“Enemies are just friends who haven’t bowed down and submitted yet.” - Grigori, Russian Underboss.

 

 

Grigori stepped over the bleeding man with a somewhat grimace of disgust on his tight, sweating face, the day was young, plenty of time for death to stain the air with its pungent scent. He detested blood on his tan Magnanni's. You pay for alligator shoes and expect a great deal of them, to be protected from bodily fluids for one.

Such a messy business, da. But necessary.

Taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket he wiped his face, the heat bothering him more than the dead man at his feet. He longed for the cold of home, for his wife and children and a fine glass of vodka straight from the deep freeze. This shit hole was too hot, too many people and every one of those American’s were grating on the underbosses nerves.

If not for Alexei giving stringent instructions for him to be in Colorado he’d be somewhere more pleasant than a shit hole full of ingrates who couldn’t follow orders.

“Clean this up.” He ordered Borya. Russian was the only language they spoke when alone.

Ruminating on his task for a long time, he finally took the phone from his pocket and tapped a select few keys.

He did not like being swindled. Not at all.

And right under his nose someone, two someone’s in fact, had come into his house and taken something that did not belong to them.

The fact it did not truly belong to him either, was here nor there.

Criminally minded men did not carry currency in cash these days, it was easier to move dirty money through art, gems and the like.

The call connected. “Boss. We have had a setback. Nyet. I am sorting it now.”

Alexei was back home in Kazan, he was not a healthy man, choosing not to travel so much these days, he was not a patient man, not a fair or just man, he was a brutal Pakhan who ruled with a fist of iron and hate. Grigori heard the wrath of the man for a full five minutes until his ears blistered.

Holding onto his own temper, knowing it would not do to answer his Pakhan back, that was how Grigori had been promoted so swiftly several years ago when the last underboss had deemed his opinion worthy.

Wrong.

There was the Pakhan’s opinion and everyone else was incorrect.

“Da.” He agreed when Alexei told him to sort it and hung up unceremoniously. Wiping more sweat from his face he shrugged out of his wool overcoat, tossing it over a chair, he took the same seat to watch the footage once more, though he had watched several times already and observed the beautiful woman in red sashay around the party guests, seemingly talking to no one in particular and everyone at once.

She was gregarious, her features evocatively expressive. She seduced herself into the crowd.

“Plokhoy kotenok.” Bad kitten. Her behavior had gone unnoticed, if not for the split-second glance towards the dark-haired male.

There. Right there. His eyes narrowed towards the screen. A look of nothingness but everything at the same time.

It was only a second.

That in itself was not clue enough.

But then the dark-haired male had split himself off from the blonde shlyukha he had hired to keep every man there happy with sex, the whore was paid well to suck cock and keep his associates entertained, but the dark-haired male had seemed disinterested in Tatiana, he’d disappeared but then another camera had picked him up heading up the stairs.

Soon to be followed by the woman in red. Precisely five minutes later she emerged first, hurrying through the crowd and out the door with one of the known Renegade Souls males.

Now, Grigori had to ask himself was this just a huge coincidence his safe was penetrated without a hint anyone had touched it on the very night two unknown people had sneaked up to a floor that was off limits to the party guests.

The feared underboss did not believe in coincidences of any kind.

And because of inept security the blood spill on the floor today would not be the last. He hired men who were meant to know what they were doing.

If two unknowns could slip through a room full of mafia members and walk out with expensive pieces of art … well … it did not please Grigori.

Death was a messy business.

A necessary business when trying to establish a foothold in someone else’s territory, but as he was known, he always got his way in the end.

You were either a friend to the bratva or ... you were dead.

He would have the two names very soon and then he would teach a lesson on what he considered bad manners.

Da. He despised this whole place with its cheery have a nice day baristas and constant heat and ever growing annoying roadblocks with his business of red tape with that MC and the mayor’s pockets he was lining with persuasive money. Why they could not just take their special imports through New York as was his suggestion last year, but no one told Alexei no. That was the motorcycle club’s first mistake. The sooner Rider Marinos bowed down and accepted the fate in which it was presented would be better for everyone concerned and then Grigori could go back home to his pregnant wife and his mistress.

Unlocking the desk drawer, he reached in and palmed the cool metal, pulling out the Walther P99 handgun.

It would not be long now before two people would know never to cross not only the bratva, but Grigori personally.