Page 150 of Stricken

CHAPTER49

IVAN

The samovar hisses, steam curling from its spout as he pours the hot tea into a delicate teacup. He can almost hear Mama's voice, a faded memory from his Siberian childhood, from the time when he was lost in the middle of nowhere, pine trees and snow.

Vanya, patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.

That's what his mother would always say.

His lips twist as he takes a small sip. Patience. He had been patient for most of his life. Serving the Solovey family, doing the bidding of a man who saved his wretched life. Without questions. Without judgment. He's a soldier. Always has been. It's not in his nature to asks questions. Or perhaps he was never taught that. Perhaps the cold place he still calls home didn't want him too curious. He can be curious now. He knows it. But he doesn't care.

With Vlad lying unconscious in a hospital bed, it's time for action, not for curiosity.

Fruit is to be plucked now.

He sips the tea, scalding his tongue. Just like that day, months ago, when Vlad had summoned him here, to this very room in the back of the house. The only room still bearing the bright reminders of where they both come from. A picture of an Orthodox saint on the accent table in the corner. A candle. A wooden table, custom-made by a Russian artisan somewhere in the countryside three hours away from Moscow. Two out of four walls are decorated by thick rich carpets with bright swirling designs. There's a shelf filled withmatryoshkas. A samovar and a tea set.

"If anything happens to me," Vlad said that day. "I don't want Roberto or Salvatore Morelli to be in the picture."

Ivan simply nodded. He understood. Roberto Morelli was a nuisance. A wildcard that needed to be removed from the deck. And Salvatore… He didn't deserve to live at all, but since Tony had spared his life before his death, it wasn't up to Vlad to take it. Still, Salvatore could be taken out of the game permanently.

Setting down the teacup with a clink, Ivan rises and strides out of the room. He's ready to implement the plan.

Outside, the Vegas sun sears the pavement, but Ivan moves through the shadows of the alley where he is supposed to meet his contact like a ghost. He's wearing a pair of worn-out jeans, a shirt, and a baseball cap. He doesn't look like himself and he knows it. That's the idea. Not to be recognized. Even though he has no reservations about his height or build or the accent.

Officer Mendoza is already waiting, his uniform sharp despite the heat.

"Mr. Belyaev?" he asks carefully.

Ivan nods curtly and hands Mendoza a yellow envelope with a photo of a man inside. The officer takes a look and then asks, "So what do you want us to do? Scare him off a little?”

Ivan shakes his head once. "No. Need enough to put him away for a decade. Possession with intent to distribute will be fine."

"The Morelli have good lawyers," Mendoza says matter-of-factly.

"Let us handle the lawyers."

Mendoza's eyes widen briefly before he schools his features. "Consider it done."

"You have my thanks."

They don't shake hands. It's not a transaction that needs to be celebrated.

Instead, Ivan watches his contact melt away into the city's underbelly.

Step one completed.

Next, on his agenda is the meeting with Silvio Rossi. The attorney shark who handles most of the Morelli criminal cases. But even sharks could be bought for the right price.

Ivan finds him later that day at his usual place. A Japanese restaurant right off the Strip where Rossi dines three times a week.

Rossi eats alone during weekdays and has company on Friday nights. Different girl every time. Escort. Ivan doesn't care. Tonight is Tuesday and Rossi will be available for a one-on-one.

Ivan doesn't encounter any difficulties accessing the private room. All it takes is an apron and a tray with some side dishes.

He sits himself in front of Rossi operating a pair of bamboo chopsticks and sidesteps all pleasantries. "My employer would like your help eliminating Roberto Morelli."

Rossi doesn't pause. He chews for a few more seconds, swallows, then looks up from his plate. "How much?"

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