The Chronicles of Young Dmitry Medlov: Book One Read online

  Smirnov was a true opportunist. His interest spiked immediately. “What could you possibly offer me that I don’t already have outside of a seat at Hutton?”

  “How about the MPLA for starters?”

  Big words for a young man, everyone in the room knew that. The MPLA had been splashed across world news for years now. There money was long. Their connections longer. To get in with them was any organized crime syndicate’s dream, but the leadership was picky and their customs dramatically different from any others. One had to know someone on the inside and not just anyone, someone high up in the organization.

  Smirnov’s interest in Dmitry’s African connection drew him in to the point where he had forgotten his ten minute cutoff. Quietly, he studied the young man in all of his movements, reading his tale signs, watching all of his ticks.

  However, Dmitry didn’t give much away. He could not tell if the boy was angry or serious. In fact, Dmitry had all but gone numb.

  From the beginning of the conversation, when he was certain that he had gotten under his skin, Dmitry’s eyes had gone from a desperate red pool of anger to a muted blue sea of nothingness.

  “It is true. I do not have my hands on the MPLA…yet,” Smirnov said, sitting back in his chair. “But I would be interested. They are having quite the revolt over in Angola right now. There is a great deal of money to be made.”

  “Like I said, it’s all about building relationships,” Dmitry responded.

  “Maybe I won’t kill you tonight after all.”

  “Well, father, that’s the nicest thing that you’ve ever done for me,” Dmitry said sarcastically.

  “Careful. Don’t tempt me, boy.”

  Dmitry smirked, but he knew his father was serious. He had tried to kill him already once with the tailor back in London. Only he didn’t lead on that he knew that it was Smirnov who had put out the hit. So, he wasn’t surprised that his father had plans to kill him now.

  Dmitry channeled his rage into persuasion, trying desperately to prove to his father that he had something to offer.

  Smirnov looked at his watch and clasped his hand together. “Your ten minutes are up.”

  “So they are,” Dmitry said quickly.

  Smirnov stood up and walked over to the window overlooking a clear, crisp, Prague night. “Khalid will call you tomorrow with the time and place to meet me along with any directions that I feel are necessary.” He looked over at his son who still sat poised in his chair. “But if you try to bite my hand, I’ll rip out your tongue and serve it up to your brother for dinner.”

  Dmitry’s beautiful face was like stone, stripped of emotion. “If you knew my brother, you would know that he’s always one step from doing that himself. He’s a fucking sociopath.”

  “Sounds like he really could be my son.” Smirnov wouldn’t admit it, but he had an urge to see the boy. Boss or not, he was not without a father’s curiosity.

  “I can see a few similarities,” Dmitry said, standing up to his full height. He pulled down his suit jacket and looked over at the bodyguard watching his every move from the corner of the room in the shadows. He rolled his eyes at the automatic weapon hanging from the man’s shoulder.

  Dmitry was certain that he could have taken the man with just the knife he had managed to smuggle inside his pants. Russian men were too homophobic to check the inner thigh well. It was far too close to a man’s penis.

  Looking at the back of his father’s head, he put all of his chaotic emotions in check. “I’ll be waiting on further instruction from my hotel room. In the meantime, thank you again for the opportunity to finally meet you.”

  Smirnov turned his eyes to the street lights below. “Have you ever been to Prague before today?”

  “No.”

  “You should get out and explore the city instead of waiting for my decision. When I want to get in touch with you, I will, no matter where you are or who you are with. I have eyes everywhere.” He turned and looked at his son, who was an exact replica of him as a young man.

  Dmitry slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’ll take your advice then. Maybe I’ll order up a woman or two and have a bite to eat.”

  “Manon, the little manager/whore from downstairs, can help you find something to your liking in Prague. She’s good at that and at giving good head. I would recommend her for both.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dmitry said, excusing himself. As he walked up the stairs to head back to Davyd, he stopped and turned back towards his father. There was a long pause before he spoke.

  “Was I what you expected?” Dmitry asked, unable to help himself.

  Smirnov sucked his teeth again. “That’s the thing…I didn’t care enough to expect anything from you, Dmitry. Whether you’re my blood or not, it is not relevant…only money is relevant. If you did not have any to offer, you’d be dead. Know that and remember it. You’ll live a hell of a lot longer if you do. I’m not interested in a family reunion or developing familial relationships. That’s why I’m boss. I could care less about you or your brother. I just want to get paid, and you just happen to be the one with the check. Count your lucking fucking stars.”

  “Do you have any more questions?” Smirnov asked, frustrated that the man was still in his presence.

  “No,” Dmitry said, sucking down his pride.

  “Well then go,” Smirnov said, dismissing him.

