Royal knew what that meant. This code red had been not only planned for some time but designed with his family’s needs in mind. Stepan was also a measure to ease if no one else, Anya.
The estate was beautiful and named lovingly for Royal, but never revealed to her until now. As Stepan showed her around, he explained a little more - this was the last stronghold for Dmitry in case of an all out war with someone who had just as much power or more than he.
This estate had belonged to Dmitry’s father and was transferred to Dmitry upon his untimely death. Royal knew the story behind that as well. Dmitry’s father had owned a great deal of property and businesses, but Dmitry had taken control over it all when he had him killed.
Being so far removed from his portfolio, and because of the estranged relationship he had with his father, Dmitry had never mentioned it, meaning no one would ever know about it. Safety first.
When the tour was done, Royal stood in the master bedroom suite and looked out of the windows at the view of the mountains, wondering one thing.
“Where are you, Dmitry?” she said aloud, wiping her tears.
Chapter Fifteen
St. Petersburg, Russia
Admiralteysky District
Four Seasons Hotel
Two Days after the Shooting
H e was the last to arrive of all the families – fashionably and intentionally late. As the convoy of bullet-proof cars pulled up to the front entrance of The Four Season’s Lion’s Palace, guards quickly jumped out and took their positions, standing on the opposite side of their vehicles toward the traffic with their machine guns drawn, while a sluggish Dmitry Medlov slowly stepped out of his vehicle and looked up at the grand hotel.
The last time he had been here, it was still a 19th century imperial palace open for museum visits, but now it was luxury hotel - pimped out to the highest bidders for afternoon tea, spa treatments and special events. Pity, if he had known the place was for sale, he would have bought it years ago.
Popping another handful of pain pills in his mouth, he straightened his suit jacket and proceeded up the stairs past the historic two marble lions guarding the yellow portico and Russian flags flapping in the wind into the hotel for an emergency meeting of the international council.
It had been an excruciating trip over from the states, after being smuggled out of Memphis in the back of an 18-wheeler and borrowing a second-amendment, Republican, gun aficionado friend’s jet in Arkansas. Upon entering international airspace, he had finally spoken with a few of the council members and gotten details on the meeting and managed to call Simeon Kurdin to have someone receive his wife and family in Siberia.
Regarding the emergency meeting with the council, they were told because of the heightened tumultuous relationship between the United States and Russia after the Helsinki debacle, to maintain a low profile upon entering St. Petersburg, and under no circumstances travel with a large armed entourage to the hotel where American diplomats were staying for the week.
But Dmitry had not adhered to the advice. Fuck the diplomats and fuck the low profile. After all, they were not the ones who had been gunned down a few days before in a parking lot, he was. So, not only did he bring an entourage with him, he brought an arm for all to see.
Dressed to the nines in a ten-thousand-dollar suit and wearing his customized guns under his jacket in their holsters, he breezed into the richly-decorated lobby perfumed by the hundreds of flowers and steeped in elegance, flanked by his son and nephew along with Boris and Marat, drawing the eye of every onlooker within view.
Their sinister appearance combined with the sheer number of suited gangsters behind them stunned most of the guests into silence. Some were smart enough to leave, others were smart enough to stay out of the way.
“This is nice fucking place, eh?” Boris said to Marat under his breath as he cast a quick glance up at the ornate ceilings.
“You can visit on your holiday, you fucking moron,” Marat admonished his friend under his breath. “For now, pay attention.”
With a harp playing in the corner, the sound of kitty heels clacking against the shiny marble floors was almost comical.
“Izvinite. Izvinite. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!” a dainty, bell of voice said through the crowd, shoving her way forcefully through.
A young black-haired female assigned to handle hotel VIPs darted across the lobby to receive Dmitry, circumventing the need to check in with the concierge or scare more guests. With a black leather binder clutched to her chest, she moved in between the tall marble pillars trimmed in gold, and the table of multi-colored hydrangeas to stand in front of Dmitry.
