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One more atrophied building ends the block. Docks line the cemented lot in front of me that leads to a wooden boathouse at the end. I drive slowly toward it while checking my mirrors. The cab rattles, and the tires thump when I hit one of the many potholes lining the lot. As soon as I reach the shack, men dissolve from the shadows, surrounding my vehicle.
So, this is the don’s idea of a friendly introduction.
It’s still better than dealing with that wanna-be-Pakhan prick.
I turn off the vehicle and step out of my car, making sure my hands are in clear view as I face the older gentleman standing in the doorway of the shack. He’s tall, bulky, and balding on the top of his head with strips of white hair crowding the space above his ears. The wisps of hair he has left are a rich chestnut brown.
He’s thick in the middle, but I can tell he’s got strength underneath. The kind that could probably put me down in seconds if he really wanted. He doesn’t need all these men. It’s really a formality. Besides, he’s probably got the weight of the law on his side, too.
Most corrupt cops do.
I smile hesitantly. “Captain Howard Sharp?”
“The one and only,” the man booms. He steps forward and extends his hand. “Kiril Vladimirovich, welcome to the shack.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your…” I glance around at the men wearing blank expressions, each of them holding a gun. With a much friendlier grin, I look at Sharp and say, “Hospitality.”
He shrugs. “Formalities, right? Come inside. You want a drink?”
“Vodka.”
“Go figure.”
I squint at the back of his greasy head while biting my tongue. What the fuck do New Yorkers have against good vodka?
The inside of the shack is better kept than the exterior. More men sit inside near the exits and windows with a table set up in the center of the room. Some chairs flank the plastic table along with a collection of drinks: water, coffee, tea, whiskey, vodka. The captain pours me a shot and grabs a mug.
“Cheers,” he says while raising his mug. “Or whatever you say.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “Na zdorovye.”
After I take a sip, I unbutton my blazer and sit down, sweeping my hand over my gun. One of the men nearby bristles. Sharp drills his eyes into me, all while retaining his beaming grin.
“I wouldn’t,” he states, a warning edge in his voice. His blue eyes are pale but lively with energy. He’s ready for danger. “There’s one way out of here, Malinsky. Well, two if you try to get cute.”
“I’m aware.” I rest my hands on the table. “So, talk. I don’t have all night.”
He nods. “A man of business. I like that.” He gestures over the table as if it contains a medley of treasures. “I was sorry to hear you lost your stars.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. It’s not easy for a man to get stripped of his title.”
I cock my head. “What would you know about that?”
“You know I almost lost this job? To a stupid incident.” Recollection flashes in his eyes, and then it seems like he’s not in the shack anymore. “Goddamn rookie kid fresh from the academy thought he should turn me in for doing thingsmyway. What the fuck did he know?”
A moment of silence settles between us. I nod for him to continue.
“Don Cardona gave me a second chance,” he explains. “And he can do the same for you. Things could be the way they were before.” He smiles brightly. “Shit. They could be better.”
“What’s the catch?”
He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “As long as you’re willing to be the tip of Don Cardona’s spear against your old boss, then when Pavel and the Bernadetti kids are dead, you’ll be given control of the Suvorov Bratva.”
That entices me more than anything. It surpasses the promise of marriage for my daughter.
To hell with following a childish lord. I could have the entire Bratva to myself.
