Budapest, Hungary
District V
78 József nádor tér
The Golden Bull Restaurant
A stone’s throw from the breathtaking view of the ancient Danube River and ideally situated on the public square in the city’s centre, the high-end restaurant, The Golden Bull, known for its fine cuisine and upper echelon patrons was finally getting ready to close for the evening. After a full day, a successful wine tasting and a private birthday party for a very needy diplomat, the staff patted themselves on the back for a job well done as they ushered the last of the patrons out into the night air.
“Jó éjszakát,” the hostess said, bidding a jovial goodnight with a bright smile as she held on to the brass handle of the large oak door leading into the restaurant.
It was good to see them finally go. It was even better to know that she’d be in her bed studying her books soon, after being on her feet for six hours straight. But first, she had to hurry back inside and help clean up the dining room. A gentle breeze came rushing from the west and danced through her auburn asymmetrical bob. Taking a moment to enjoy its coolness, she tucked a wild strand behind her ear and glanced down the empty walkway toward someone who seemed to supernaturally draw her attention.
A man was stalking toward her in a determined stride. He was covered by the shadows of the evening with only glimpses of his tall frame as he passed the romantic iron lamps attached to the buildings. With a briefcase in his left hand and his head down, he seemed to take up all the space around him. There was something menacing about his presence and as his head finally lifted to reveal black-as-night eyes that landed on her, she felt him to be a threat.
The hostess nodded his way and prepared to step back inside, but he quickly caught the door with his large hand before she could safely take her leave. The abrupt action stirred her senses awake, making her eyes widen.
She hesitated at first and then tried to apologetically retreat. Her fingers gripped the handle harder, making her knuckles turn white. Pushing back against the door, she planted her petite feet on the ground and looked up at the man. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re closed now,” she managed to say, green eyes flashing with a tinge of fear at the man’s dark brooding glare.
He looked her up and down, unimpressed. She was skinny, wearing a short black skirt and black pantyhose with black leather flats and a crisp white button down. Finally, his eyes landed back on her own. “I’m here to see your chef,” he said, Russian accent thick and unmistakable.
“Is he expecting you?” she asked, looking just beyond him as the drunk diplomat and his entourage pulled out of their VIP parking spaces and headed down the pedestrian street. They didn’t even notice the exchange she was having with the stranger. Alas, she was alone and even more vulnerable now.
“He won’t turn me away once he finds out that I’m here,” the stranger assured.
She nodded her compliance. “If you would just stay here, I’ll go and call on him,” she said, letting go of the door handle as she darted away from him into the restaurant.
The man was tall, strong and unwilling to take orders from a young, skinny girl. Walking in behind her, he looked around the small establishment. “I’ll wait at your bar,” he said, closing the door and locking it behind him.
Her eyes went to the lock and then back to him. “We don’t have a…bar,” she said, motioning toward the nearest table. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be right back with the chef.” Passing the other wait staff as they cleaned, she headed toward the kitchen where she found Chef Farkas speaking with the sous chef.
“Sir,” the waitress said, voice high-pitched from distress.
Farkas glanced up at the girl as she entered and paused his conversation. Turning to the woman, he frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“There is a man here to see you,” she said, glancing back toward the kitchen door. “He said once you knew who he was you wouldn’t turn him away. He insisted on coming in…wouldn’t wait outside.”
“Okay, what’s his name?” Farkas asked, walking toward the door.
“He didn’t say,” the hostess answered, voice trembling. “I…forgot to ask.”
Farkas opened the door to the kitchen and looked around the small restaurant to see a familiar face perched on a chair toward the door. Glancing back at the hostess, he rolled his eyes. “Have everyone clear out of here. They should arrive two hours early tomorrow to prepare for lunch.”
Nodding, the girl and the sous chef went immediately to tell the staff, while Farkas stepped back out into the dimly lit restaurant and made his way to the man.
“Leave us,” Farkas ordering the staff cleaning up the dining room. On command, they quickly left their boss alone with his guest and the half-swept trash in the middle of the floor.
“It’s good to see you brother,” the stranger said, standing up from his chair and straightening his suit jacket. A side smile crossed his lips as he raised a dark brow. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He looked around theatrically to make his point. “Very, very well.”
