rather roughly back on the piano, he tried with no avail to hide his impatience. “Nothing, just waiting on a call.”
“It must be a very important one to have you pacing.” Peter entered the room, knowing without asking that his nephew did not require or want his attention at the moment. Still, there had to be a discussion, and it needed to be in private and away from all of Erik’s other counselors. “There is a rumor that you’re going to assassinate Dmitry Medlov.”
Erik almost choked as he drank the scotch. Holding back his cough, he felt his eyes water. With a strained voice, he continued, “Who the fuck told you that?” He was incensed by the leak, that someone would betray his confidence as head of the family, but that tended to happen when there were two leaders. Someone always felt more loyalty to the other boss. Now that Alexei was finally dead, he’d remedy that problem once and for all by systematically killing anyone who wasn’t exclusively loyal to him.
Peter walked up to Erik, eyeing the fidgeting man under his glasses. “You know that I would never tell you anything to hurt you…”
Erik interrupted the wanna-be king maker before he could get on one of his long lectures. He had suffered them since his uncle had been released from prison and had come home to consult he and his brother many years ago. That time had now passed. “No buts…” Erik said, pouring another helping of scotch out of the canter. As he pointed toward his uncle with a long index finger as a warning; the alcohol sloshed over the brim onto his hand and the piano top. “Not tonight.”
“But…” Peter began in defiance. “This is a very bad idea. I know Dmitry. It would be better for you to have a conversation with him to find out why he and Alexei were at war with each other, rather to assume. After all, Alexei never mentioned anything about Dmitry to us.”
Erik’s gasp was audible. “Maybe he never got the chance. For your information, I sent a letter to my father informing him of Alexei’s demise at the hand of your Dmitry, and he sent a message via video demanding the man’s head.” He blinked fast at Erik, daring him to argue against his father’s wishes.
“What message did you send?” Peter asked. “Why did you not allow me to read it or see it?”
Erik would not be questioned by a relic. It was time to set some boundaries. “He may have been your brother, but he was my father.” He pressed a hand to his own chest. “I didn’t have to consult with you first.”
“Alexei was like a son to me, but I don’t think Alexander was aware that he was dabbling in drugs and prostitution. These were things that we did not believe in. It was not what we built this family on. How are we sure that Dmitry was not at war with him because of these things?” Peter could see that Erik was hiding something. It was imperative for him to be honest in order to help him.
But Erik laughed at the idea. He felt no reason to reveal himself to a man who had long become irrelevant. Instead, he chose to use this opportunity to remind his uncle of his place, not only in the family but the organization. “Guns and whores keep this house afloat. They keep our accounts overflowing with money. It is because of my decision to move away from my father’s archaic ideas of community in order to keep us from being slaughtered and discarded by our brothers and the fucking competition. Regardless of the business model, my father made his will clear.”
“But was he misinformed?” Peter pushed.
“But!” Erik gasped. “But is my brother not dead? But is my duty not to defend my family? But am I now the head of this family? It has been a long time since I discussed what this family does to stay a part of the global council. The point is that we have a seat at the table because of me!”
Peter squinted as his memory sent him back to his days with Dmitry at Vladimir Central Prison. Even then as a young boy, Dmitry had always been intentional in everything that he did. To underestimate him now after years of experience would be a mistake. “I know this man. He is reasonable, especially toward his brothers. If we…”
“Uncle, I love you,” Erik said, back erect, eyes blazing with fire, “but if you take up for Dmitry Medlov over my dead brother and my dead father, I swear I’ll have your head tonight. And I would hate to lose another family member so quickly.” He glanced over at the old man, seeing Peter debate if the advice he wanted to give was important enough to die over. What a bull-headed old fool he was!
Peter wasn’t surprised at his nephew’s threat, nor was he surprised at his actions. Erik had always carried a chip on his shoulder. He was always looking for a reason and a way to prove himself, always wanted to be in control. The fact that Alexander had divided the power of the family between the two brothers had always infuriated Erik, and if he were completely honest, he doubted that his nephew truly mourned his father or his brother’s death. This was a power play. This was a move toward checkmate. He was power hungry and more than that, he was vindictive. More than likely, Erik had lied to Alexander to get approval for that hit, and he would twist the truth to make it what he wanted it to be in order to serve his purpose. So, if Erik had gone that far, it was likely that he would kill him if he said another word in defense of Dmitry.
Pity.
Realizing that it was better to live another day, Peter digressed. Dropping his head, he rested his case. “When you’re ready to talk to me about this, just know that I’m here,” Peter said, nodding toward his nephew. “I’m always here for you.” His voice was broken, not in just the defeat of the conversation, but the eventual fall of their house. If Dmitry Medlov was assassinated, it would be the end of their family, his boys would see to it, but that was a factor that Erik had not considered among other things.
The cell phone in Erik’s pocket buzzed. Pleased with his uncle’s accepta
nce of defeat, he lightened his voice and mood. “And I appreciate your support,” Erik said sarcastically, “but I’m more than capable of handling my shit.” He pulled out the cell phone to see that Yuri was calling. Turning from his uncle, he put the cell phone to his ear. “The answer better be YES,” he growled.
Yuri walked back to his hotel room from The Golden Bull with his head on swivel, trying to make sure that no one was following him. “The answer is yes, boss,” he said cryptically, glad to be able to give Erik good news.
“Finally, something I want to hear.” Erik hung up the phone, whirled around and raised it in his right hand in triumph. “You see that, old man. It’s handled. In a few days, Dmitry Medlov will be a fucking memory, and the Popov family will be at the top of the food chain where we belong.”
Peter raised a gray brow. Over the years, he had witnessed many men with ambition who had prematurely declared their reign before being impaled on the thorns of their own vanity. Killing a seating king was not a fool’s task. He hoped his nephew would be wise enough to understand that usurping Dmitry Medlov would not be as easy as making a phone call, but there was nothing that he could say to prove otherwise. This was one lesson Erik would have to learn on his own.
“Well, then, I will excuse myself and leave you to your business,” Peter said, voice void of emotion.
“You don’t seem happy,” Erik countered. He walked back up to his uncle and searched his wrinkled face. “I’m fulfilling my father’s dying wish. I’m protecting our family, and yet you stand here like I just told you that your dick fell off.”
Peter had always been a quiet, calculating man. In fact, it was his disposition that had kept his late brother, Alexander, in control for all those years. He was not about to lose his cool now, just to assert his own pride. Reaching over, he patted his nephew’s shoulder. “I’ve lost so much, so many. I just don’t want to lose you too, Erik. You’re all I have. You are all that is important anymore.” It wasn’t a lie. Peter had no children of his own, no family to go to outside of the men who served him. No matter their path, he had to stand with Erik now.
Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7) Page 5
