Page 78 of Lethal Obsession

I should be furious. At the very least, I should be planning how to dispose of Mr. Owens, Kiril Novikov, and whoever else has set up camp in the swamp.

Instead, I’m highly tempted to have another drink.

The breeze is almost still. The only sound, when Mak stops speaking, is the peaceful lap of water against the hull. The sun glitters off the deep blue Mediterranean, and far above the yacht a seabird arcs across the sky, its wings spread wide.

It’s the kind of peace I’ve never known in the swamp, where rustling saw grass and constant subterranean movement keep me perpetually on edge.

It’s the kind of peace a man could get used to.

I shove that thought aside. This peace is a lull, a temporary hiatus.

Nothing more.

Owens, or whoever he represents, can install who they want in the grand old governor’s mansion in Tallahassee, but Mak is right: reorganizing Miami’s criminal food chain is another thing entirely. Killing the Luccheses, especially if they’ve used the Novikovs to do it, means they’ve already bitten off way more than they can chew.

Nobody gets away with murder in my swamp. It’s bad for business. When the governor’s race is run, Owens and his people are still going to need to die.

But if I went back now, I’d be hunting in the open—and that’s just another way of saying that I’d be the prey.

It took a decade of being starved and tortured to turn me into the apex predator I became. I’m not about to cast aside the patience the Orlovs carved into my body to teach a jumped-up fucker in a gray suit a lesson, only to lose my family legacy and personal freedom in the process.

“I’ll work out exactly who these fuckers are,” I say coldly, “and what they think they’re going to achieve. I want to see all their pieces on the board before I play any of my own.”

“Yes.” Mak’s mouth curls at one edge. “I rather thought you might see things that way. But if you will indulge me, I came here today, in part, to request that you allow me to take the lead on investigating Mr. Owens and whatever game he represents.”

“Why?” I look at him curiously. “I thought you were living primarily at your English estate these days, with the occasional side trip to drink with Roman in Spain, or to Africa on mercenary business. What’s your interest in Miami?”

He gives me a customarily opaque look. “Geopolitics,” he says, “is very much like the swamp you love so much, Alexei. Every small change in the ecosystem causes a ripple that eventually becomes a global tide. I believe that your Mr. Owens represents interests which aim to control far more than just one city, one state, or even one country.” His eyes settle on mine, and for once, there’s no hint of humor behind the charcoal, just cold, hard darkness, the kind that reminds me that Mak, in his own way, is as great a predator as any bratva pakhan I’ve encountered. “The broader geopolitical game very much is my business. So if you would do me the courtesy of allowing me sole control over the investigation, I would consider it a personal favor—and myself in your debt.”

He holds my eyes just long enough to make the weight of his words clear.

I stay silent long enough to properly consider them.

“You helped me defeat the Orlovs,” I say eventually. “I am already in your debt.”

“No.” His tone is decisive. “My involvement in the Orlov war was a favor to Roman Borovsky—and a matter of honor. You never asked for my help, and I never considered defeating the Orlovs anything other than justice properly delivered.

“But this request is a very different matter. I’m asking you to put aside your right as pakhan, temporarily at least, for my direct benefit. You will still be briefed; I will likely be using Andersson Technologies for at least some of the cyber work, so you won’t be out of the loop entirely. I will also need your local knowledge of the swamp, as you like to call it. But I’m requesting the right to decide the action plan and execute it as I see fit. That is a favor, Alexei Petrovsky, and I am a man who takes my favors seriously.” He looks at me, again with no trace of his customary mockery. “It is your decision. I will respect your answer, either way.”

I know Mak well enough to know that he means it. If I insist on tracking Owens myself, he will stand aside and never speak of it again.

But the truth is, there’s really no downside to granting his request.

I get to have a problem solved at no cost. Dima can focus our resources on dealing with Kiril Novikov.

Above all those considerations, I gain the definite advantage of being owed a favor by Makari Tereschenko.

And let’s face it, motherfucker.

Hiatus means enough time for Granada.

For Ofelia Borovsky.

For all the fantasies that just won’t quit.

“The Novikovs need to remain ours to deal with.” I meet his eyes. “If they’re operating on our turf, we can’t let it stand, whether Owens is backing them or not.”

“I agree.” Mak nods. “And it would only rouse suspicion if you did. The Novikovs are yours.”