Erik wanted to argue with Peter’s logic, but how could he? The old man had found a way to win the argument without arguing. Glancing up as two of his security men came to the door, he ended their futile conversation. “Go to bed, Uncle. Get some rest. Tomorrow, when you wake up, you’ll realize what I’ve done for you.” As he watched his uncle leave the room, he waved his security in for a brief conversation.
“There is a blonde bitch who walks her dog every night. Have you seen her?” Erik asked, walking back to the window to look out of it. There was no sign of her now, but he knew that she had to live nearby. It shouldn’t be hard to find out where.
“Yes, boss,” one of the men spoke up. “We’ve seen her.”
Erik sucked on his bottom lip and made his way to the piano to pick up his glass again. “Find out who she is, where she’s staying and what her story is.”
The guard was confused. Scratching his cheek with his thumb, he raised up on his heels and frowned showing his deep Slavic features. “You want her for girlfriend, boss?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.
Erik boiled with irritation. Did he have to spell it out for these numbskulls? “No, I don’t want to fuck her, you idiot. I want to make sure she’s not a fucking spy!” He threw the scotch in his tumbler in their direction, showering their perfect suits with liquid. “How many women do you know walking their dogs this time of night in this community? How many women do you know who do anything for themselves here?” His voice rose and the vein in his neck protruded as he glanced between the two well-dressed guards in disgust when neither gave an answer. With nostrils flared, he tempered his anger for the second and lowered his voice. Flicking the scotch off his own hand onto the hardwood floor, he shook his head. “It truly surprises me that you two have a brain between you. Get out,” he ordered, turning his back to both of them. “Bring me back answers or don’t come back at all.”
As they left his presence as quickly as their feet would take them without running, Erik rolled his eyes and went back to the window. “Fuck her?” he said incredulously. In a fleeting thought, he rolled his neck and twisted up his lip. Maybe he would fuck her once he made sure she wasn’t a spy, but for now, he had to be careful.
Zoya allowed her Pharaoh Hound to lead her down the street on his diamond-encrusted leash while she followed closely behind, red-backed six-inch heels clicking on the concrete, hair flowing in the wind. She had made the walk down this same stretch of over-priced neighborhood for 20 days straight, but today was the first time that she was certain that she had gotten Erik Popov’s attention. At last!
She hated to be Captain Obvious, but when she walked on previous days in her jeans and T-shirt or her workout clothes, not even the guards outside the home seemed to look her way. So, she decided to take it up a notch, sporting a short designer skirt, a low-cut blouse, newly bleached hair and full make-up. Her heels were killing her, but she breathed through the pain, sure that her newly hatched plan would work, and if not, she has to do something a little more blatant.
But Erik Popov had noticed and that was all that mattered. Like any red-blooded man, he had a routine. Late evenings were meant for some form of reflection, and he normally did it on the second floor of his Georgian-style 12-bedroom mansion, looking out of his window while getting sloshed.
The mission was simple. Make contact. Seduce and usurp his current flavor of the month wife, get in his head, get in his bed and become a spy. While she was still miles away from imbedding herself in his life, she was certain that after that small recognition in the window, it would only be a matter of time before the man himself came from his perch and found a way to talk to her.
Heading back to the mansion only a few properties down from Popov, she pranced up the stairwell to the double doors of the Victorian mansion where she was playing house with famed billionaire and Silicon Valley mogul, Vince Layne, to get ready for her palates session with her trainer. But first, she had to make a call.
As she breezed through the doorway into the white-washed foyer, her young live-in sugar daddy was grabbing the keys to his Maserati off the entryway table. There was a pause when he saw her, liked he had gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Hey, babe,” he said, leaning over to peck her cheek.
“Hey, you,” she said chipperly. Her eyes scanned his appearance. Normally, he wore shorts, flip flops and ridiculous plaid button downs, but today he was wearing a suit and real shoes. “Where are you headed?” she asked, beginning her interrogation.
“Out to meet some friends for drinks.” He saw her expression darken, worried that she was being left out. But she was. Zoya was arm-candy, designed to impress his friends and clients. But tonight, he was meeting some serious business contacts, and he didn’t have time to spend every moment devoted to giving her attention as she preferred.
“Want me to go with you?” she asked with a faux-pout. Handing off the leash with her dog still attached to the maid, she quickly kicked off her shoes to drop to an even six-feet tall, still much taller than her American boytoy.
Vince held in an irritated huff and denied himself the right to stomp his own feet. Damn it. If he had only left five minutes earlier, he would have missed her. He was expecting an argument as soon as he rejected her offer, but he’d have to deal with her later. Time was wasting. “No, babe. Not tonight. Plus, I thought you had plans. Don’t you have a workout session or something?” He checked his watch impatiently and looked toward the front door like it was a million miles away.
Zoya feyned an eyeroll. “I could cancel for you,” she insinuated, eluding to the fact that he could do the same. “We haven’t been spending enough time together lately.” Pressing up against his thin chest, she trailed her fingers up to his shoulders and massaged them.
