Page 91 of Filthy Little Fix
The boss approaches. He tilts his head, analyzing me. His curiosity has a clinical pragmatism. He says, "You're not afraid of pain?"
I let my head rest back on the floor. I see him perfectly, looming above me. I give him a crooked smile. "It's just sensory information."
He nods, calm. "Our intelligence noticed an interesting development. The tech company where you work was recently acquired. A rushed transaction, for a price well above market value. By a holding company that, if you dig deep enough, has the scent of the Volkovs. Is that how he controls you, Leonel? With the threat of destroying your civilian life?"
What a pathetic impression. I let out a laugh at the ridiculousness of it. "Threats only work if you have something to lose... I'm sorry, you haven't introduced yourself yet. What should I call you?"
He raises an eyebrow. His brute clenches his fists, surely seeing my question as proof of narcissistic insubordination.
The boss forces a rehearsed smile. "Alexei. Alexei Malakov."
Alexei Malakov. One of the heads of the family's operations. As I recall from past investigations, he's the weight of gold safely kept in a vault.
I know the Malakovs' structure. I've worked for them before, through layers of encryption and anonymous servers. Never in person. They're different from the Volkovs. The Volkovs are a trinity. Three points of a spear, where power is concentrated and decisions are swift and usually unanimous, ever since the heart attack that put Kazimir Volkov in a coffin.
Underworld legend says that old Mikhail Malakov and the Volkovs' father, Kazimir Volkov, arrived in New York on the same ship, fleeing the collapse of the Soviet Union. Partners, at first. Until old man Volkov proved to be the stronger predator and took the bigger slice of the pie. The history of the Bratva is always the same: Cain and Abel with more vodka and less forgiveness. Since then, the Malakovs have been waiting for a chance to rebalance the scales: they are a litter. A sprawling family, full of cousins, uncles, and nephews, all gnawing on the same piece of rotten cheese. More numerous, but with diluted power. More people means more egos, more betrayals, more incompetence.
At the top of it all, invisible, is the old czar Mikhail Malakov, the patriarch who hasn't been seen in public for years, but whose word is still law. Below him, the family splits into two heads who hate each other. The first head is brute force: Ivan Malakov. Alexei's cousin. The Malakov of the docks, of the containers, of street brawls. He's the public face of their violence. Primitive, loud, and effective in his own way, with no finesse. The kidnapping of an asset like me has the look of one of his plays. Direct and stupid.
The second head is intelligence: Alexei Malakov. The brain. The Malakov in a tie, of Swiss banks, of holding companies. He's the one who makes the empire profitable, and he's the man I've provided services for in the past.
And Viktor Orlov... the accountant the guards were whining about earlier. He wasn't a Malakov by name, but he was Alexei's cousin on his mother's side, I think. One of his most trusted lieutenants, the man who handled the logistics of their dirty money.
Dante aimed for the money. Alexei is either trying to acquire me as a replacement piece or trying to get rid of me.
I smile back at him.
"I'm sorry about your cousin."
Alexei doesn't let much show. The frown is slight, superior. He tilts his chin.
I explain, "The walls are thin here."
I wait. He gestures for his brute not to attack me again—he's frothing for his boss, as if he were a Malakov himself. An obvious, dumb goon.
Alexei raises an index finger at me. He says, with a calm stained with caution, "You're dangerous, Nyx. I came here to offer a contract to a hacker, but clearly, what I have in front of me is much more than that. So, let's be direct. What does Dante Volkov offer you that keeps you loyal?"
He must think that if Dante doesn't have something against me, then he's paying me an exorbitant amount. And he is, just not with money.
"I don't think you can afford it, Mr. Malakov. With all due respect."
He, unlike his rage-red brute, doesn't seem offended. "Try me. Give me a number, and we'll talk."
"I think we got off on the wrong foot," I say. I draw out the subject on purpose. "You could have just sent me a contract byemail. This whole conversation is illusory. The fact that I'm tied up here with a broken nose is a bit crude for a professional proposal, don't you think? Let's betrulydirect, Mr. Malakov—what doyouneed me to do that I'll die if I don't?"
Alexei is quiet. The brute stares at him, waiting for the order to kill me. It doesn't come. The professional, rehearsed smile Alexei showed me earlier is now real, reaching his eyes almost shyly. It's not used to appearing.
"Straight to the point," he says. "Alright, Leonel. No more illusions." He turns to the brute. The order Alexei gives is a little different from what his goon wanted to hear. "Take him to the terminal and untie his right hand."
With an offended and disgusted grimace, the brute approaches me. He lifts me up forcefully and with no care at all.
"The task is simple," says Alexei Malakov. "We have a data package that our insider provided us. It's well-encrypted—yourwork, perhaps. But we need what's inside, and you are going to decrypt it for us. If you don't, my men will have permission to do whatever they want with you, for as long as they want. Am I direct enough for you?"
I force myself to stay on my feet as the brute squeezes my arm, pulling me up. I prefer this Alexei.
"Yes, Mr. Malakov. Let's keep our communication on this level," I say, ignoring the latency in my muscles.
The goon drags me toward the door while Alexei remains on his mountain of control, watching us.