  Dmitry was again lost for words. Turning back around, he walked past the bodyguards standing at the entrance of the doorway and headed back towards Davyd. He could feel his own blood boiling and the heat around his collar rising. Yet, he had to maintain for more than just himself. Too many people where counting on him; so to do something stupid like losing his cool simply because his feelings were hurt was not an option.

  Davyd stood when he heard his boss’s long stride down the marble hallway. Looking up at him, he frowned as Dmitry barreled into the room.

  “Is everything alright?” Davyd asked concerned. He followed him quickly, looking back down the empty corridor to make sure that no one was following them.

  “No,” Dmitry answered quickly, looking forward with a scowl on his face. “Just get me back to my fucking hotel room now.”

  ***

  Khalid waited in the next room quietly listening to the exchange between his longtime friend and his new ally. The gut-wrenching first reunion brought even a foul taste to his mouth, and he was a man made from very foul things.

  As a father and faithful Vor, Khalid was ashamed at that moment of how thoughtless Evgeny had been towards his own blood. There were a hundred other ways that he could have handled things, instead he purposefully was inciting a war, and for what?

  Smirnov had more power alone than any other single organized crime syndicate in the world. He had more money than many small countries. And yet, he fought for every inch as though losing even an inkling of amassed wealth would cause the demise of his life. This was why they were now mere shadows of themselves. The power that they had originally sought to balance the wealth and control between the government that oppressed them and the men who were considered less than human had turned him, soured him, devoured him whole and left him a shell of himself. He was now only concerned with feeding his face, spending his money, controlling everything around him and screwing young women.

  Khalid had lived many long hard years and witnessed many hard things. Yet, over time he had learned a true and apt appreciation for alliances. He knew that in order to make a king, he must have true followers, men willing to die for him. Smirnov had that once, but not anymore. Now he made secret meetings to develop secret things even from his closest of men. In fact, the only way that he had found out about NightStar was through the fumbling of Dmitry. What else did he not know about? And was it not his place to know everything?

  Smirnov rounded the corner, glass-in-hand, eyes hollow and voice growling with seedy mischief.

  “I should have pulled him from his mother’s belly and skewered him on paring knif
e,” Smirnov said, passing Khalid to make his way to the bar.

  “Is the boy really so bad?” Khalid asked as he turned to look up at his withering liege.

  “He’s not a boy. He’s an ambitious man, twice our youth and full of ideas. He’s the most dangerous type of thing.”

  “And what do you propose that we do? Kill him?”

  Smirnov smiled. “Is there any other choice?”

  “There are many,” Khalid countered. “Though I would be better able to counsel you, if you tell me your vision of this NightStar project.”

  Smirnov poured a drink and slammed the bottle against the granite top bar. “What I do is still my business. NightStar is my project.” He seethed with anger. “I am boss! And I won’t have it taken from me by some snot-nosed cum stain that I forgot to dispose of twenty-three years ago.”

  “I meant no disrespect. You are still my boss. I am here to serve you,” Khalid said with a façade of humility. He lowered his head and waited for Smirnov to come to his senses.

  It didn’t’ take long. “Then act like it, Khalid. Focus on tomorrow’s meeting and for now send that bitch of mine in here to get me ready for this party tonight. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Yes, sir,” Khalid said, excusing himself from the room.

  Ten years ago, Evgeny Smirnov would not have kept one secret for Khalid. But with his age, he had become more paranoid, less trusting. That was the thing about being a giant for an entire lifetime. When a man had been the biggest, tallest, toughest man in the room since he could remember and then grown old and suddenly was no longer a physical threat, he became angry, even more cruel, always out to prove himself. And Smirnov had reached that point.

  Walking into Smirnov’s master bedroom, Khalid snapped his fingers at the young blonde laying on the bed flipping through a fashion magazine.

  “Smirnov is ready for you,” he said absently.

  The young woman obediently closed her magazine with a huff and pushed herself off the bed. “He told me that we were going shopping tonight before this thing,” she said, whisking past him in a pink negligee.

  “Well, your plans have changed,” Khalid said disgusted by her lack of humility.

  “They weren’t my plans in the first place. I would never purposefully go and rub elbows with these twits. I don’t know why he does it.”

  “It’s not for you to know,” Khalid snapped. “Do yourself a favor. Quiet your mouth tonight and do what your boss says. Otherwise, he might decide that you and your barely-legal womb are unneeded.”

  The threat of losing her ability to spend reckless amounts of money and be carted around by large bodyguards and put up in the best of hotels quickly numbed her irritation. Grabbing Smirnov’s tuxedo off the chaise lounge chair, she stormed pass Khalid and left him alone in the room.

  “What have we become?” Khalid asked himself as he looked around the suite. “By now, we were supposed to be done with the rat race.” Closing the bedroom door, he walked quietly down the dark hall to his bedroom to get ready for the party himself.