“When I get back, we can do whatever you want,” he placated to her momentarily all the while side-stepping her to get to the door. “I really have to go.” He glanced up into her enchanting face and felt a smidgen of pity for Zoya.
She was a beautiful girl, great in the sack, but he was growing tired of how needy she continued to be, even though he had increased her daily allowance and gifted her a new Bentley just last week. She was smothering him, something he never thought would happen when he was introduced to her by Dmitry Medlov at a Christmas Party in New York last year. Dmitry had championed the match, saying that she was low-maintenance and quite engaging. Turned out, she was exactly the opposite.
Zoya narrowed her gaze on him, pursing her glossy, collagen-filled lips in protest. “Well, how long are you going to be?” Her whine clawed at his nerves.
“The sooner you let me go, the sooner I’ll be back,” he said, walking to the door. Grabbing the knob, he felt her eyes burning through his back. “Three hours max,” he finally answered.
“Good. I’ll be waiting,” she said, watching him hurry out of the door, happy to get out of her clutches. “Have fun.”
Vince nearly ran down the stairs toward his sports car, parked on the curb. It was definitely time to put his new toy back on the shelf before she gave him an ulcer.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she almost laughed aloud like one of those evil witches in children’s bedtime stories. The one thing rich men hated was to be inconvenienced by their trophy girls. And she prided herself on being increasingly needy when she was ready to end a relationship. It would only be a matter of time before they had the space conversation, just in time for her to set up shop a few houses over.
Hiking up the long staircase to her private bedroom barefoot and happy, she went into her luxurious quarters and locked the door. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed a number under the contact, Mr. Big, and waited for an answer.
“Hello,” Dmitry Medlov answered quickly as he sat behind his desk.
There was no need for an introduction, certain her caller would recognize her voice. “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.” Z
oya stuck out her hand and looked at her manicured, nude nails, ignoring the five-carat diamond that her boyfriend had placed on her finger when they first met.
“Well, Zoya, you’ve never failed me. I doubt you will this time,” Dmitry answered with a smooth sheen on his voice. “I’ll deposit a little bonus in your account if you can escalate things by the end of the week.” He knew that his secret weapon only spoke one language – money.
Zoya loved her life. Rich men paid her to do what other girls did for free. “I love when you talk dirty. End of the week is my new focus in life.” She dropped her hand and leaned into the phone. “Have I ever told you what a great boss you are?” she asked with a giggle in her voice.
Dmitry smiled coolly, immune to her wicked charms. “Show me. Get Popov where I want him, and you can write your own ticket, my dear. Have a good evening,” he said, ending the call.
Zoya hung up the phone and fell back into the plushness of her canopy bed, already devising ways to get Popov’s attention. She was a skilled professional with a bag of tricks that rivaled any Harry Potter character. Now it was time to do a bit of her own magic, something that might make J.K. Rowling blush.
Chapter Five
Medlov Estate
Memphis, TN
B eing the patriarch of a large crime family was a capricious thing, but if one focused too long on how heavy the damn crown was instead of the obligations of that station, nothing would ever get done. In other words, there was no room as a leader to feel sorry for one’s self, especially a leader who was responsible for a $40 Billion empire and a father who was responsible for countless lives. So, after deep contemplation and a few necessary calls and texts, Dmitry decided his precious time was better spent with the family tonight instead of playing the violin and sulking.
The ferocious storm from earlier had subsided and given way to a cloudless evening sky bright with distant stars. Now, the crickets were chirping loudly, and a calm breeze danced over the grounds cooling off the security team posted outside. Alas, it seemed that Mother Nature was adjusting herself, and it was time for him to do the same.
Standing up from the warmth his black leather chair, Dmitry straightened his clothes, ran a hand through his blonde locks and then made a B-line toward the door. No more stalling. With every step he took, he shed all appearances of weariness and transformed back into the confident giant everyone had come to depend on.
As soon as the double doors swung open, his guards perked up in nearly telepathic synchronization while assuming their position – heels together sharply online, eyes straight and focused on the walls across from them, and shoulders squared. So formal was their military posture until they had to stop themselves from giving a salute.
Dmitry stepped out of his office and closed the doors tight behind him. The click of the locks connecting echoed down the hall. Releasing a sigh, he looked from left to right at his new men, glad of their willing obedience to be seen but not heard, especially after such a tortuously long day.
But the men were more than happy to serve their liege. After all, the man was a legend.
Dmitry Medlov was not only their boss, but also the head of the Medlov Crime Family – an organization that employed over 3,000 people worldwide and had gained the reputation as being the fiercest and most savage of all the Russian Organized Crime syndicates. Such a feat was already worthy of innovative praise, but he was bigger than that because of his position plurality.