“Thank you. It’s good to see you too, Yuri,” Farkas said, stopping only a few inches from the stranger. His gaze landed on the briefcase. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not just passing through?”
“I’ve never just pass through. I’m here on business. Time to call in that favor,” the stranger said with a nod. “Straight from Old Man Popov.” He tapped the briefcase. “It was his dying wish, but don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated for your trouble.”
Rubbing his temples, Farkas let out a sigh. “So, he’s dead? When?” In another life, he had worked for the Popov family as muscle, doing wet work of a very specific kind when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty. He thought all of that was behind him, but evidently, he was wrong.
“Old Man Popov kicked the bucket a few days ago, after he found out that Alexei was dead. Everyone thinks it did him in.” Yuri answered. “He’s finally gone to a better place.”
Farkas seriously doubted that, but he didn’t bother to comment on the matter. It was typical, however, that the old man’s dying wish would be to kill someone.
“Who’s the target?” Farkas asked, unbuttoning his white chef jacket. It was clear that for the moment, he would have to put his restaurant and his new identity on hold.
“Dmitry Medlov,” Yuri answered, watching a varied reaction wash over the man’s face. He expected such. Even he was taken aback when he received the orders.
Farkas’s gaze narrowed. “The fucking Czar?”
“The one and only.” Yuri turned and opened the suitcase. “Four million in Euro, up front and untraceable. I’ll deliver the other four once it’s completed. There is only one chance at this. If you don’t kill him the first time, you won’t get a second chance. Our recon team has done the leg work. We’ve been watching him for a few days. His estate is impenetrable – too many guards, too many guns, too many variables. His movements are unpredictable for the most part. He always moves with a team of men. From what we’ve been able to determine, there is only one place he’s truly vulnerable. We’ve made arrangements in advance to ensure he is there for you to do the job. All of details on the location and times are on this.” He held up his right hand and revealed the small drive.
Farkas walked up to the table and looked at the money. It was enough to pay his loan off where he would own this building free and clear. “And if I do this my debt to the Popov family is paid?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Yuri.
“You do this, and your debt is paid, and your name forgotten. You can go back to being 3-star Michelin chef Bandi Farkas, and never hear from the brotherhood again, unless we really do stop by to have a meal.” Yuri squared his shoulder and waited for a response.
Farkas’s left eye twitched. Something inside told him to turn down the job, but when a man came with cash on hand and the specifics of a high-profile hit, you either took the job or died. “When does it need to be done?” he asked, voice croaking.
“You leave tonight, headed for Memphis, TN in the United States. We have a handler for you. She’s waiting at the Ritz Carlton down the street. Room 605. Code name, Cox. Meet her as soon as you close up tonight to go over everything before you board the jet.”
Reluctantly, Farkas closed the briefcase and took the jump drive from his old friend. For a short time in his life, he honestly thought he had gotten away from this shit. That had been stupid of him to believe life was that easy. “Consider it done,” he said, facial expression unreadable.
London, England
Billionaire’s Row
The Popov Estate
Life was supposed to be great right now. Erik Popov had avoided being implicated and carted off in exile with other Russians after the English witch-hunt to identify those responsible for poisoning of Russian spies; his legal companies were showing considerable profits for the quarter despite the looming trade discussion between the U.S. and China; his illegal businesses were growing despite the uptick in Interpol investigations, and his new marriage to a 23-year old underwear model from Belgrade had not fizzled yet – like the five marriages before her. For all intents and purposes, he was living on easy street.
However, everything paled in the wake of the news that his brother, Alexei Popov, had been killed by that overblown, ego-maniac, Dmitry Medlov. It was both a moment of pure celebration and infinite anxiety for Erik. Celebration because Alexei had always been his father’s favorite son, even though he was a complete idiot. Celebration because now the family solely belonged to him, and he no longer had to deal with a continuous power struggle. Celebration because he could now wage war on Dmitry Medlov with legitimate reason, and once he was gone, become the most powerful man in the Russian underworld.
But the news also filled Erik with anxiety, because if this hit was not done with absolute precision, if the head was not completely cut off the snake, then the snake would turn more into a mythical hydra, rising from the ashes with five-times the power and five-times the problem, especially since there were at least five families on the global council who backed Dmitry’s every play.
