Ivan: Chapter 2

My phone rings from the nightstand of the expensive hotel room I’ve booked for the afternoon. I see the name Dominik on the screen—my brother and top lieutenant. I know if he’s calling me instead of texting, it must be important.

I climb off the girl I’ve been riding like a filly at the racetrack.

“Let them leave a message!” Nina protests, but I ignore her.

“What is it?” I say into the phone.

I hear Dominik’s voice, as low and calm as ever to the average observer—only I know him well enough to detect the undercurrent of strain.

“We’ve got a problem with the shipment.”

“What kind of problem?”

I can feel Nina’s fingertips trying to caress my shoulder, the side of my neck, to distract me and lure me back to bed. I smack her hand away impatiently.

“Babanin got the merchandise in, but then he gave it to someone else.”

“Who?”

“He won’t say, but I’m guessing it went to Remizov.”

“That slimy fuck,” I say, furiously.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

I know whatever I tell Dominik, he’ll execute it to the letter. But this was a massive shipment, and a massive betrayal by Babanin. Big enough to deserve a personal response.

“Don’t do anything,” I tell him. “I’m coming down myself.”

“Alright,” Dominik says.

“See you in ten minutes.”

I hang up the phone.

“Ten minutes!” Nina says, playfully pouting at me. “That’s not enough time.”

But I’m already buttoning my slacks and pulling on my dress shirt.

Nina sits up, annoyed. Her dark red hair tumbles down around the full breasts her husband recently paid for but has barely been allowed to enjoy. According to Nina, he’s only able to rise to the occasion about half the time anyway—the perils of marriages between young women and old men.

“Are you going to drive me home at least?” Nina asks.

“No,” I say. “Get a cab.”

“That’s not very gentlemanly of you,” she says.

“Have I ever fucked you like a gentleman?” I say, buttoning up the last button on my shirt.

Nina smirks. She thinks I’m flirting with her. But the truth is, I’m already tired of her. Why do so many beautiful women cease to be beautiful as soon as you get to know them?

Nina isn’t catching on. She hops out of the bed, trying to get in front of me, running her hands over my chest and purring up at me.

“We should go on a trip together. Somewhere warm and tropical . . .”

“How are you going to explain that to your husband?”

“I’m getting tired of sneaking around,” she says. “I was thinking it might be time for you and I to make things official. I was talking to a lawyer and—“

I cut her off.

“Do you think I would actually date you?”

She stops talking, her mouth hanging open and looking as stunned as if I’d slapped her across the face.

“What?”

“I said,” I make my words distinct and deliberate, “do you think I would actually date you?”

“But . . . we are dating.”

“No,” I say. “We’re fucking. There’s a difference.”

She’s sputtering, so outraged she can’t even form words.

I explain it to her, like she’s a child.

“Do you think I would actually date someone disloyal enough to cheat on their husband?”

“You hypocrite!” she shrieks. “You’re just as bad!”

“You spoke the vows, not me,” I tell her. “You promised to honor, obey, and always be true. I never promised Egorov I wouldn’t fuck his wife.”

“Well you’re a murderer!” she shouts at me. “You’re a killer and a gangster and a thief and a . . . a . . . a liar!” she finishes, her pretty face contorted with rage, and her spit flying up in my face.

She’s tearing at the front of my shirt, beating her fists against me. I grab her wrists in one hand, squeezing them with less than half my strength, but hard enough to make her squirm.

“I don’t lie,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “I always keep my promises. So you know I mean it when I say that if you see my face again, it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

She stares up at me, her eyes round with terror.

“Because you’re right about one thing,” I tell her. “I am a killer.”

I let go of her wrists, which sink limply to her sides.

I leave her behind in the hotel room, not bothering to give her money for a cab like I usually would.

It was probably overkill, to threaten her like that. But I’m in a foul mood about the botched delivery. The idea of Nina trying to whine and cajole her way back into my life is something I don’t want to deal with. Better to burn that bridge right now.

Nina Egorov is a cocktail waitress who managed to snag a low-level hustler, and now that she’s tired of sucking his wrinkly old cock, she thinks she can trade up again.

Lyosha Egorov is a nobody. The fact that Nina thinks she could go from him to me is an insult.

That’s what pisses me off—her thinking I was actually interested in her for more than an afternoon. Good-looking women are a dime a dozen. They literally throw themselves at me when they see a $60K watch on my wrist and the keys to a $200K car sitting next to my phone on the bar.

