Page 10 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

“Thanks for the fucking heads-up,” Gennady grumbles. “We really have to work on your team-building. As of now, your biannual performance review would say, ‘Needs to develop listening skills.’”

“Take it up with Human Resources,” I fire back. “They’re located at the bottom of the Hudson River.”

“Shob tebe deti v sup srali,”Gennady retorts. It means something along the lines of,I hope an orphan shits in your soup.Sounds better in Russian than it does in English.

“Time’s wasting. I have to go.”

“Dima…”

“Yes, brother?”

“Just be safe, okay?”

I laugh bitterly. “There’s no such thing as safe in our world, Gennady. There never has been. There never will be.”

* * *

Almost three hours later, I’m nearing the outer boundaries of Atlantic City. Gennady always jokes that New Jersey is the armpit of America. If that’s the case, then Atlantic City is the asshole of New Jersey.

I can’t stand this fucking place. It’s all dirty casinos and cheap hookers. Everyone desperate to separate fools from their cash. They do it remarkably well, too. It’s good business for the men in the shadows who control things.

But for Giorgio D’Onofrio, that lucky streak is about to dry up.

His casino is called The Lady Fortune. It’s nestled on Brigantine Boulevard between the Borgata and Harrah’s. Not the biggest or the fanciest place in the city. But it’s by far the most corrupt.

Anyone who knows anything knows that all the criminal shit takes place at The Lady Fortune. Money gets laundered. Lives are bought and sold. Guns, drugs, and girls move through here like sewage through pipes.

It’s sickening.

And the man who makes it all happen is Giorgio D’Onofrio.

Decades ago, he was an ally of my father’s. After my brother and I came to power, that ended. He retreated into his cozy little empire. Left New York and Chicago to the two of us.

Smart man. Neither Ilyasov nor I would’ve taken kindly to him meddling with our shit.

I wonder what he did now for Ilyasov to decide his life had to end. Then I shove the thought aside. Ilyasov has said again and again that it doesn’t fucking matter what a target has done. All that matters is his death. For a change, I’m willing to agree with him.

It’s easier to ignore that stubborn little voice in my head.

I pull into a parking spot outside the casino and watch for a while. And as the minutes tick past, I like what I see less and less.

Security roves past at irregular intervals. Sometimes, they’re thirty seconds apart. Others, two to three minutes pass before the next pair of rifle-toting guards rounds the corner. It’s a deliberate tactic—so no one can guess when shit is about to hit the fan.

The armed patrols are supplemented with roving cameras fixed to every surface. The cameras pivot from side to side and up and down, preventing blind spots. I note motion sensor lights and biometric security pads at every point of entry and exit.

The place is a goddamn fortress.

Getting in will not be easy. But that’s not even the hard part.

It’s getting out where my life hangs in the balance.

What I need is a distraction. A way to draw all eyes in one direction while I slip past in another. Something flashy, something big…

But what?

I’m coming up blank. A bomb would attract every mobster in the tri-state area. An assault would end in needless bloodshed. No, it’s gotta be subtler. Something more like…

My phone pings. I glance down at it to see a notification from the tracking app. Swiping it up, my breath freezes in my chest.

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