Page 30 of Mafia King: Matteo
Is he a lover or a stalker?
What game are you playing, Mr. Grey?
CHAPTER 11
MATTEO
Gio pulls up in front of the home Alena grew up in. Her father’s mansion looks like a winter greeting card with a fresh blanket of snow on it, and the circular driveway is cleared. On this part of Long Island, each home is like every other house next to it. Leave it to Russian newcomers to lack imagination. And why not, after spending most of their life in communist Russia, they have little to go by. Compared to Italy, where we have thousands of years of civilization and skilled artisans.
He opens my car door and accompanies me, while another guard remain with the vehicle. As soon as we step inside, we’re both searched for weapons. The place is massive, but the décor could use an update. Someone, probably the wife, is stuck in the ‘80s by the look of the worn mauve carpet and dated Nagel artwork.
We follow some guy dressed like a butler to the back of the house and into a man cave with lots of dark wood and the smell of decades-old cigar smoke. The lighting is terrible, but the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a spectacular view of a tree-lined backyard that stretches to the water.
It’s obvious this room has been decorated by someone other than the wife. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s the man we’re here to see, a man who wields considerable power in the Russian bratva.
Speak of the devil, Mikhail Pasnov steps out of the shadows. He’s tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a big belly. Some would be intimidated, but not me. I think he looks old, tired, and out of shape. According to Gio, he’s in his fifties, but he looks more like a man in his sixties. He approaches, and we shake hands.
“Matteo, welcome to the city. I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a seat. I hear you like bourbon.”
“I do,” I reply as Gio stands behind me. The butler enters the room carrying a tray of unopened bottles of high-end bourbon and vodka. He opens them and gently lays the caps down before pouring a bourbon for me and a vodka for Mikhail.
He hands me the rock glass with amber-colored liquid. I take it and swirl the contents as I watch Mikhail take a shot of vodka and pour a second. The butler asks if there’s anything else we need. Mikhail dismisses him with a wave of his hand. The man quietly leaves, closing the double doors behind him. Gio takes up a defensive post next to the doors.
Mikhail, still holding his drink, walks across the room to a fireplace and pokes at the embers with a metal rod. Satisfied with the renewed flames, he stows the poker and collapses, as if exhausted, in one of the high-back chairs in front of the fireplace. I sit in the matching chair opposite him.
“I understand your request to meet is over a dispute. I assure you I meant no harm. The laundromat has been on our radar for some time.”
Bullshit.
His opening statement sounds rehearsed. I don’t trust him. He’s acting way too calm, but that’s to be expected of anyone who used to work for the KGB. The man has been trained to pass a lie detector test and withstand all sorts of torture without so much as flinching.
“Let’s just agree to disagree. I’m prepared to reimburse you whatever you paid for the lot. It’s on my territory and should have never been sold to you.”
I pause, letting this sink in. His calm demeanor fades as his pale blue eyes narrow and eyebrows like Brezhnev’s furrow.
“That’s preposterous.”
“Oh, I don’t think it is. That property is more than a building to me, and as my first action as a Don, I won’t be fucked out of it. Wu used you to get to me. He never should have sold to you. He paid for his sin.”
I take a sip of the bourbon and lean back in the chair, waiting for his next move,
“What are you after?” he asks as he leans forward in his chair. Gio steps forward protectively but relaxes when Mikhail reaches for the poker and stabs at the embers in the fireplace, not me.
“I’ll forgive your overreaching in exchange for an arranged marriage with your daughter, Alena. Alena has to marry someone. It might as well be me.” I sneer condescendingly at him.
It’s tough to pick up, but the man’s forehead creases. I see the corner of his mouth twitch. It’s subtle but enough to know I got to him.
“Alena is young, full of life, and she’s no virgin. Don’t you want someone who hasn’t been touched?”
Ah, a polite rebuff.
I sip my bourbon. “I want Alena. In fact,” I reach into my jacket and whip out an envelope. “I’ve already drawn up the terms of the marriage contract. I’ll leave these with you and return in a few days to sign the papers. The engagement will be announced on Page Six, and the wedding ceremony needs to be extravagant.”
I stand, toss what’s left of the bourbon into the back of my throat, and swallow.
