Page 34 of Any Means Necessary

“Kozlov?” he doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. I nod a confirmation. “What do the Grassos want with Anton?”

I spot the lure easily. He’s fishing. I’m not about to take the bait. Running a hand over my beard, I take a sip of the whiskey. It’s a top-shelf single malt, one of the best. I expect nothing less from Viktor.

“If this had to do with the Outfit, I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now. There wouldn’t be a conversation, just a bunch of body bags and bribed cops.” Lucciano Grassos and his trigger-happy men tend to shoot first and ask questions later, if at all. Fucking hotheads like them are what keep people like me and funeral homes in business—always leaving messes to clean up.

“Khorosho,” Viktor acknowledges, turning the tumbler of whiskey absently on the desk. Cold dark eyes regard me without blinking. “What do you want with Anton?”

“You know better than to ask me that, Viktor.” Considering the work I’ve done for him and the syndicate, he knows I don’t mess with discretion. It’s what keeps me alive and my bank account growing.

“If you won’t tell me what you want with him, then you can tell me what he’s worth to you.”

There it is, an opening for negotiations. Exactly what I’m here for. I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. Like most chairs with arms, this one is too small for me to sit comfortably. My mask of control remains firmly in place, not even hinting at my discomfort, my gaze remaining unflinching on the Russian.

Someone less seasoned would offer up something in exchange for what I’m asking. But I know how the Mikhailovs operate. I can see on his face that he came in here already knowing what he wants from me. He always comes prepared, it’s something we have in common.

One of the only things.

“Knowing you, Viktor, you already have a price in mind. What do you want?”

The old Russian smiles knowingly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does.

“Turns out both the Kozlov brothers have been more trouble than they’re worth. Alek’s been skimming from the arms shipments and doing side deals.” Anger edges Viktor’s tone sharply.

Ah, there it is.

“He’s stealing from you.”

The biggest problem with organized crime is all the criminals. They get it in their heads that they can get away with anything. That they’re untouchable. It’s not just stupid to steal from a man like Viktor Mikhailov, it’s practically a death sentence if they’re caught. They’re always caught. And I’ve been the executioner on more than one occasion.

“He dug his own grave, all you need to do is pick out a casket.” Disdain drips from his voice. Dealing with Alek is a small price to pay in exchange for the answers his brother can give me.

“You sending a message to make him an example, or are you looking for a more permanent solution?” I ask. There are a lot of ways this problem with Alek can be solved, and I have no problem pulling the trigger on any of them, metaphorically or literally. Viktor takes a minute to contemplate, clearly not a hundred percent on his decision. When dealing with rats in your own ranks, it’s a complicated situation. You might be able to take care of the rodent, but each extermination comes with its own set of issues.

“His blood runs too deep, he won’t disappear quietly. Maybe some hard time will teach him some respect.”

I can feel the regret radiating through his anger. Dealing with family matters has to make the most sense in the long run, not just what feels good in the moment. And with the murder in Viktor’s eyes, he wants nothing more than for Alek to suffer a long and painful death. But when murder isn’t on the table, a nice hard prison sentence can have the desired effect.

“Are we talking all day?” I offer, a life sentence. The option is definitely tempting, but Viktor shakes his head.

“A dime should do the trick. I have some friends waiting to welcome him in Sing Sing. You fix my Kozlov problem, you can have yours.” I can get a ten year sentence, easy.

“Consider it done,” I state.

I down what’s left in my glass, the liquor burning smoothly as it goes down. Rising from the chair, I place the empty tumbler on the desk heavily and pull my suit coat together to button it closed smoothly. “I’ll be in touch,” I say, agreeing to his terms and sealing the verbal contract. Viktor remains sitting, simply nodding before I turn to leave.

Lexie isn’t where I left her. Instead, I find her at the bar with a young female bartender. The medical kit sits open on the counter, gauze wrappers scattered across the surface. Getting closer, I can see she’s got the young woman’s hand spread flat in front of her while she sutures a gash across the palm.

“What happened?” My voice doesn’t pull Lexie’s laser focus from her meticulous work. The bartender swallows loudly, clearly nervous in my presence.

“One of the bottles broke,” Lexie answers, tying off the last stitch. Peeling open one of the iodine swabs, she applies the disinfectant liberally before covering it with a sterile bandage. “There you go. Try not to use that hand, and keep it clean. Usually, stitches can come out after a few days, but hands are tricky—healing might take a little longer. I’ll come back to check on you in a week, and we’ll go from there.” Lexie leans back, giving the other woman a reassuring smile as she pulls off the disposable latex-free gloves.

“Thank you,” the bartender says earnestly, withdrawing her hand and cradling it to her chest. She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I better get back to work or else Michael’s gonna kill me. But seriously, thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really.”

My pretty pink nurse, always so gracious.

Finally, she turns those bright blue eyes on me. “Are we leaving?”

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