This hit simply had to be done right, and he had gone to great lengths to employ the most covert and skillful sharp-shooter he could find. Now, all he needed to put his plan into action was a simple yes or no answer from his captain, Yuri, who had been personally sent to handle the details in Budapest.
Impatiently, Erik Popov sat in his favorite winged-back chair looking out of the bullet-proof bay windows of his second-floor study, watching a young blonde walk her dog down the street or rather allowing her dog to walk her. She glided down the walkway like she owned it, nose high in the air, lips parted in deep thought. Her presence immediately struck a chord – a small tremor of attraction zinging through him even as his paranoia kicked in. She was incredibly tall and shapely, ass firm enough to bite, breasts large enough to palm like basketballs, long sculpted legs of an athlete, diamonds in her ear, designer heels on her feet and a seductively little outfit that mirrored her desire to be always be the center of attention. Just his type. Not a day over 25, again another prerequisite for his wayward shaft. She screamed sex – completely fuckable and completely out of place.
For many neighborhoods, the sight would have been nothing short of a commonality, but in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world, her domestic task was not only beneath her but curious for him. People on Billionaires’ Row had the help do everything for them, including walk their damn pedigree dogs. But every night, around the same time, this blonde fuck-bot ventured out with her pet on a leash, prancing around like she owned the place.
Just as he was about to move the curtain to get a better view as she walked out of his sight, he caught her looking up toward the window directly at him. Shit! Pushing back in his chair to avoid being caught, he glanced at his watch and heaved a frustrated sigh. Budapest was only an hour ahead of them. The restaurant surely had to be closed by now. So, what the hell was the hold up?
He stood up from his chair, knocking over the small ottoman in front of him as he darted over to the piano and grabbed a crystal tumbler of scotch he had left their minutes earlier. He hated being nervous. It made him pace. It made him pissed!
“What’s got you rattled this fine evening?” a voice asked from across the room.
Erik turned to find his uncle, Peter, standing in the doorway with his fists buried down in the pockets of his slacks. Turning up the glass, Erik sucked down the expensive spirits before answering his only elder. Placing the glass rather roughly back on the piano, he tried with no avail to hide his impatience. “Nothing, just waiting on a call.”
“It must be a very important one to have you pacing.” Peter entered the room, knowing without asking that his nephew did not require or want his attention at the moment. Still, there had to be a discussion, and it needed to be in private and away from all of Erik’s other counselors. “There is a rumor that you’re going to assassinate Dmitry Medlov.”
Erik almost choked as he drank the scotch. Holding back his cough, he felt his eyes water. With a strained voice, he continued, “Who the fuck told you that?” He was incensed by the leak, that someone would betray his confidence as head of the family, but that tended to happen when there were two leaders. Someone always felt more loyalty to the other boss. Now that Alexei was finally dead, he’d remedy that problem once and for all by systematically killing anyone who wasn’t exclusively loyal to him.
Peter walked up to Erik, eyeing the fidgeting man under his glasses. “You know that I would never tell you anything to hurt you…”
Erik interrupted the wanna-be king maker before he could get on one of his long lectures. He had suffered them since his uncle had been released from prison and had come home to consult he and his brother many years ago. That time had now passed. “No buts…” Erik said, pouring another helping of scotch out of the canter. As he pointed toward his uncle with a long index finger as a warning; the alcohol sloshed over the brim onto his hand and the piano top. “Not tonight.”
“But…” Peter began in defiance. “This is a very bad idea. I know Dmitry. It would be better for you to have a conversation with him to find out why he and Alexei were at war with each other, rather to assume. After all, Alexei never mentioned anything about Dmitry to us.”
Erik’s gasp was audible. “Maybe he never got the chance. For your information, I sent a letter to my father informing him of Alexei’s demise at the hand of your Dmitry, and he sent a message via video demanding the man’s head.” He blinked fast at Erik, daring him to argue against his father’s wishes.
“What message did you send?” Peter asked. “Why did you not allow me to read it or see it?”
Erik would not be questioned by a relic. It was time to set some boundaries. “He may have been your brother, but he was my father.” He pressed a hand to his own chest. “I didn’t have to consult with you first.”