I wouldn’t even have to be tall or handsome to get as much tail as I want, yet I’m all of those things, and powerful as well. I really could snap my fingers and have Nina killed, though I don’t particularly want to.

I’ve never killed a woman yet. I like to think I have a few standards left.

I don’t want Nina dead, but I do want her gone.

If I was going to get into a relationship—which I’m not—it wouldn’t be with a woman like that.

What kind of woman would I actually date?

I have no idea.

That’s why I’m single.

What kind of woman would fit in the life of a Bratva boss? An innocent flower who has no idea what I actually do? A social climber, attracted to the money and power? A mafia princess, who’s at least used to this world?

I’ve tried them all, and none seem to suit me.

I suppose I’m just too picky. I don’t even like to eat at the same restaurant twice. I can’t stand anyone for more than a few hours, except my brother.

I think I’m just meant to be alone.

And I’m fine with that.

I get my car from the valet and speed off to Babanin’s warehouse, where he’s supposed to be storing my shipment of Kalashnikovs but has apparently given them away to somebody else instead.

It takes me almost thirty minutes to get there. Babanin’s port is located on a remote rim of the Baltic Sea, far away from the city center of St. Petersburg. It’s a dull and quiet little harbor. Perfect for bringing in shipments without anybody noticing. Especially when the appropriate bribes have been paid.

Dominik is waiting for me when I roll up. He’s my baby brother, but we don’t look much alike other than height and breadth. He’s fair while I’m dark, he has a smooth, almost gentle voice, while mine can be harsh, even when I don’t mean it to be.

He’s the only person on this earth that I trust. Sometimes I think that without him, I’d become a complete monster. He’s the only thing that holds me back from the edge. Caring about him keeps me slightly human.

“Privetik, brat,” he says, giving me a nod. Hey, brother.

“Privet,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Where’s Babanin?”

“Inside,” he says.

“With how many men?”

“Two.”

I consider this for a moment. I don’t like to go into a contentious meeting like this outnumbered. But Babanin is an old man. That doesn’t mean I discount him—but it evens the playing field a little.

“You want to call Efrem or Maks?” Dom asks, reading my mind.

I shake my head.

“No need,” I say.

Dominik nods in agreement, and we enter the warehouse. I can see Babanin up in his office. He’s sitting behind his desk, trying to act confident, but I know that he knows he’s in deep shit.

Dominik and I climb the stairs to the office. It’s a glass box, transparent on all sides so that Babanin can look down on the warehouse and the loading dock, keeping an eye on his workers at all times.

Babanin is a small man, as age-spotted and wrinkled as a tortoise. But I know he’s as sharp and methodical as ever. Which is why he surprised me by giving away my guns. It’s not like him to be so rash.

I go through the doorway first, Dom right behind me. Babanin has his goons stationed on either side of the door—the one on my left is a fat fuck. He looks like a sumo wrestler squeezed into a suit. The one on my right is a little more intimidating in terms of fitness, but he holds himself like a posturing peacock, not like a tactical fighter.

Without me having to give Dom so much as a look, he moves slightly to the left so that he and I are each lined up with one of the guards, in case something goes down.

But for now, my attention is on Babanin.

He’s pretending to shuffle papers around on his desk. I see the nervous darting of his eyes and the slight sheen of sweat on his bald forehead. He has a bottle of gin on his desk, and a mostly empty glass in front of him.

“Ivan,” he says, his voice hoarse. “You want a drink?”

“No,” I say, taking a step closer to his desk.

I can feel his bodyguard shifting his position behind me, keeping close. Too close, if he knew what he was doing.

“Where are my guns?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“My apologies,” Babanin says, his hand shaking slightly as he pours another shot of gin over his melting ice. “We had the shipment come in, just as expected, but unfortunately, an unseen complication arose. But I assure you, I can get more. I just need a little time to—“

“What was the complication?”

“They were, ah, confiscated.”

“You mean you gave them to someone else.”

“He didn’t give me any choice!” Babanin cries. “He knew exactly when they were arriving, he came in here with fifteen men, loaded them onto his truck—“

“Who?”

“Remizov.”

I let out my breath slowly. It’s what I expected, but I’d still hoped to hear otherwise. It’s an unpleasant complication.

