Dmitry's Closet (12 page)

     By 11:30, Royal was locking her front door and headed downstairs. In a comfortable pair of blue linen slacks, a canary yellow Chanel tank top, and blue wedge-healed Bottega Veneta patent leather shoes, she inched downstairs with her hair pulled up in a careful pony tail.

     Forced to take short, choppy steps, it was painfully apparent to Royal that it wasn't easy to walk as she was still aching from the pain of being a new lover. It was a sensation unlike any that she had ever known. On one hand she felt like she was glowing and could sing like a bird, but on the other hand, her body felt like it had recently suffered the business end of a Billy club.

     As her feet hit the bottom step, she quickly turned and ran out into the store. She could feel Dmitry behind her, watching her, but if she stopped and dared look at him, she might end up back upstairs in his embrace—naked and panting like a dog in heat.

     Dmitry smirked as he watched her shimmy out of the back office away from him. He also noted her soreness, and the fact that he should have soaked her in a hot bath, even against her will.

     Anatoly uttered something to him in Russian and gave a smug smile.

     "Enough of that," Dmitry replied abruptly.

     Hoping not to be terribly missed or noticed, Royal quietly announced herself and quickly made her way around glass and marble countertop, where Renée was checking someone out. A few early morning patrons looked through the new dresses and talked to each other, ignoring her all together. Royal was thankful for that.

     "Hey, boss," Renée said, turning to look at her visibly exhausted friend.

     "Hey," Royal said, moving her bangs out of her face. "Sorry that I'm late. I didn't get much sleep." She yawned.

     Cory laughed, most unexpectedly. He tried to repress it, but it shot up from his diaphragm. He grabbed his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds, but they crept across the boutique. Renée smirked and turned away.

     "What is so funny?" Royal asked, flinging her head to look at Cory, her long pony tail trailing around her shoulder like a black python.

     "Nothing," Renée said, touching Royal's neck. "You've got a little bruise action going on there."

     Royal touched her neck and looked in the mirror. Damn it! How could she have missed that? It was a huge passion mark that was deep red and completely visible—undeniable in fact.

     There was a whistling tune that rang from the back of the store as Dmitry made his way through the boutique. With his newspaper tucked under his arm, he walked casually over to Royal, who stood looking in the mirror at her neck and ignoring him all together. As usual, the patrons stopped shopping and gawked at both his size and his haunting beauty. And as usual, Dmitry kept his eyes on Royal. She was always his target.

     "What are you staring at in that mirror," he asked, looking down her shirt.

     "Evidence," she said, showing him the passion mark.

     "Dear, I'm afraid those are all over your body. Besides that, how are you?"

     "Fine," she said, forced to smile at the sight of him. Her eyes brightened. "I'm perfect."

     "You should have rested longer. You are only as competent as your weakest employee. And I think you have strong employees, eh?"

     "I should have been up two hours ago." She felt a flutter in her stomach, remembering his masculine smell all over her. She'd hated to wash it off.

     "Well, you look great. Actually, I wish that I had more time. I'd let you know exactly how beautiful you look."

     With his long arm, Dmitry reached across the fine jewelry to the back of her neck and pulled her in to his embrace. Slowly, he kissed her right in front of Cory, Renée, the customers and God Almighty. Tasting the sweetness of her lip gloss, he released her and licked his lips. He was fighting a hungry erection again.

     "Umm... you still taste delicious," he noted.

     Royal opened her eyes and knew instantly that all eyes were on her. She stood back up straight and smiled.

     "Thank you...for that. Have a good day," she said blushing.

     "You, too," he said, rubbing her arm. He looked at Re-nee, who was standing dumbfounded with her mouth gaped wide open. Quietly, he turned and walked out just as he had come in -with all eyes on him.

     Royal could feel the chaotic energy in the room, but for once she didn't care. They were in love, and if he didn't mind that the world knew, neither did she.

     "Don't say a word," Royal said to Renée as she grabbed a yellow button down to slip on to hide her bruises. "You either, Cory."