“Alexei was like a son to me, but I don’t think Alexander was aware that he was dabbling in drugs and prostitution. These were things that we did not believe in. It was not what we built this family on. How are we sure that Dmitry was not at war with him because of these things?” Peter could see that Erik was hiding something. It was imperative for him to be honest in order to help him.
But Erik laughed at the idea. He felt no reason to reveal himself to a man who had long become irrelevant. Instead, he chose to use this opportunity to remind his uncle of his place, not only in the family but the organization. “Guns and whores keep this house afloat. They keep our accounts overflowing with money. It is because of my decision to move away from my father’s archaic ideas of community in order to keep us from being slaughtered and discarded by our brothers and the fucking competition. Regardless of the business model, my father made his will clear.”
“But was he misinformed?” Peter pushed.
“But!” Erik gasped. “But is my brother not dead? But is my duty not to defend my family? But am I now the head of this family? It has been a long time since I discussed what this family does to stay a part of the global council. The point is that we have a seat at the table because of me!”
Peter squinted as his memory sent him back to his days with Dmitry at Vladimir Central Prison. Even then as a young boy, Dmitry had always been intentional in everything that he did. To underestimate him now after years of experience would be a mistake. “I know this man. He is reasonable, especially toward his brothers. If we…”
“Uncle, I love you,” Erik said, back erect, eyes blazing with fire, “but if you take up for Dmitry Medlov over my dead brother and my dead father, I swear I’ll have your head tonight. And I would hate to lose another family member so quickly.” He glanced over at the old man, seeing Peter debate if the advice he wanted to give was important enough to die over. What a bull-headed old fool he was!
Peter wasn’t surprised at his nephew’s threat, nor was he surprised at his actions. Erik had always carried a chip on his shoulder. He was always looking for a reason and a way to prove himself, always wanted to be in control. The fact that Alexander had divided the power of the family between the two brothers had always infuriated Erik, and if he were completely honest, he doubted that his nephew truly mourned his father or his brother’s death. This was a power play. This was a move toward checkmate. He was power hungry and more than that, he was vindictive. More than likely, Erik had lied to Alexander to get approval for that hit, and he would twist the truth to make it what he wanted it to be in order to serve his purpose. So, if Erik had gone that far, it was likely that he would kill him if he said another word in defense of Dmitry.
Pity.
Realizing that it was better to live another day, Peter digressed. Dropping his head, he rested his case. “When you’re ready to talk to me about this, just know that I’m here,” Peter said, nodding toward his nephew. “I’m always here for you.” His voice was broken, not in just the defeat of the conversation, but the eventual fall of their house. If Dmitry Medlov was assassinated, it would be the end of their family, his boys would see to it, but that was a factor that Erik had not considered among other things.
The cell phone in Erik’s pocket buzzed. Pleased with his uncle’s acceptance of defeat, he lightened his voice and mood. “And I appreciate your support,” Erik said sarcastically, “but I’m more than capable of handling my shit.” He pulled out the cell phone to see that Yuri was calling. Turning from his uncle, he put the cell phone to his ear. “The answer better be YES,” he growled.
Yuri walked back to his hotel room from The Golden Bull with his head on swivel, trying to make sure that no one was following him. “The answer is yes, boss,” he said cryptically, glad to be able to give Erik good news.
“Finally, something I want to hear.” Erik hung up the phone, whirled around and raised it in his right hand in triumph. “You see that, old man. It’s handled. In a few days, Dmitry Medlov will be a fucking memory, and the Popov family will be at the top of the food chain where we belong.”
Peter raised a gray brow. Over the years, he had witnessed many men with ambition who had prematurely declared their reign before being impaled on the thorns of their own vanity. Killing a seating king was not a fool’s task. He hoped his nephew would be wise enough to understand that usurping Dmitry Medlov would not be as easy as making a phone call, but there was nothing that he could say to prove otherwise. This was one lesson Erik would have to learn on his own.
“Well, then, I will excuse myself and leave you to your business,” Peter said, voice void of emotion.
“You don’t seem happy,” Erik countered. He walked back up to his uncle and searched his wrinkled face. “I’m fulfilling my father’s dying wish. I’m protecting our family, and yet you stand here like I just told you that your dick fell off.”
