Chapter 12 - The Russian Syndicate
The peace lasted exactly twelve hours.
The next morning, the penthouse was a hive of activity. I was sitting at the massive kitchen island, dressed in a sleek white blouse and tailored trousers, feeding Emma oatmeal while simultaneously reviewing the morning's financial briefings on my tablet. I had stepped into the role of Alessandro’s assistant with a natural ease that surprised me.
Alessandro walked into the kitchen, a phone pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched tight.
"Tell them I don't care about their grievances. They operated in my city without my permission. They lost their shipment. End of story," he barked, hanging up the phone and tossing it onto the marble counter.
"Problems?" I asked, wiping a smudge of oatmeal off Emma’s cheek.
Alessandro poured a black coffee. "The Bratva. The Russian syndicate Lorenzo was selling the weapons to. They are... unhappy that I seized their cargo."
"But Lorenzo was the one stealing from them, right? He took their money and failed to deliver," I reasoned.
"The Bratva don't see it that way. In their eyes, the weapons were on my docks, so I owe them the hardware or the money. Ten million dollars."
I gasped. "Are you going to pay them?"
"I don't pay tolls in my own city, Elena," Alessandro said coldly. "Viktor Volkov, their underboss, has requested a sit-down this evening at a neutral location. A restaurant in Little Odessa. To negotiate."
"A negotiation sounds like a trap," I said, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.
Alessandro looked at me with a mixture of pride and amusement. "You have excellent instincts. It is almost certainly a trap. Which is why I am taking thirty men with me."
"And me," I said, standing up.
"Absolutely not," Alessandro countered instantly. "You are staying here behind bulletproof glass."
"I am your assistant. And I know exactly what their shell companies look like. If Viktor tries to leverage his legitimate businesses in the negotiation, I’m the only one who has the financial data memorized." I walked around the island, standing toe-to-toe with him. "You told me I belong beside you. Don't put me back in a cage, Alessandro."
He stared down at me, a muscle feathering in his jaw. He hated the idea of putting me in danger, but he respected me too much to treat me like a delicate flower.
"Fine," he growled. "But you do not speak. You do not leave my side. And if bullets start flying, you get on the floor and stay there. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
By 7:00 PM, we were rolling into Little Odessa, a neighborhood in Brooklyn heavily controlled by the Russian mob. The restaurant, The Winter Palace, was closed to the public. Black SUVs lined the streets. Men in leather jackets smoking cigarettes glared at our convoy as we pulled up.
Dante and his men fanned out, securing the perimeter before Alessandro and I stepped out of the car. I wore a sharp black blazer and carried a leather portfolio, doing my best to look like a hardened mob attorney rather than a woman who was terrified out of her mind.
We walked into the dimly lit, opulent restaurant. Red velvet booths, gold accents, and the heavy smell of vodka and cigar smoke filled the air.
Sitting at the center table was Viktor Volkov. He was a mountain of a man, with a shaved head, thick silver rings on every finger, and a jagged scar running down his throat. Behind him stood five heavily armed guards.
"Alessandro Moretti," Viktor boomed, his thick Russian accent carrying across the empty room. "You bring a woman to a war council? The Italians have truly gone soft."
Alessandro didn't take the bait. He pulled out a chair for me, then sat down across from Viktor.
May you like
"She is my chief of staff, Viktor. And she has more intelligence in her little finger than your entire organization. Now, let's talk about why you are polluting my city."
The sit-down had begun.
