Page 27 of Lethal Obsession

Alexei

It’s almost four a.m., and my father has already left for the airport, when Dima and I come through the doors of a private rooftop penthouse in Brickell, having rendered the two security guards standing outside it unconscious.

“Good evening, Marty,” I greet the white-faced congressman sitting at a large round card table. There’s a bag of cocaine on the table next to him and a half-naked hooker sprawled over his lap.

“Don’t bother,” I tell the overweight bodyguard belatedly reaching for a gun. He looks almost as messed up as his boss. “You’d be gator bait before you cocked the hammer, you fat fuck.”

“This was a very bad idea, Petrovsky.” The man sitting opposite the congressman is wearing a hand-stitched Italian suit with discreet gold cuff links. “I suggest you leave, before you start a war.”

“I don’t start wars, Lucchese. I fucking end them.” I stare coldly at the Italian. “But there’s no need for any of that. Your men are fine, except for a bump on the head. Consider this me doing you a favor.”

“Breaking into one of my hotels and knocking out two of my men?” Lucchese draws on his cigar. “Funny kind of favor, Petrovsky.”

“If I were you, I’d think twice before extending hospitality to this piece of shit.” I nod at the congressman. “He’s already chewed through my very generous donations and borrowed half as much again. His wife’s online shopping habit is even worse than his gambling addiction, not to mention the fact that by eleven a.m. every day, she’s on to her third martini and can’t remember if she’s fucking the pool boy or the gardener.”

Marty Jr. leaps out of his chair, spilling the hooker unceremoniously onto the floor. “How dare you—” he begins furiously.

“Oh, I dare, Marty.” I stalk slowly across the room. The congressman’s eyes widen, and he stumbles back into his chair as I near him. I pull it away from the table, almost upending him, and lean down, resting my hands on the arms of the chair.

“I should advise you,” says the Italian from the other side of the table, “that killing Hunter doesn’t align with my family’s goals.”

“Maybe not.” I smile coldly into Marty’s face. “But unless those goals include facing a RICO indictment, I’d advise your family to rethink them.”

Lucchese looks between the congressman and me, his eyes narrowing.

“Our friend here got a little smart for his own good, didn’t you, Marty?” I pull my knife from my suit pants and turn the blade in front of his face, still looming over him. “Had me do some dirty work for him, then tried to frame me to the FBI.”

“That’s bullshit!” the congressman interjects, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

“Shut the fuck up, Marty.” I shake my head. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I have it on good authority that you’re headed for a federal prison, where you’ll hopefully spend many unhappy years getting fucked by all the petty criminals your terrible policies have put in prison for doing far less than you do on any given Friday night.

“What did he tell you?” I turn my head to look at the Italian, my knife still turning in front of Marty’s face. “That my turf would be yours for the taking, come Monday?”

He folds his arms. “I might have heard something along those lines.” When Marty tries to protest, Lucchese holds up his hand. “Don’t.” His tone is calm, but there’s no mistaking the steel behind it.

The congressman shuts up again.

I keep my eyes on the Italian. “I’d advise you not to take one inch of my territory, Lucchese,” I say coldly. “Not unless you want to start a war. You know what happened to the Orlovs. Don’t think I won’t do it again if you, or anyone else, comes for what is mine.”

I stare at him until I see the fear flicker beneath his calm. Until he’s reminded of who he’s dealing with and knows that I mean every fucking word.

There isn’t a criminal in Miami who doesn’t know that I kept Vilnus Orlov alive long after any normal man would have let him die.

But normal men didn’t watch Vilnus Orlov rape their mother or carve up their sister’s back.

They weren’t strapped to a table at fifteen so that Vilnus Orlov could order a shaking, terrified eighteen-year-old Dima to carve out their eyeball.

And they certainly weren’t forced to take their own knife to the virginal skin of a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl, leaving her with scars inside and out that will never fade and them with a corrosive shame so deep it poisons any hope of happiness they might have held on to through those hellish years.

I’m not a normal man, and most of Miami knows that. But every now and then, it doesn’t hurt to remind them.

“I’m going to be out of town for a while, Marty.” I turn back to the congressman. “Until all of this dies down. By the time I get back, you’ll be dead or locked up for the rest of your life—so this will have to serve as our goodbye.”

My knife flashes out, cutting through his shirt.

He yelps in surprise, staring down at his bare shoulder. “What are you—please don’t—”

“I’m doing you a favor, Marty.”