Peter had always been a quiet, calculating man. In fact, it was his disposition that had kept his late brother, Alexander, in control for all those years. He was not about to lose his cool now, just to assert his own pride. Reaching over, he patted his nephew’s shoulder. “I’ve lost so much, so many. I just don’t want to lose you too, Erik. You’re all I have. You are all that is important anymore.” It wasn’t a lie. Peter had no children of his own, no family to go to outside of the men who served him. No matter their path, he had to stand with Erik now.
Erik wanted to argue with Peter’s logic, but how could he? The old man had found a way to win the argument without arguing. Glancing up as two of his security men came to the door, he ended their futile conversation. “Go to bed, Uncle. Get some rest. Tomorrow, when you wake up, you’ll realize what I’ve done for you.” As he watched his uncle leave the room, he waved his security in for a brief conversation.
“There is a blonde bitch who walks her dog every night. Have you seen her?” Erik asked, walking back to the window to look out of it. There was no sign of her now, but he knew that she had to live nearby. It shouldn’t be hard to find out where.
“Yes, boss,” one of the men spoke up. “We’ve seen her.”
Erik sucked on his bottom lip and made his way to the piano to pick up his glass again. “Find out who she is, where she’s staying and what her story is.”
The guard was confused. Scratching his cheek with his thumb, he raised up on his heels and frowned showing his deep Slavic features. “You want her for girlfriend, boss?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.
Erik boiled with irritation. Did he have to spell it out for these numbskulls? “No, I don’t want to fuck her, you idiot. I want to make sure she’s not a fucking spy!” He threw the scotch in his tumbler in their direction, showering their perfect suits with liquid. “How many women do you know walking their dogs this time of night in this community? How many women do you know who do anything for themselves here?” His voice rose and the vein in his neck protruded as he glanced between the two well-dressed guards in disgust when neither gave an answer. With nostrils flared, he tempered his anger for the second and lowered his voice. Flicking the scotch off his own hand onto the hardwood floor, he shook his head. “It truly surprises me that you two have a brain between you. Get out,” he ordered, turning his back to both of them. “Bring me back answers or don’t come back at all.”
As they left his presence as quickly as their feet would take them without running, Erik rolled his eyes and went back to the window. “Fuck her?” he said incredulously. In a fleeting thought, he rolled his neck and twisted up his lip. Maybe he would fuck her once he made sure she wasn’t a spy, but for now, he had to be careful.
Zoya allowed her Pharaoh Hound to lead her down the street on his diamond-encrusted leash while she followed closely behind, red-backed six-inch heels clicking on the concrete, hair flowing in the wind. She had made the walk down this same stretch of over-priced neighborhood for 20 days straight, but today was the first time that she was certain that she had gotten Erik Popov’s attention. At last!
She hated to be Captain Obvious, but when she walked on previous days in her jeans and T-shirt or her workout clothes, not even the guards outside the home seemed to look her way. So, she decided to take it up a notch, sporting a short designer skirt, a low-cut blouse, newly bleached hair and full make-up. Her heels were killing her, but she breathed through the pain, sure that her newly hatched plan would work, and if not, she has to do something a little more blatant.
But Erik Popov had noticed and that was all that mattered. Like any red-blooded man, he had a routine. Late evenings were meant for some form of reflection, and he normally did it on the second floor of his Georgian-style 12-bedroom mansion, looking out of his window while getting sloshed.
The mission was simple. Make contact. Seduce and usurp his current flavor of the month wife, get in his head, get in his bed and become a spy. While she was still miles away from imbedding herself in his life, she was certain that after that small recognition in the window, it would only be a matter of time before the man himself came from his perch and found a way to talk to her.
Heading back to the mansion only a few properties down from Popov, she pranced up the stairwell to the double doors of the Victorian mansion where she was playing house with famed billionaire and Silicon Valley mogul, Vince Layne, to get ready for her palates session with her trainer. But first, she had to make a call.
As she breezed through the doorway into the white-washed foyer, her young live-in sugar daddy was grabbing the keys to his Maserati off the entryway table. There was a pause when he saw her, liked he had gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Hey, babe,” he said, leaning over to peck her cheek.