“Welcome to the Four Seasons. My name is…Natasha,” she stuttered, eyes widening at his enormous size. Good God! She swallowed down her nervousness and forced herself to maintain a level of professionalism. “We have arranged several suites for your party, Mr. Medlov, though I’m not sure now, if they were enough.” She fidgeted with a wild strand of her hair in her face. “If you’d like to go there and put away your things before the meeting…” And stop scaring the guests with your guns, she thought to herself.
Dmitry raised a large hand, silencing the screeching sound of the girl’s voice. It seemed to elevate an active with each second that passed. “We won’t be staying in your hotel tonight, Natasha,” Dmitry said, pulling off his shades. His ice blue eyes landed on her, cutting through the pleasantries and further paralyzing the surprised employee. “Where is the meeting to be held, young lady? I would not like to be late.”
“Net, of course not, sir.” Taking a step back, she motioned toward the granite staircase leading up to the first floor. “Right this way, sir.” She glanced behind him, seeing more security flood the common area. How many guards did he have? She blinked fast and looked back toward the manager standing cowardly in the corner, but the man refused to approach.
“Is there a fucking problem?” Anatoly asked, snapping his fingers to get her attention. Was she deaf or just dumb?
What he did not realize that while he was used to his father’s size and overpowering presence, not everyone had seen a giant mobster up close before.
“No, no.” She answered Anatoly quickly, pausing at his brooding handsomeness and his similarly brilliant eyes. “No problem.”
Trying to ignore the beautiful Gabriel’s pensive stare under mossy green eyes or the violent accessories that completed his mafia-clad ensemble, she turned her back to him completely. Who were these people? Where did they come from? “Will your entire party be attending the meeting?” she asked Dmitry.
“All of us?” He looked behind him at the 15 guards and then turned with a grin on his face. Without a doubt, he had definitely brought the most men. “Yes. All of us will be attending.”
“Very well,” the young woman tried to smile.
“Would you like their names?” Dmitry asked with a smirk, toying with the woman.
“That won’t be necessary,” the girl laughed nervously. She didn’t want their names or to know anything more about any of them. This was just a job to pay for college.
Gabriel scanned the room, smirking at an older woman with a small dog in her embrace who scooted across the lobby when she saw the guns in his holster. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t bother with a jacket to conceal his weapons, fearing the extra layer of clothing might get in the way if they should find themselves in a gun fight.
“Lead the way, then,” Dmitry urged the young woman.
The woman halted at the elaborate wooden double doors of the board room where the council was meeting, refusing to go a step further. She had been told explicitly by the manager not to go into that room under any circumstance and now, she knew why.
Mobsters, all of them, she thought to herself, heart racing in fear.
A few guards protecting other families lounged in the hallway that had been blocked off from everyone else with a red velvet rope looked toward Dmitry but did not make contact with him or his small army who stood in a line that started
on one side of the hall and ended at the other. With their weapons out, their faces forward, their suits immaculate, they made the other men who were not guarding Dmitry look shabby.
Taking a deep breath, Natasha looked up at Dmitry and waited for any further instructions.
“They are in there, sir.” Her voice trembled. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Inwardly, she prayed he would give her her leave, so she could run back downstairs and gossip with her coworkers.
“No. You may go,” Dmitry answered.
As the girl ran off, literally, Anatoly prepared for battle. “You need to be ready for anything when you open those doors,” he said to his father. “You know Popov is in there, waiting for you. But the only edge we have over him is that he doesn’t know that we know it’s him.”
“That’s not the only edge I have over him,” Dmitry said, thinking of Zoya. “Besides, he won’t deny putting the hit on me here. He can’t.”
“Why don’t we just walk in there and shoot him?” Gabriel asked, annoyed with the pageantry that came with the higher ups in the organization.