Since the day the infamous blonde “butcher” had emerged from one of the world’s most dangerous maximum-security prisons at the age of 18, Dmitry Medlov had become one of the top leaders of the underworld, the reigning Czar of the most prominent Russian-based crime families on the planet, and the “authority” on weapons trafficking and jewels trafficking in the Western hemisphere. However, he was bigger than just weapons and jewels, he also dealt with cars, money laundering, extortion, and his favorite – third-world destabilization through military influence. For a guy who did not have a college education, he had proved to be a genius when it came to economies and political influence. He was a student of all currencies and the U. S. stock exchange.
In combination with his major streams of illegal income, which were vast and diverse, he also owned several legal businesses including Hutton Industries – a London-based conglomerate of small tech starter-ups and cancer-research-related biomedical companies, an incredible number of multi-million-dollar real estate properties sprinkled on every continent, several factories in nine countries producing everything from glass, spirits and make-up to prosthetic limbs and veneer teeth, and most recently, an ammunitions business with U.S. government contracts, based right in Memphis.
On top of all his unique business savvy, Dmitry had managed to evade even the most strategic and ambitious law enforcement agencies both domestic and internationally. Because of his political, business, and banking ties, he had managed to become untouchable to the outside world. Every investigation was eventually squashed. All the Interpol working groups managed to dissolve or drop his name from their cases. And it was all because of too - too many senators had been greased, too many prime ministers had been spoiled, too many ambassadors had been courted, too many banking CEOs had stakes in his interests.
A man of his means could take down whole countries if he failed, and so more often than not, officials turned a blind eye to his dealings. But the one thing that Dmitry Medlov was absolutely the best had nothing to do with business, whether legal or illegal. He was greatest at human resources. He made people feel invincible. He created loyalty. He allowed others, those who worked for him, who were loyal to him, to become independently wealthy. And he did it all without disrespecting them or making them feel inferior. Few had his talent, even fewer understood it.
The only true vulnerability, outside of his family, Dmitry had was to the organization he served dutifully – the Vory v Zakone.
He had taken a solemn vow to always serve the Bratva. That promise and obligation guided him on a daily basis. And while he was loyal to the brotherhood, he was no fool, which was why he only hired the best of the best to guard both he and his family. All his guards were former Spetsnaz or top-notch assassins. They had been handpicked to serve based upon their resumes and their references.
One could equate their jobs to that of a secret-service agent to the President of the United States. To even be in Dmitry’s presence was an honor. To be handpicked by his council to work in his home was a privilege. To be privy to his movements was remarkable. But to be so close to him, guarding his office door was unbelievable. However, both of the newly recruited guards kept their fanboy appreciation tucked away behind their consummate professionalism in hopes of one day impressing the boss enough to be promoted up the ranks.
Everyone knew Dmitry Medlov took care of his people. Vasily, one of the Medlov Crime Family council members, had been a lowly guard once. Boris and Marat, the duo that everyone wanted to emulate because of their favor with the family, had started as nameless soldiers. It was apparent that loyalty was rewarded handsomely. All three men were multi-millionaires now, and still Dmitry allowed them to live under his roof and relieve themselves of unnecessary expenses. To work for him was a dream come true for men of ambition, and now he was standing outside the door of his office between the two new guards who were both young and eager to please.
Dmitry stood at least a foot taller than both men, even they were of exceptional build, as were all the Medlov guards. Still, even in his larger-than-life kingly position, he never missed an opportunity to acknowledge his guards or anyone else who worked for him. In truth, it kept him grounded. To hold normal conversations with those who had less than him made him feel alive. If they could respect him as an equal, then he had not allowed himself to become the egotistical bastard he had always loathed.
“Gentlemen,” Dmitry said in a deep baritone voice, as he breezed by, making a sharp right turn to head down the long corridor. His cologne lingered between the guards – a fr
agrant smell of sandalwood and spice.
“Sir,” both men acknowledged, voices rigid but full of conviction.
He headed down the hall in a near sprint. She’s going to be pissed, Dmitry thought to himself of Royal as he barreled toward the foyer in a long, determined stride.
There was one thing he had learned over the years as a married man. Happy wife. Happy life. Once the Mrs. put things into motion, one didn’t simply just change the plans without prior authorization. However, tonight was different. It couldn’t be helped. Still, he had to have her buy-in to make the evening a success.
In avertedly, Dmitry had painted himself into a corner. Instead of an intimate dinner for five like Royal was currently planning, they would be feeding over twenty. And there was no way to walk back his decision. He had already texted Anil and asked him to come straight home from class. The boys, both Gabriel and Anatoly, were headed back on the family jets from their interrupted meetings, and his other council member, Vasily, was headed back to the mansion straight away from a meeting in Nashville. In just a few hours, it would be a full house. Better to give Royal a heads-up now rather than later.
As he came to the elaborate, white, arched entryway that led to the foyer, something caught his eye. A maid, newly added to the staff, was filling an oversized crystal vase with water as she did every evening. The vase was filled with a colorful rose bouquet arranged thoughtfully with ivy and When she saw Dmitry approaching, she expected him to simply move past without even seeing her. But instead, he stopped.
Dmitry's Redemption Page 6