“Hey, you,” she said chipperly. Her eyes scanned his appearance. Normally, he wore shorts, flip flops and ridiculous plaid button downs, but today he was wearing a suit and real shoes. “Where are you headed?” she asked, beginning her interrogation.
“Out to meet some friends for drinks.” He saw her expression darken, worried that she was being left out. But she was. Zoya was arm-candy, designed to impress his friends and clients. But tonight, he was meeting some serious business contacts, and he didn’t have time to spend every moment devoted to giving her attention as she preferred.
“Want me to go with you?” she asked with a faux-pout. Handing off the leash with her dog still attached to the maid, she quickly kicked off her shoes to drop to an even six-feet tall, still much taller than her American boytoy.
Vince held in an irritated huff and denied himself the right to stomp his own feet. Damn it. If he had only left five minutes earlier, he would have missed her. He was expecting an argument as soon as he rejected her offer, but he’d have to deal with her later. Time was wasting. “No, babe. Not tonight. Plus, I thought you had plans. Don’t you have a workout session or something?” He checked his watch impatiently and looked toward the front door like it was a million miles away.
Zoya feyned an eyeroll. “I could cancel for you,” she insinuated, eluding to the fact that he could do the same. “We haven’t been spending enough time together lately.” Pressing up against his thin chest, she trailed her fingers up to his shoulders and massaged them.
“When I get back, we can do whatever you want,” he placated to her momentarily all the while side-stepping her to get to the door. “I really have to go.” He glanced up into her enchanting face and felt a smidgen of pity for Zoya.
She was a beautiful girl, great in the sack, but he was growing tired of how needy she continued to be, even though he had increased her daily allowance and gifted her a new Bentley just last week. She was smothering him, something he never thought would happen when he was introduced to her by Dmitry Medlov at a Christmas Party in New York last year. Dmitry had championed the match, saying that she was low-maintenance and quite engaging. Turned out, she was exactly the opposite.
Zoya narrowed her gaze on him, pursing her glossy, collagen-filled lips in protest. “Well, how long are you going to be?” Her whine clawed at his nerves.
“The sooner you let me go, the sooner I’ll be back,” he said, walking to the door. Grabbing the knob, he felt her eyes burning through his back. “Three hours max,” he finally answered.
“Good. I’ll be waiting,” she said, watching him hurry out of the door, happy to get out of her clutches. “Have fun.”
Vince nearly ran down the stairs toward his sports car, parked on the curb. It was definitely time to put his new toy back on the shelf before she gave him an ulcer.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she almost laughed aloud like one of those evil witches in children’s bedtime stories. The one thing rich men hated was to be inconvenienced by their trophy girls. And she prided herself on being increasingly needy when she was ready to end a relationship. It would only be a matter of time before they had the space conversation, just in time for her to set up shop a few houses over.
Hiking up the long staircase to her private bedroom barefoot and happy, she went into her luxurious quarters and locked the door. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed a number under the contact, Mr. Big, and waited for an answer.
“Hello,” Dmitry Medlov answered quickly as he sat behind his desk.
There was no need for an introduction, certain her caller would recognize her voice. “I finally made contact…well, sort of. He noticed me today. I’m sure I’ll have a conversation with him by the end of the week.” Zoya stuck out her hand and looked at her manicured, nude nails, ignoring the five-carat diamond that her boyfriend had placed on her finger when they first met.
“Well, Zoya, you’ve never failed me. I doubt you will this time,” Dmitry answered with a smooth sheen on his voice. “I’ll deposit a little bonus in your account if you can escalate things by the end of the week.” He knew that his secret weapon only spoke one language – money.
Zoya loved her life. Rich men paid her to do what other girls did for free. “I love when you talk dirty. End of the week is my new focus in life.” She dropped her hand and leaned into the phone. “Have I ever told you what a great boss you are?” she asked with a giggle in her voice.
Dmitry smiled coolly, immune to her wicked charms. “Show me. Get Popov where I want him, and you can write your own ticket, my dear. Have a good evening,” he said, ending the call.
Zoya hung up the phone and fell back into the plushness of her canopy bed, already devising ways to get Popov’s attention. She was a skilled professional with a bag of tricks that rivaled any Harry Potter character. Now it was time to do a bit of her own magic, something that might make J.K. Rowling blush.