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6
Lyon parked outside of the old warehouse in the South Side and got out of the car. He breathed deeply of the crisp early morning air, laced with the peaty smell of the Calumet river, old brick, and neglect.
He didn’t mind it. The derelict warehouse was the perfect place from which to launch his bid for leadership of the bratva: far enough away from West Town to be off the radar of his opponents, close enough to the penthouse that the commute wasn’t too cumbersome.
Plus, no one knew it was his. Purchased under a shell company that was nestled under another shell company, the building might have been owned by anyone.
Its location on the river was an added bonus, one Lyon had paid a premium for. Once he’d dispensed of his competitors, the warehouse would be valuable to any number of industries due to its waterfront access. Goods could be unloaded from shipping containers directly into the warehouse, eliminating the expensive step of distribution.
He turned away from the river and headed for the old brick building, glad he’d left the apartment early. He was the first one to arrive, and he wanted time to prepare for the men who would start to appear within the next hour.
He looked up at the security camera he’d had installed, part of an elaborate system that included over fifty cameras and alarms on every one of the first floor windows and doors. The alarms went directly to his phone. Law enforcement was the last thing Lyon wanted if there was a security breach. Theirs was a business built on staying out of view of the police. Either that, or paying them enough to look the other way.
Besides, they would have no need for the police if there was a security breach. No one was better quipped than Lyon to handle threats to his enterprise.
He flipped a switch, flooding the space with overhead light. The building had been woefully under-equipped for use in the 21st century, and Lyon had had to have the entire building rewired. He rarely turned on the big lights when he was alone — most of the time he only used the handful of offices on the second floor — but now he looked around at the machinery still gathering dust on the concrete floor of the warehouse.
He’d opted to keep the machines left over from the manufacturing company that had fabricated railroad equipment in the 1800s. Even in disuse, it made the space look less suspicious than an empty warehouse. Eventually, once Lyon took over the bratva, he would turn it into a state-of-the-art cyberlab, one of many new pieces Lyon planned to add to the puzzle of modernizing the organization.
He left the lights on as he headed for the second floor. It would be good for the men to see the expected scope of Lyon’s operation, good for them to see that he had resources.
He climbed the metal staircase to the second floor mezzanine and entered the office he’d claimed when he first bought the place two years earlier. Back then, it had been a small metal box, filled with a dusty metal desk, two filing cabinets, and chairs with upholstery that had been chewed through by rodents.
The room had since been painted, the metal desk replaced with one made of antique cherry, the chairs upholstered in a modern print that provided a foil for the decorative desk.
He turned on the bank of computers that rested on the credenza to one side of the desk and watched as Alek arrived outside. He parked his Tesla next to Lyon’s Audi and walked to the door, punched in the keypad, and entered the warehouse. Lyon listened as his footsteps became audible across the warehouse floor and up the stairs.
“Morning,” Alek said when he appeared a minute later.
“Good morning,” Lyon said.
“Been here long?” Alek asked.
Lyon shook his head. He’d been up for hours, all night if the truth were told.
Because of her: Kira. His wife.
He usually slept the sleep of the dead, but the thought of her down the hall — her body stretched out under the fine cotton sheets, hair spread across the pillow — had made his mind wander and cock ache. He’d relieved himself, coming hard and fast in his bed as he imagined burying himself inside her, but it had done little to ease the longing in his body.
He’d spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, finally rising while it was still dark to go for a run along the waterfront. The sun had barely risen above the horizon, the apartment still quiet, when he left for the warehouse. He’d tried not to think of her waking, tousled and sleepy, soft and warm.
“Everything okay?” Alek asked.
The question shook Lyon from his reverie, and he was disturbed to realize his trousers were tight around his hardening cock.
Again.
“Everything is fine,” Lyon said. “The men are all coming?”
“Last I checked.” Alek hesitated. “You think we can trust them?”
“I don’t think we can trust anyone, but we don’t have a choice in the matter.”
Alek nodded.
It was a point on which Lyon prided himself, not trusting anyone. He’d had to make an exception for Alek. Every pakhan needed a right hand, someone who knew all the secrets, to report back if there was trouble in the ranks, someone loyal to the boss above all others, even the Spies.
Alek had worked for Lyon when he’d had a crew of his own, before he’d been reassigned to Yakov Vitsin’s security detail, a slap in the face if there ever was one. It hadn’t changed Lyon’s plans — he’d always intended to move for control — but it had expedited the process.
