“How dare you?” his mother said, yanking his clothes out of the bottom broken drawers of their dresser. “He. Is. Not.” Taking a deep breath, she turned to her son and lowered her voice. “Dmitry Medlov is not a figment of my imagination. He is your father.”
“I don’t need some absentee father right now. I need a good lawyer. I need to stay here to keep you safe. Do you realize what you are asking me to do? You want me to run away just like all the men in your life before me did. Mama, I won’t do that to any of you.”
“The police will never be fair to you. You’re just some dope-slinging bastard kid from a poor community and even poorer mother. You can’t stay here, and you can’t be taken into custody by the police. They will throw you in gulags.”
Anatoly shrugged at the idea. It was better than running. “What? You don’t think I’ll survive? You don’t think I’m tough enough.” She had always treated him like he was something special, something fragile, but he was far from it, and it was time that she acknowledged that fact.
Alexandria may have been just a lowly factory worker, but she knew her son’s worth. “Someone will find out who your father is, and no, you won’t have a chance. They will murder you in prison, and I will not have my son pay the consequences of his father having enemies.”
Anatoly wasn’t convinced. “Mama, I can’t go running to another country. You say that you need me, but what about me, what about what I need?” And there it was. The truth. He was more afraid of leaving them alone than facing the gulags or even another country. They were all the family that he had. If he lost them, then he had nothing left in this world.
“My brave boy,” she said, walking over and grabbing his face in her hands.
Leaning in, she kissed his cool cheek. Her tears transferred to his face. “We will be fine. You’ve done enough. You’ve done too much. Now, you have to go. And you’ll be fine. You’ve always been destined to do something better and greater with this life. Now is your time to find out what that something is.” She tried her best to sound optimistic.
“What about Anastaysia?” Anatoly asked, hearing the water in the adjacent bathroom as his little sister ran her shower. “Who is going to take care of her? Who is going to take care of you?” The tears flowed down his cheeks into his mouth now. Heart racing, he tried to make her see. “Momma, please.”
“You’ve done enough,” his mother said softly. “You quit school even though you had high marks; you turned your back on boxing even though the coach said you had promise; you raised another man’s children because you loved their mother. You have done enough, my son. Now, it’s time for you to go. And never come back.” The idea made her sick, but she knew that there were no other options. She had to save her sweet boy, no matter what. She had to give him a chance.
Anatoly frowned, wiping tears as fast as they fell. “You can’t be serious?” he asked even though he knew that she was.
Her face went slack, heavy with the burden of her new reality. “There is nothing here for you, Anatoly. If you just find your father, he can help you.”
“What can he help me do?”
“He’s a very wealthy man. I’ve heard through old friends that he is in a place called Memphis, Tennessee. He owns a restaurant called Mother Russia. Go there. Ask for him. Don’t let anyone turn you away. He will help you, Anatoly. He will. I know it.”
“If you knew where he was this entire time, then why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you reach out to him for help to take care of these fucking children? Why now?” His questions were endless, but this was all that he could muster.
Such a conversation would take too long and they were pressed for time.
Alexandria shrugged in defeat. She had finally run into a brick wall. “It was my job to keep you safe. I thought I was doing that by keeping you here away from all of his troubles. Your father is a very complicated man, Ana, but now I know he’s the only one who can help you.”
Anatoly swallowed hard and pulled away from her. There had to be other options. “What you are asking me to do is impossible.” Leave his family? Leave her and his sister? Who would be there the next time that something happened? Arseny? The idea sent a chill up his spine.
“I’m asking you to save yourself, Anatoly. I’m begging you to trust me for once in your life.” She knew that over time, she had switched the roles and allowed him to be more of a father than a son, but now, it was her job to save him. “You have to go,” she said, barely above a whisper.
He looked toward the bag that was now filled with clothes in her small hand and took it. “I should at least wait and say goodbye to Ana…” He was stalling for time, any time to spend with his family. The man in him told him that he had no choice; the boy in him wanted to curl up in his bunk bed and simply sleep the pain away.
“You can’t,” his mother protested. “You must go now before the police are able to identify you. There is a man, Kirill Derevenko, who can help. Do you know him?” Even though she pretended, she knew the men that he worked for selling crack cocaine on the streets and she was certain that they would remember her.
Anatoly frowned. “Yes, I know of him, but, how do you?” Kirill was a high-level member of the Vory v Zakone. He basically ran Kapotnya.
“He was your father’s old boss before you were born. Go to his bar tonight in the Garden Ring. It’s called the Fire Pit. Tell him that you need to get to Memphis. He will help you.”
“How are you so sure?” Anatoly asked, shocked by her sudden awareness.
“Because Dmitry is his boss now,” Alexandria said, clenching her jaw tight. “He won’t have much of a choice in the matter. Tell him that you need his help. Tell him that I’ve already reached out to Dmitry and that he’s expecting his assistance. Tell him whatever you have to tell him to get out of here.” She’d suffer the consequences of her lie later, but for now, she had to get Anatoly safely out of Moscow and Kirill was the only man who could do it.
“Why would he believe me, Mama?”
