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MISCHA
Killing a man with a gun is easy, clean even. Murdering a man with a blade is messy and personal—my specialty. Unfortunately for me, I can’t get that close to Ivan Sokolov without getting myself killed.
I didn’t put my wife through everything she’s had to endure for it all to be for nothing. Retirement is so close I can taste it. I’ll have that peace and freedom, along with the woman I’ve longed to have in my bed again.
Soon, baby, but first I have to handle the likes of the Canadian pakhan, who I thought was taken care of years ago. I remember the conversation Sasha mentioned last night; the one where she has apparently thought for the last nine years that I plan to marry her off without giving her a choice. I wouldn’t do that to her, even though that’s exactly what was done to her mother and me. I’m not against arranged marriages as long as the pairing is right. Love and respect are earned, not given. Rarely do you achieve that by forcing two people who didn’t fall in love to marry, to produce children, to make it through the test of time.
I’m not supposed to be in Canada without Ivan knowing and approving beforehand. The same goes for him and his men, but seeing as he failed to let me know the extent of his boy’s whereabouts in my country, he can go fuck himself. Doesn’t matter anyway. His time on earth has come to an end.
When Sasha was thirteen, Ivan approached me in Moscow about forming an alliance. He and his now-dead wife were in an arranged marriage to achieve his goal of becoming pakhan, at which he succeeded. Once he had what he wanted and a son, he didn’t have any use for a wife. She met her demise during a weekend getaway when Dimitri was four. It was deemed a tragic, accidental death.
While Ivan had been enjoying himself at one of the hotel bars, his wife took too many pills and must have mistaken the balcony rail for the bed. She fell from the nineteenth floor. Funny thing is, no one recalled seeing Ivan at any of the bars or hotel restaurants. There was no footage to back his story up either, yet he was never considered a suspect of any wrongdoings.
I knocked down the marriage contract he’d already drafted for my then thirteen-year-old daughter down immediately, sickened by the suggestion. I should have known that was a sign right then. I should have handled what I knew needed to be handled, but I let it go with a simple warning. My daughter isn’t for sale.
Two years later, he approached the subject again. That time we were in my office back home in New York on Long Island. I humored him then because I wanted to see how far he’d take it. Sasha was fifteen. She’d just started secretly seeing the younger Caputo boy, thinking no one knew. Problem was, she didn’t know I had access back then to read her text messages, her emails. I even knew who she called and how long the call lasted.
I’ll never understand why children are dumb enough to think they’re smarter than their parents who’ve been in their shoes before. Nine years later, she still hasn’t learned. Then again, none of us do until we have children of our own.
When Ivan produced a second contract, lining out the details that Sasha would basically be owned by his son, I’d had enough. My daughter will never be some punk’s bitch that kneels at his side until he allowed her to move. Fuck that shit. I’d put more than a bullet between any man’s eyes that tried. That kind of piece of shit deserves far worse.
I told him if he ever approached the subject again, I’d cut off his son’s balls and feed them do my Doberman pinscher while he watched. Until last night, I thought that promise had nullified his desire for his son to marry my daughter. So, that leaves me with one of two conclusions. Either Ivan has been biding his time for whatever reason, or Dimitri said fuck it and has been pursuing Sasha without me knowing.
Maybe she is good at hiding one thing and not the other. Had I known Dimitri was communicating with her, I’d have executed him long ago. His time is coming. First, Ivan, then his son—and then I fucking retire from this bullshit.
There is one hotel in all of British Columbia where you can see Ivan’s mansion from the penthouse suite, which is where I am now. I wanted a front-row seat since I can’t be there myself to carry out the mission. This was the second-best option.
Ivan’s death will be over all too quickly, but that’s okay. It’s his son whose life I’ll prolong for the words he sent my Sasha. No one speaks to my baby girl like that and deserves a quick death.
A text message comes in from the burner phone sitting on the small round table outside. I hear it from the open sliding door to the balcony. Lifting the vodka I poured over a tumbler of ice, I take a sip and step outside into the cool night.
It’s an unsaved number—another burner phone communicating to mine. No point in saving contacts when this one will be dropped in the sewer upon leaving in a few minutes, though there is one telephone number stored.
My plane is still in New Orleans, but I have a standby waiting to take me wherever I instruct. I pick up the phone and the screen comes to life. I unlock it and open the message.
Green Light
It’s a simple text. Two words. One meaning. My guy on the inside has everything in place and has already gotten out. It’s a go. Now it’s up to me to carry out the mission.
I open the laptop sitting across from me on the wrought iron table out on the balcony, readying the device for its purpose. Once the screen wakes up, I pull up the one and only contact stored in the burner phone and tap the screen over the phone number. He answers on the third ring.
“Hello,” he answers.
“Your son has worn out his welcome in my country,” I inform him.
“Mischa.”
“But that’s okay,” I continue. “I’ll deal with him soon. Know this, my old friend: your boy will have a slow death, unlike yours.” I tap the enter key on the keyboard with my middle finger.
“What do you—”
The explosion can be heard in the distance, and it’s music to my old ears. A ball of fire lights the night sky as a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Fucking with me is one thing, but fuck with my kids or my wife and I get a little crazy. The only thing I regret about what just happened is not seeing the look on his face.
Now to find Dimitri.
Once he’s six feet under, it’s retirement in sunny Florida for this old man.