     "Oh, we are way past words," Cory said, turning to help a customer.

     "I need to grab the fire extinguisher. It's hot as hell in here," Renée joked.

Chapter 8

     The basement of
Mother Russia
restaurant was basic and unattractive, quite the opposite of its upstairs luxury. It was illuminated by industrial halogen lights, painted in pewter black paint, covered in black linoleum floors and highlighted by one very large wooden table sent from Russian with seating for the divine 16.

     No windows gave the large space a depressing, dungeon-like feeling. It reminded Dmitry of the rainy nights he had spent in prison. It was such a constant reminder until he absolutely hated going downstairs in the basement and would only conduct business there when it was most necessary.

     Today, unfortunately, was one of those necessary days. Dmitry had just left the springtime of Royal's presence and had abruptly entered the hell that he called his private life.

     Anatoly followed closely behind him as he walked down the steps of the hidden space, where a small group of men sat around a long table awaiting him. His feet made an echo through the concrete staircase as he made his way down. Each step made him nervous. The winding stairs were in a tight place, perfect for ambush. When his foot met the last step, the entryway expanded into a very large opening. Dmitry took a deep breath, glad to get rid of the claustrophobic feeling.

     Two men with automatic weapons stood at a double door's entry. When they saw Dmitry, they opened the doors quickly and moved quietly out of his way.

     He walked in the room and sighed. "Gentlemen," he said, bidding them a good morning.

     They all spoke collectively and watched as he sat at the head of the table. It was after all his rightful spot. He was the head of the Medlov Russian Organized Crime Family, a faction of the feared and revered Vory v Zakone that had migrated from Russia to southern London to New York to Memphis.

     Dmitry ended up in Memphis due to the growing distribution hub in the city and the convenience of the ever useful Mississippi River. When he first arrived, he had only a team of three, but his expansion required the recruitment of old friends from around the globe.

     The men had come obediently through the years to serve the Vory and their fearless leader, Dmitry. He had spent ten long years working to build his empire, and in one decade he had amassed more wealth and power than anyone had in his position before him.

     However well-known he was in the dangerous underground circles, Dmitry hid in plain sight well, behind lucrative and very upstanding investments both in safe stocks and real estate, starting new businesses and pretending to be an upstanding citizen working hard in his restaurant because of his passion for food and his desire to be around people.

     However, everyone in this room knew that he was the coldest, strongest, and most astringent of them all. A true member of the obocheck. He had slaughtered anyone who dared stand in his way, purchased both politicians and police alike, intimidated and followed through on the most unthinkable threats. And never truly worked a day in his life. He was Boss Dmitry Medlov.

     The other fifteen men around him had been allowed to live within a modified code of the Thieves-in-law. They had been permitted wives, children, the ability to intermingle with the society and the denial, so far, of the penalty of death for their transgressions against the code.

     However, Dmitry had stayed true to the old ways. He had watched over them, rightfully chosen as their leader because of his denial of all things that went against the code. He had not taken a woman as anything more than a lover; he had no children bearing his name; although he had businesses, he had never worked a day in his life—lived on only what he made through the code; and he loathed the government and all of its criminal justice departments. He had a file within every federal agency in the U.S., several in UK, was on watch by Interpol and still feared in Russia, the Ukraine and Georgia.

     Only no one could touch him, because he was so skilled at covering his tracks.

     "You know the drill, Anatoly. Check the room before we begin," Dmitry said, looking through a file that had been placed in front of him.

     Not only did Dmitry run all of their secret gatherings like corporate board meetings, but he also had paid an FBI agent to train Anatoly to check the room for bugs and the phone for taps.

     "It's clear," Anatoly said, standing in the back of the room, two Glocks visible in the leather holsters under his arms.

     "Good. Now, I'll make this quick, mostly because I just don't want to be here today," Dmitry huffed, irritated. "While I am your leader, I've always considered us to be brothers. I have been fair with you. Where I have prospered, so have you. But the knife cuts both ways. Where I have suffered, so shall you,
if you are the cause.
Would you not agree that this is wise?"