Anatoly grunted. “Because they would kill our family. During a meeting convened by the council, no blood is allowed to be spilled in the host city or the entire family is automatically killed. Women, children, grandparents, dogs…everyone.”
Gabriel sniffed derisively, not surprised that there was yet another loophole to jump through to get what he wanted.
“Let’s go inside and have a talk, shall we.” Dmitry grabbed the brass knobs and swung the doors open forcefully, finding the room occupied by the entire council as they sat casually talking and eating from the large spread brought up earlier by the wait staff.
One woman was present, the granddaughter of one of the elders on the council who was charged with serving the men for the duration of the meeting. She glanced up at Dmitry as he entered, her blonde tendrils braided in two plats that were pinned to her head. In a blue pants suit and soft pink top, she smiled at him and went to prepare a tray of beverages for the last person on the agenda before the meeting could formally begin.
“Ahh, Dmitry Medlov,” the oldest man Andros Stepanov said, tucking a hand to his tie as he started to stand. As he did the other men followed suit.
“Please, don’t get up,” Dmitry said respectfully, motioning for the other members to take their seats.
“It’s good to see you,” Andros said, sitting back down. The balding man gave a sincere smile after a sweeping look over his young protégé. “And good to see you looking well after your debacle.”
When the guards closed the door behind them, Dmitry took a seat at the circular wooden table situated in the middle of the room under a large crystal chandelier with Simeon Kurdin to the left of him and Maksim Gruzinsky to his right- both were long-time friends who had already been briefed by Dmitry on the situation.
“Well, you can’t keep a good man down.” Dmitry winked at Erik Popov.
“As it seems,” Andros said, hand shaking as he picked up his coffee cup. “Let’s call this meeting to order.” With his word, the guards took their places to ensure there would be no further interruption.
“Lock it down,” the head guard said over his earpiece as he stood at the doors with his automatic weapon out.
Gabriel and Anatoly already knew the deal. Only members sat at the table, everyone else stood around the walls or took a seat in the corner like the peons they were. Sticking together, they chose to stand against the wall with the other adjuncts directly behind Dmitry, eyeing Erik Popov the entire time. If anything popped off, he’d be the first person they killed.
Anatoly sucked his teeth and stared the man directly in the eyes, crossing his arms across this chest and heaving a sigh. While Gabriel propped his boot firmly against the wall and slipped his hands in his pants pockets.
Casually, Erik rolled his eyes at their posturing and went back to sampling the caviar.
“For you sir,” the young girl said, placing tray with a glass of water, a glass of juice, a cup of tea, a cup of coffee and sugar and cream packets in front of Dmitry. “Would you like for me to prepare you a plate?” she asked, head down subserviently.
She motioned toward the center of the table, adorned with a large flower arrangement and littered with silver and porcelain trays for a fine Russian caviar degustation, blinis, an assortment of cheeses, Zakuski, bowls of bread, several bottles of top-shelf vodka, Olivier salad, beef tongue, smoked salmon bites topped with Philly cheese and capers, salted herring and a thousand other foods for the men to enjoy.
“Thank you,” Dmitry said graciously, pulling off his jacket as his stomach growled. “The food won’t be necessary.”
Anatoly went to his father and helped him, knowing the pain from the gunshots were nearly unbearable. Draping the jacket over his arm, he kept his eyes on Erik as he moved to the background quietly.
“Are you sure?” Andros asked. “After your travels, you must be famished.” It was not a suggestion but more of a directive. His granddaughter had slaved over the menu for hours trying to decide on the best selection. He didn’t want all her hard work to go unappreciated.
Dmitry understood the old man’s meaning. “Just a light portion then. Thank you,” he said to the girl. He smiled toward the old man willing to give in a little to keep from offending him. The long dimple in his face showed as he gave a smile. “I have to admit, I am extremely hungry after the flight, but I didn’t want to prolong things any more than I already had.”
Andros smiled and shook his head. In a calm voice, he glanced around the table. “Nonsense. We insist. Put something on your stomach.”