Alexandria smiled despite her son’s apparent doubt. She knew that after years it was hard to believe, but… “I didn’t always look like this. There was a time when I was a young woman and your father was a young man.” She nodded despite the pain the memory brought forward. “And he loved me very much. You have to trust everything that I’m saying to you. Kirill will help you. Dmitry will help you. But you must go now.” She leaned in and kissed her son’s sweet face one last time. “I love you, Anatoly.” She meant it from the bottom of her heart.
“Don’t make me do this. If you love me…”
“It’s because I love you that I must do this and if you love me, you’ll listen for once in your life.” She could hear Immanuil crying behind her.
Anatoly stood up a little taller. “I’ll come back for you,” he promised.
She shook her head. “No. It’s your time, now. Time for you to go into the world and be the man that I know you are capable of being.”
Sure, he had dreamt of getting out of this hell hole. Just today he daydreamed about it, but now the dream had become a reality, a necessity, and he was afraid of how chasing that dream might end. What if he failed? What if the only thing that awaited him in America was more heartbreak?
Alexandria pushed her son out of the room – heart breaking with every single step. She kissed him one last time as she led him to the front door.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead, savoring her smell one last time. “I love you, Mama.”
“And I will always love you, no matter where you are in this world, no matter what you do. But you must go, and you must never, ever come back – not even when I die.”
Chapter Two
What Happens in Vegas…
Las Vegas, Nevada
Klenchvenko vs. Dominguez
T-Mobile Arena
Present Day
A natoly Medlov sat ringside in his $250,000 seat watching the most anticipated prize fight of the century without so much as a bat of his cr
ystal blue eyes – even with the flashing cameras and phones, even with the celebrities and beautiful women, even with every eye that wasn’t on the fighters landing squarely on him and his family, even with a $5 million bet set with 2-to-1 odds on his countryman compounded with juice set at nearly eight points – even with all of that, nothing external solicited a response.
He was as cool as any one man could be with an undeniable Herculean presence. Every single strand of his golden hair was perfectly tucked into a man bun, no sweat on his wheat-colored brows, no overtly-male perspiration in his soft Egyptian cotton t-shirt that clung to his wide, muscular frame, no tension in his tree-trunk, pillar-like legs covered in dark denim jeans.
The young, blonde billionaire didn’t show his hand, didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t even shift in his seat. Void of emotion, he watched as the fighters moved into the third round of what had already been a bloody, vicious and delicious fight. And it was only going to get better from here…
Better for whom? Better for him…
The crowd behind Anatoly, erupted into glorious, thunderous applause while a beautiful Moroccan ring girl with a long, black mane, bowed legs and heart-shaped rear in a hot pink swimming suit made her way around the ring carrying her sign high above her head.
Tonight was going to be absolutely legendary. From a monetary standpoint, the fight was already highly lucrative, grossing a record-breaking $211 million, making it the new richest fight in history. Illegal money on the fight doubled that.
Bookies across the world were taking bets on the fight, most of them for Klenchvenko, a crowd favorite. And the folks at home could witness the fight in high-definition via a Pay-Per-View feed for only one hundred dollars and some change. Everyone, no matter their socioeconomic status, could get in on making history.
And those factors were exactly what Anatoly Medlov banked on when he decided to play the odds by making sure that the promotions company who coordinated this mammoth event was owned by his people, more specifically his father.
But there was nothing on paper that would prove so. Paper trails were a dangerous thing. His father owned many things off the books.
It was how the Medlov Men operated...
In the shadows.
In the darkness.
And in control.
***
Russian-native Igor Klenchvenko was undefeated, beloved and defending his heavyweight championship belt against the promising young, African-American/Puerto Rican fighter from Brooklyn, Sean Dominguez.
The build-up to this fight had been orchestrated by some of the brightest and most-daring PR and marketing minds of the industry. What made this fight epic was the combination of hate and symbolism that both men represented.
With Russia at the center of every discussion on every news outlet in the free world and Americans’ sincere needs for a real win since the election of its less-than-presidential new orange president, the average American needed to take their minds off the state of the country and enjoy some good old-fashioned entertainment.
But not just any kind of entertainment would suffice. A football game or soccer game simply would not do. It had to be violent, epic, and visceral.
The Klenchvenko-Dominquez fight categorically achieved all of that in a very classic way. Klenchvenko was a patriot of his country, wearing its red crimson and gold colors, with nationalist pride that only rivaled the nostalgia of the protagonist of Rocky IV, while Sean Dominquez was an outspoken social justice advocate who had marched the streets of New York and Washington with the BLM (Black Lives Matter) movement and used his celebrity to reach a national platform.
Klenchvenko was praised by Putin and regarded as a hero, while Sean was put down by the conservative right in America as being a hot-head superstar with a big mouth who needed to stick to boxing instead of social justice issues.
It was the perfect storm. Promoters had successfully focused on the controversial issues that people either loved or hated and highlighted those issues in every interview.
The result brought all the fans on both sides together in Las Vegas for this fight. Superstars, supermodels, and super moguls alike flooded the building along with politicians and businessmen.