     They all agreed that it was not only wise but generous.

     "Then why would one of you desecrate the most scared of our laws by talking to the police?"

     The men looked around urgently, all surprised, at least one scared of what he knew the consequence would be. Death. It was part of the code. No Vor cooperated with the government. It had been the one code that was unbreakable, and so far in all the years they had been in Memphis, it had gone unbroken.

     "Which one of you is it?" He pointed down the table as he talked. "I'll make things much easier for you, if you
just
tell me the truth, now. But if you force me to tell you who you are, it will be most unfortunate for you." His voice never raised but his demeanor was cold and sinister. His long finger fell behind the force of his stare. He sat back in his chair and sighed, waiting for a response. There was none.

     The room was silent. Some of the older counterparts grumbled under their breath, angry at the leak, anxious to know who the snitch was. How dare someone talk! The outrage overflowed.

     Dmitry looked down at his watch. The long ivory dial made its way around the circumference of the golden plated watch face.

     "I'll give you another thirty seconds. I'll even count it down for you. One, two, three, four..."

     As Dmitry counted down the death sentence, Anatoly moved from the back of the room out of the darkness of the shadows with the shiny, chrome nine millimeter in his hand. Each person looked at the other while watching Dmitry's face for some indication of who the traitor was. But he gave no sign, he simply kept counting. "Thirty," he said finally.

     There was an unmistakable click as Anatoly pulled the trigger. The shot was quick and accurate. A man's body on the far end of the table flew forward, blood spewing out of his disfigured head in ulterior-spray red on the others. There was no gasp or shock. They all looked on bemused, horrified that their friend had been a traitor. His death was insignificant because of his treachery.

     Dmitry looked down at the brain matter on the folder that had projected across the room and cringed. Even in the man's death, Kirill had made a mess of things.

     He took the handkerchief from his side pocket and wiped the folder off. Then, he carefully passed the folder with the leaked transcripts of conversations about each of them along with pictures of the traitor meeting with the police to the man on his immediate right.

     "It's sad day when we cannot trust our own. This man has been my friend for many years. He was one of the original settlers. I know his wife, his children,
his mistress,
his life. It pains me to have to have done this, but you all know the rules that we live by. I have granted you the ability, unlike many of our brothers across the world, to marry, to have more than we would have in Russia, but one thing will not change. We do not cooperate with police; they cooperate with us. We do not roll over on each other. It has always and will always be punishable by death."

     The men agreed silently, looking on for their leader's direction.

     "What was he speaking to the police about," Khalid asked, a mid-fifties, balding Russian man. Putting on his glasses as the file arrived in front of him; he clinched the paper with his bony, slender fingers and squinted as he read the sobering transcripts.

     "The police are forming a strong investigation against us. They want to find out who is the leader. They think that if they cut head off, organization dies."

     "We have evolved much since the old days," Khalid smirked.

     "Sometimes I fear to our own detriment," Dmitry replied.

     "How did you find out?" another man asked perplexed.

     "I am not without my own contacts in most agencies. I will not, however, reveal my source."

     "For how long has this gone on?" another man chimed in, disgusted by the betrayal.

     "He was arrested the other night by a local. Subsequently, he was questioned by feds because of his knowledge. One of
mine
inside got the information to me." Dmitry sighed.

     Frustrated, he clinched his teeth, but did not raise his voice. "With every choice, there is a consequence. So, enough about him. We move forward."

     The men were dead silent but in agreement with Dmitry. He focused in, past the fury and hurt in his heart.

     "In the next few weeks, we have much to do. If we are going to successfully take over the northern territory, we have to get new reinforcements from New York. I've already met with them. We have about ten new guys coming in soon. Plus, I have sent to our friends in New York for a seasoned leader for
his
place. I have asked that they send someone with impeccable skills in nuclear trafficking," Dmitry said, daring not to ever utter his dead friend's name again.