The girl quickly made Dmitry a hefty plate and placed it in front of him with a caviar spoon and other flatware, then disappeared into the corner where a chair sat before behind a large brooding guard.
Andros got right to the heart of the meeting without any further formalities. “All the members are here. Thank you for allowing us to intrude on your business and vacations for this specially called meeting.” He put his coffee cup in front of him and placed his liver-spotted hand on the smooth table.
The men sat, backs erectly pushed against their leather chairs, watching Dmitry carefully, trying to find just one weakness in the wounded predator. But Dmitry showed no pain. Wiping his face with a handkerchief before his perspiration could become evident, he masked his pain with the promise of devouring Erik Popov by the end.
He had already deciphered how the meeting would go. With ten members, Erik Popov and himself included, there were two members who were two on the council who were much too old to get into the politics of internal squabbling – Andros Stepanov and his best friend Geni Belyakov who sat beside each other at the table now. Both were old men, well in their late seventies and more resigned to the perpetuity of the organization than the protection of all its current members. Still, in their late age, they also knew every rule front to back and sought to enforce them at all costs.
Dmitry’s closest allies were Simeon Kurdin, Maksim Gruzinsky and Pushka Kovalenko. All of them had served at some point at Vladimir Central and had practiced the fine art of murder for hire under Alexander Popov. Deemed the wretches of the group because of their less than stellar starts in the Vory, each man had built his empire on his own sweat and guile instead of it being passed down to them by their fathers.
While Erik Popov congregated with the three members who had not served hard time in the gulags – Oleg Rabinovich, Lev Yakushev and Renat Sherkov. Minus Erik, they were alright guys, but all four of them were legacies who had never lifted anything heavier than their own dicks for the entirety of their lives. Their fathers sat on the council as would their sons as a result, their understanding of what was at stake, at times, was slightly skewed.
“The reason we are holding this meeting instead of Dmitry, who has been chosen by the council to serve as the head of the international council for the next two years, is because he is at the center of the discussion,” Andros expl
ained. “There was an assassination attempt on his life two days ago in Memphis, TN. It was very well orchestrated with the killing of one of his son’s mothers to even cause him to be at the location, the subsequent danger of his entire family and the infiltration of spies.”
Erik Popov released a heavy sigh. If they knew that much, then they knew who did it. Fuck it. He planted his arms on the table and looked across the table at Dmitry.
“However,” Andros continued, “the assassin was less than competent.” He raised his hand to emphasize. “Thank God for it. However, we now must come to the full understanding of this matter and reach a consensus.”
Erik sucked on his teeth and laced his fingers together. Tattoos showed on his hands with his white sleeves rolled up to the forearms. “Enough,” he said sternly, interrupting Andros. He raised a brow at Dmitry. “I had the hit put on him.”
The room immediately exploded in low rumbles. Sitting back in his chair, Erik waited to see if Dmitry would lose his cool, but he was sorely disappointed.
“Tell us something we don’t already know,” Dmitry said, voice calm.
“Something that we don’t know?” Erik asked incredously, making a gesture around the room. Huge beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Why don’t you tell them why I tried to have you killed,” Erik snapped. Before Dmitry could answer, he stood up and pointed toward his enemy. “Because he had my brother killed over a financial dispute. Didn’t you, you rat fuck?” Spittle flew from his mouth as he clenched the end of the table. “Alexei is dead because of you and your greed!”
Again, the rumble exploded, but Dmitry remained in his chair.
“Sit down, Erik,” Andros directed, determined to get control of the group.
“Fine,” Erik said, tugging at his black vest as he plopped down in the seat. “Never mind his transgressions, just keep it down. Is that right?” he seethed at Andros.
Andros raised a hand to quiet the room. “Is this true, Dmitry?” Shock prevented the old man from saying more. He could not, nor would not believe Dmitry capable of such an egregious act toward someone on their sacred council.
Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7) Page 23
