Page 1 of The Stowaway

Chapter 1

Ivan

I strode towards my car, furious after the meeting with the Albanian cunt, Bardhok. I unlocked my car and glanced to see Dima approaching with the Albanian mob close behind him.

“Mr Maslow, I think you take offence at my new proposal,” he said in his heavy accent.

“Our meeting is over Bardhok. You may want to understand who you are doing business with next time you try to strong-arm me,” I said, moving closer to Dima, who was pulling his gun out.

Bardhok’s two men were behind him. I could see one with his hand on the hilt of a knife, and the other was reaching towards the inside of his jacket. I rested my hand on my gun and kept my eyes on them.

“I have no need for your business. Good luck finding a replacement,” I said, goading him.

His smile warped into a twisted, nasty expression, making me smile. I pulled my gun out and held it up, aiming towards his forehead, making him stop in his approach towards us.

He raised his hands up in the air and spoke in Albanian to his men. They removed their hands away from their weapons.

“We want no trouble,” he said.

“No, Bardhok. If that were the case, you wouldn't have followed me here,” I glanced at Dima, who had drawn his gun.

“Shoot them all if they give you any trouble, Dima,” I said, turning towards my car. “Dump them in the usual hospital.”

When I glanced at Bardhok, his eyes widened. I smirked at him before climbing into my car. Dima would have backup following behind him soon, and I was done with Bardhok. A large percentage of my business was legitimate, which was why Bardhok was under the impression that I would capitulate to his demands.

A quote came to my mind.

“Appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak.”— Sun Tzu.

I saw the rest of the security team coming. The Albanians would live, but they might be a little tender in the morning. They dealt in drugs, but I dealt in diamonds and gold. Dima punched Bardhok in the face as I reversed out of my parking spot. After the amount of travel I had done this week, I was ready to relax at home with Misha.

I put on my Tchaikovsky playlist. The drive home was over an hour, and I needed to wind down. The soothing music helped to relax me. I tapped my fingers over the steering wheel in time with the music. My mother's love of music ensured I had piano lessons in my curriculum. I smiled as I remembered my father’s dismay. He loved nothing more than to tease my mother about how she was with me and my brothers.

I voice-activated a call to my grandfather.

“Dedushka, still alive and kicking?”

“Malysh,” he said gruffly. “Still no wife yet? Or did you finally call me to tell me some lucky woman has fallen for the Maslow charm?”

“Why do you always harass me? I haven't found anyone, and if I did, you would be the first to know,” I said, smiling at his pet name for me. I was hardly a baby boy at thirty-six.

He sighed heavily.

“By the time you do, I might be in my grave by then.”

I rolled my eyes before turning off towards the M40.

“Pickings are thin, Dedushka.”

“Why don't you come back home? I'm sure your mother would have you set up within a week,” he said with a snicker.

“Net, that would be a fate worse than death,” I said with a shudder. “And don't start with how you nailed Babushka in high school.”

My grandparents were high school sweethearts, which made my father the eldest and a shotgun baby. They never stopped after that, and I have three uncles and two aunts.

He was still chuckling when I heard my grandmother speak.

“You should take some notes from your old Dedushka while you can.”

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