  In his silence, however, he was haunted. How did a man regain his soul when he lost it? How did he regain his independence from such a volatile tyrant?

  Chapter Five

  Davyd felt the rancid anger dripping off of Dmitry as they rode in the elevator down to their floor. Every few seconds, he would look out of the corner of his eye up to his boss and check his disposition.

  Things didn’t look good for them based upon Dmitry’s reaction to the meeting, though he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject to find out exactly what had been said.

  He had never suspected the meeting would go well. In fact, he had come to the conclusion beforehand that they could end up dead by the end of their ten-minute meeting, but somewhere under the negativity, he had held a bit of hope that maybe, just maybe things would go well.

  So much for wishful thinking.

  In the corner with his head pushed against the top of the small compartment, Dmitry stood stone-faced, looking forward and brooding. The quiet chaos was almost too much for Davyd as he waited for Dmitry to utter one word…. something… anything would do. But Dmitry stayed tight-lipped with his hands pushed down in the pockets of his tailored pants. Barely blinking, he pursed his lips together and breathed through his flared nostrils.

  As the bell chimed and the golden doors swung open, Dmitry’s men stood at the suite door on post awaiting his return. He stormed past them, pushing the double doors to the suite open with Davyd in tow.

  “Tell me what happened, Dmitry,” Davyd finally demanded as he watched the young man walk over to the bar.

  “Call my brother. Tell him to come here alone,” Dmitry ordered, pouring himself a shot of vodka. “I don’t want that bitch of his with him eavesdropping.” He stopped, shoulders squared and looked down at the glass in his hands and pushed it off the table. With the neck of the bottle in his hand, he lifted the spirit up and guzzled it down in large gulps. Wiping his mouth, he looked over at Davyd and scowled. “Smirnov is my fucking father. Did you know that?”

  Davyd frowned. “No.”

  “Did you fucking know that!?” Dmitry screamed, kicking the bar stool in front of him across the room.

  “How would I know that he was your father? I’ve never laid eyes on him. Not many people have. He’s the Czar,” Davyd said confused.

  “Everyone else knew. My wife knew. My mother knew. Kirill knew. God only knows who else knew and quietly laughed at me all this time, but not anymore. No one will ever laugh at me again!”

  “I would never laugh at you, and I didn’t know,” Davyd digressed.

  The bodyguards looked around confused, gripping their guns and watching the interaction.

  Dmitry tried to control his ramping anger. Clenching the bottle tighter, he leaned against the wall, propping his foot up behind him. Taking another gulp and looked up at the ceiling, he growled, “Just get my fucking little brat here now.”

  A pain deeper than Davyd had ever seen before was evident on the young man’s face. He couldn’t tell if he had been defeated by the conversation or pushed to move beyond it. Only time would tell. A short time. Dmitry hardly ever called for his brother, unless someone needed to die a painful death.

  “Da, da. I’ll get him here right now,” Davyd said, walking over to the table to use the phone.

  “The phones are probably tapped. This room is probably tapped. Go across the street and use a phone at one of the stores over there,” Dmitry said, walking over to the window. He pushed the curtains out of the way. “They are watching our every move, Davyd. They know that we’re a threat.”

  “I take it that he won’t allow us in on the NightStar deal.”

  Dmitry didn’t answer. He glared across the room at Davyd and raised his brow.

  “I’ll go make the call,” Davyd said, turning on his heels with his men behind him.

  Left alone in the room, Dmitry was consumed by the silence. Suddenly, he stood up from his perched position by the window and threw the bottle in his hand with all of his might. It landed against the twenty-thousand dollar painting across the room and splattered. Shards of glass flew in every direction, and the vodka quickly changed the color of the painting and ran down the wall.

  Pulling off his suit jacket, Dmitry closed his eyes. He held his head as his thoughts assailed him. Grunting, he shook his head.

  Was he having a breakdown? Was he going crazy?

  “No,” he said as the room began to spin. “No!” his deep voice carried throughout the suite.

  One of the bodyguards quickly stepped in. “Did you say something boss?” he asked, opening the front door.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Dmitry yelled, picking up the end table and throwing it. It slammed against the floor hard and cracked apart. Splinters of wood and glass exploded against the marble.

  The man quickly closed the door.

  Dmitry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. He walked up to it and
looked at his face, then down at his clothes.

  All of the fighting, all of the killing was for this? To arrive at the same point as his father? To realize that he was a mockery?

  Pulling his shirt off his body, ripping it and pulling the buttons as his tore the fine cotton, he then snatched off his undershirt. His hand ran down to the buckle of his belt. He quickly unclasped it and pulled off his pants, his shoes and socks.

  Why bothering looking civilized when he was anything but? They wanted an animal; he would give them a fucking animal.

  He probably was a rape child. His mother more than likely hated him for what he was and hated him for who he reminded her of. Evgeny Smirnov.