Remizov is the head of a new crime syndicate. They’re not Bratva, not in the traditional way. Remizov doesn’t represent a family, bonded by blood, shaped over generations. He’s a nobody, who came from nowhere, just like his men. He doesn’t follow the rules of the Bratva, spoken and unspoken.

Which is why he’s taken my guns.

I have no desire to start a war with him. But he’s drawn the first blood. And in my world, that has to be answered.

But first, I have to deal with Babanin.

“I find it curious that you were afraid of Remizov,” I say, taking another step toward his desk. “Yet you failed to consider what my reaction would be.”

“I had no choice!” Babanin protests again, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Remizov and his men were armed! And he has connections—connections in the government, at the FSB!”

“I understand,” I tell him.

For a minute there’s a glimmer of relief on Babanin’s face. But then I continue. “You thought that our longstanding relationship would protect you. I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite. It only makes your betrayal all the worse. You don’t own this dock anymore, Babanin. It belongs to me now.”

Babanin stares up at me, sputtering with outrage, his eyes magnified behind his glasses so that he looks more like a tortoise than ever.

“What do you mean?” he says. “That’s outrageous! I’ve been controlling the shipments out of here since before your father was born, you . . . you . . .”

He trails off, seeing the look of fury on my face.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you leave here alive,” I tell him. “That’s the only courtesy you’ll receive from me.”

Babanin stares at me in shock. He can’t actually imagine getting up from that desk and not returning again. Like a tortoise, this office is his shell, his home, his protection, an integral part of himself. He thinks he can’t live without it.

I see these thoughts flit across his face, and then he casts a swift glance at the bodyguard standing behind me.

I’ve been expecting this. The guard draws his gun from beneath his jacket and tries to point it at the back of my head. But he made a mistake when he took his position too close behind me.

I take a step backward and slightly to my left, so that his arm goes over my right shoulder, the handgun now pointed toward his boss instead of at the back of my skull.

I reach up and grab his wrist, then I yank downward and drive my shoulder upward, forcing his elbow to lock in the wrong direction. There’s a sharp cracking sound as the joint strains and then snaps. The man’s finger jerks on the trigger, and the gun fires directly at Babanin.

The bullet hits him in the throat, on the right side. Babanin claps his hand against the wound. There’s no staunching the flow of dark blood that pours over his fingers, down onto the papers on his desk.

“Shit,” I say.

I was telling the truth. I hadn’t planned to kill Babanin.

Irritated with the incompetent guard, I hit him once, twice, three times in the face, until he slumps to the floor, his arm twisted at the wrong angle beneath him.

All throughout this encounter, I hear the sounds of my brother struggling with the second bodyguard. Once I’ve dealt with the clumsy gorilla on my side, I’m free to watch Dom as he grapples with the sumo behemoth.

The fat man is more limber than I would have given him credit for. He and Dom are wrestling and bellowing like two wildebeest. Dominik is much fitter, but the bodyguard has the advantage in mass.

My brother rears his head back and brings the crown of his skull smashing down on the bridge of the bodyguard’s nose. The man goes limp, tumbling to the ground like a felled tree.

Dom stands up straight again, shaking his head to clear it and wiping the blood off his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Took you long enough,” I say.

“Thanks for the help,” Dom replies sourly.

“You had it covered,” I tell him.

Only then does Dominik notice that Babanin is shot. He looks at the old man, pathetically slumped over on his desk.

“Did you mean to do that?” Dom says.

“I didn’t do it. That idiot over there shot him,” I say, jerking my head toward the first bodyguard.

“Well, he won’t be getting his Christmas bonus,” Dom says.

I look around the office, at the file cabinets stuffed full of the coded records of fifty years’ worth of illegal shipments. It really is a shame that all Babanin’s work came to this. But he put me in a position where I had to make an example of him or look weak in front of a rising threat.

“What do you want to do with all this?” Dom asks.

He looks equally overwhelmed by the crowded office, the fallen bodies making a mess of the carpet.

“Burn it,” I tell him.

Dom takes the bottle of gin off the desk. He douses Babanin’s body, the papers on the desk, the carpet and the blinds.

“What about them?” he says, jerking his head toward the bodyguards.

“Burn it all,” I say.

Dom pours the gin over the bodyguards too, then pulls his lighter from his pocket. He sparks the flame and throws it down on the soaked carpet. With a soft roar, it catches fire.

We exit the office, closing the door behind us.