Page 87 of Filthy Little Fix
"Boss?" one of my men calls out. There's a hint of concern in his voice, and I notice an intrusive, angry tremor in my fists.A tremor demanding an unmeasured, inherited violence. My father's ghost in the backseat, smiling at me.
Disgusting.
"Shut up, Boris."
He clears his throat and falls silent.
I focus on the blurs of the city sliding past the windows. New York.Nyx'sfucking city.
I can't stand still for a second. I can't allow enough empty space in my head for that voice to echo, spitting memories of Nyx on his knees, repeating endlessly,he belongs to anyone with a firm hand.
I have to prove him wrong.
This illogical hurricane destroys the structure I've built. Is he evenalive, in the first place? Or is he so insolent that he provoked them until he got a bullet in the head? He's too useful; if he's dead at the hands of the Malakovs, it would be an act ofmonumentalstupidity. Getting rid of him is getting rid of an asset that dismantles empires for fun.
And, instead of treating it like a matter of logical probability, all these possibilities make my blood boil to the point of burning through every artery, bone, and muscle in my body. It's an ugly anger. An anger that onlyhecan ignite.
I pull my phone from my pocket. Vibrating, incessant, is Svetlana's name on the screen.
I answer. Grigory is on alert. He's waiting for me to kill everyone in this car.
"Dante," she says. "The security systems were disabled at the moment of the attack. Alpha-level access codes, used in a five-minute window to create a complete blind spot on the entire west perimeter."
Of course the attack began as internal. They couldn't have gotten through without inside help. I squeeze the phone. The plastic groans.
"Luca also reported back. Sal's wife and kids were home. They said he left for work and never came back. We've moved them to one of our compounds in Queens under constant surveillance. They're terrified."
I hate this.
Sal's family isn't involved. They aren't part of the business, and they don't know anything—we take family background checks on all our direct associates. I know his kids' names, the school they attend, their trusted hospital. Family names are forthreats, for pulling information from those with something to lose. Butthis.
Making a clean getaway would mean taking your family with you. Either that, or Sal is a different kind of son of a bitch than I thought. This is forcing my hand.
"Keep the family isolated," I say, swallowing the rising hatred. It leaks into the undertones of my voice. I taste iron. "No contact with the outside. If Sal tries to call any of them, I want it intercepted before they even answer."
"We will. We're also accessing everyone who had alpha-level clearance."
"Go through everyone's life."
"We will."
I hang up. This retaliation against the Malakovs is too personal to let anyone involved walk away with all their limbs intact.Nyxis too dangerous, and he is, above all,mine, and I'm willing to burn thewhole board downto find him.
The Malakovs'largest smuggling distribution center on the East Coast has been set on fire. The nearby hydrants were sabotaged hours before, ensuring the firefighters would arriveonly to watch a spectacle of total loss. The heart of the Malakovs' territory in Brighton Beach was invaded, its manager had his knees broken in front of everyone, the safe was emptied, and the walls were tagged with his blood. The car of the Malakovs' chief accountant was found intact with its doors open, the man himself vanished. The transportation company they used as a front had twelve trucks sabotaged in the same night with slashed tires, punctured gas tanks, and sugar-filled engines.
Svetlana identified Krestol Holdings, a publicly traded company that served as the Malakovs' main "clean" front. She initiated a massive, coordinated sell-off of shares, along with the leak of an anonymous rumor about an "imminent federal investigation." The panic sent the stock plummeting 30% before lunch.
Using contacts in Swiss and Cayman Islands banks, we raised red flags on two of the Malakovs' main offshore accounts, freezing millions in liquid assets. The head of the port union, a chemical supplier, and a local politician partnered with the Malakovs received visits from us, and their contracts were suddenly canceled.
I haven't slept since Nyx disappeared. I coordinate operations, messages; I search for clues. The local news with stock quotes and city maps marked with Malakov properties bring me no relief. This is the easy part. Dismembering. Making logical connections.
"The value has plummeted fifteen percent in the last hour," Dmitry says to Svetlana on the phone.
The penthouse of one of our hotels has been transformed into a well-equipped base while the mansion we used with Nyx is being turned inside out. We've reinforced the security at all our locations and are waiting for a response worthy of the Malakovs—ifthey can recover from our attacks. They have to use Nyx at some point. He would be their only ace.
I watch Dmitry report the results to Svetlana. Financial and territorial blows, for entering our territory. He fits in well in this sterile, clean, methodical office. It almost sounds impersonal.
I bring a cigarette to my lips in a failed attempt to calm myself. To stop looking at the windows and remembering that he could be anywhere.
