Page 33 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Kostin

I’d like to have Bonnie rubbing me down in oils, touching me with those soft hands of hers tonight, but I have more serious matters at hand. After fifteen hours on the road, without more than a few fifteen-minute breaks, we’re back at the main headquarters in California, and Vladimir has brought the evidence from Jerry’s house.

He lays down a few sheets of paper in front of me, then a yellow envelope. “Look at these and tell me Jerry wasn’t some kind of mad scientist.”

I lean forward in my chair, running my hands across the first paper as though it will reveal its secrets through touch. A burning cigar sits between my fingers, clutched tightly from stress.

The diagrams in front of me are written in mathematical language, but I understand the point of the images. This is stuff that most people wouldn’t be able to comprehend, much less believe to be real, but I know better.

I’ve seen poisons that can kill you in a fraction of a second, and drugs that will render you an obedient zombie for others’ sick amusement. I believe what I see on these papers, and it fills me with the utmost dread.

“There are pictures of the girls in the envelope,” Vladimir says in a hushed voice. “But I warn you, they don’t look like the kind you’re used to.”

I chuckle. “I’ve seen bodies ripped apart by shrapnel, Vlad. I’m no stranger to gore.”

He nods. “Fair warning. That’s all.”

“I appreciate it,” I reply, running my hand through the sticky seal at the lip of the envelope.

The photos slide out onto the table in front of me when I tilt the envelope, showing me the gruesome results of Jerry’s basement experiments. Seeing the images somehow makes it less disturbing. My imagination is much worse than reality sometimes, but any of this shit would scar a normal person for life.

Thankfully, I’m already about as scared as a man can get. There’s no more flesh to cut, no more wounds to create on my thick skin. The pictures are horrific, but I’d be lying if I said they bothered me.

What actually concerns me is whether or not we have any of these edible explosives in the diagrams, and whether the 37th Street Bratva have them too.

“Did we get any of the weapons?” I ask, looking up at Vladimir.

His face changes from deep fascination, at the graphic pictures, to dutiful stoicism in an instant. “Yes, sir. We got a lot of things from the house, and we were careful transporting them.”

“Good,” I reply, looking back down at the pictures. “I need you to find someone who can study that stuff – someone who knows what they’re doing. I don’t want any of our men blowing themselves up by accident.”

Vladimir nods. “Yes, sir. I will find someone qualified.”

I puff on my cigar, pushing the papers and sick images away from me. The smoke hides Jerry’s experiments from my peripheral, but my mind is already stained with the mangled bodies of the women who once worked at the Diamond Score.

Bonnie could’ve been one of them. I don’t know why, but that’s the worst thing about all of this. It isn’t the harsh reality, but the long-gone possibility that disturbs me the most.

“The club is closed down, right?” I ask, squinting through the smoke at Vladimir.

“Yes, sir. The cops didn’t give us any trouble about it, but some of the girls were pissed.”

“Better pissed than dead. You know the 37th Street Bratva are going to be rolling through there, shooting the place up until they find the money they’re after.”

He nods. “Yes, but we didn’t find any when we looked.”

“I doubt he has it,” I say, tapping the ash of the end of my cigar. “He liked to gamble. It’s possible that he already lost it or spent it on those weapons. God only knows how expensive the chemicals he obtained were.”

“There was a lot of stuff,” Vladimir replies.

“Probably stuff that the Bratva want to get their hands on, but we’re not going to let them anywhere near that shit. I want double guards on it, at all times, and if anyone comes close, I want you to shoot them. I don’t care who they are or how innocent they may seem.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Those sick bastards aren’t going to get anything nice out of this if they don’t leave us alone. They have another thing coming if they consider raiding our headquarters.”

“It’ll mean war.”

“Then let there be war,” I bark, springing up from my seat. “Let Russian blood run through the streets, like the great flood. Nobody will cross us like this, not even the 37th Street Bastards. Do you understand?”

Vladimir stiffens, giving me a curt nod. “Yes, boss. We will defend this Family’s honor.”

“Good,” I say, sitting back down. “I’d like you to tell this to all who may inquire – The Markov Family is at war with the 37th Street Bratva.”

“Shall I inform your brother as well?”

A wry grin pushes up the sides of my lips. “Yes; tell my brother. Let the whole world know that we will fight. In the meantime, I will go check on Bonnie. She has a knack for getting herself into trouble.”

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