The people who could not afford to physically be there in the arena made their presence known on social media. Bars and restaurants around the country held a fight night and many more gathered for private parties in their homes.
For merchandising sales, this complex dynamic was also a winner. Americans who didn’t like what Dominguez stood for bought tickets to support Klenchvenko, while minorities, liberals, and Catholics bought tickets to support Sean in droves.
It was like the 2016 presidential election all over again.
Politics, drama, and entertainment. It was yet another opportunity for the rich to get richer while getting a rise out of the masses.
Organized crime families across the world were making a killing off bets, women, drugs, pickpockets, credit card boosts, purse snatching, car thefts, identity thefts and jewelry heists – if it was illegal, it was happening tonight in the city of sin and across the nation.
Anatoly reveled in his newest plan. By morning, he’d be millions richer without having to kill a soul…he hoped. And all it had taken was a smart strategy, a few arrangements, and two very vocal athletes. Little did the world know, however, it wouldn’t be the two men in the ring to have the final word tonight, but three men who were sitting ringside.
Ding, ding, ding.
In a tailored black Armani tux that seemed to add a few more inches to the illusive, seven-foot, blonde, Dmitry Medlov gave a wide, bright smile behind his hand as he leaned over and whispered into Gabriel Medlov’s ear. Whether meaning to or not, Dmitry had been a source of attention all night with his GQ front cover style, known billions and innate other-world handsomeness.
His predator-like, ice blue eyes scanned the room occasionally but were mostly set on the fight, while the women in the room, mostly watched him.
As a very public figure with a very private life, he was used to the attention, so he barely gave it notice.
Since he had arrived a few days ago, he had had his ass kissed by every politician in the city, his movements watched by every federal law enforcement agency in the country and nearly every woman he had come into contact with hit on him. But he was off the market – happily married with a mansion full of children, and bases covered for all his illegal activity. Now, it was just time to sit back and enjoy the show.
The super sophisticated Gabriel Medlov, Dmitry’s nephew and third-in-charge in the Medlov Crime Family, laughed aloud at his uncle’s off-color comment and blew Cuban cigar smoke into the air of the non-smoking area. His voice boomed, even over the loud roar around him. Having the time of his life and dressed for whatever the night would bring, he donned a tailored sports jacket, white button-down Oxford, and dark jeans, looking like old money, he came from and new money that he was always chasing. The only brunette out of the Medlov men trio, he drew nearly as much attention as his uncle, standing six feet, eight inches tall with mossy green eyes, black as night hair and old-world charm.
With a glass of scotch in his left hand, Gabriel sat on the front row with his legs crossed, paying more attention to his surroundings than the fight. It hadn’t been a year since he had been kidnapped by militant Nazi extremists in Ukraine and the experience had left him changed in many ways. But he played it off well as to not alarm others of his dark demeanor. He always wore a congenial smile and never let on to be as deadly as he truly was, which was why most people never saw him coming until it was too late. But he, too, was uninterested in a wealth of attention from the women tonight. Recently married to a freedom fighter and father to a new son, the last thing he wanted to do was get back into his old habit of skirt chasing. For him, tonight was all about the money, what he could get and then what he could take.
Sitting on the right-hand side of Dmitry was his loyal son and second-in-charge, Anatoly Medlov, who ha
dn’t bothered with a suit for this occasion or any other. In his customary dark jeans, boots and a snug t-shirt, he watched the fight intently and quietly. As usual, there were no smiles or laughs from the twenty-seven-year-old gangster. It was all business, all the time.
The shortest out of the three men standing at a blocky six feet, Anatoly had never truly learned to be diplomatic or classy. He was the definition of a bad boy, a thug, a Vor. He walked hard but worked harder.
At first sight, people usually didn’t notice his beauty before they noticed his danger. No one assumed that he was rich or an elitist. He had gone to no fancy schools, had no fancy titles and didn’t give a damn what the world thought about him.
The elaborate Russia mafia tattoos that covered his hands, arms, neck, and back only confirmed his menacing presence. Where his father and cousin always covered theirs for legitimate business meetings and interviews, he let his freak flag fly. He didn’t bother wearing elegant, down-played suits and jewelry because there was only one type of business he engaged in – the illegal kind. He wore ostentatious Rolex watches with enough bling to feed a small country because he could. He wore his hair long and in a man bun because anyone who dared call him feminine wouldn’t live long enough to finish their sentence. He wore a scruffy beard because it hid his angelic features. And he wore his wedding ring because his wife was the only woman in the world that he truly trusted.
In the middle of joking with his nephew, Dmitry turned his attention to Anatoly and cut his eyes. “You have still not learned to just sit back and enjoy the moment,” he said to Anatoly, observing his son’s tense body language. “What’s the purpose of all of this if you’re not going to indulge a little, boy?”
The men in the aisle directly behind them screamed out at the fight, drowning out his voice. Taking a drink from the waitress when she walked up with her wares on the tray, Dmitry adjusted his tuxedo coat and nodded. “Thank you,” he said with a smile.
Anatoly's Retribution: Book One (The Medlov Men 5) Page 3
