1
Dimitri
Bright sunlight reflected off the mansion’s many windows. The verdant green lawn surrounding it soaked those life-giving rays in under the cloudless blue sky. It was a perfect south Florida summer day, but a shroud of darkness enveloped the don’s house. Before too long, death would wrap the owner in its cold embrace.
My car pulled around the circular driveway. The driver glided it to a stop in front of the main entrance. Pillars rose on either side of the double doors. Two guards stood sentry in front of the ones nearest the entryway. Big men, both with intimidating glares and matching telltale bulges under their dark jackets. They stood taller, stretching their already broad shoulders at the new arrival.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have worn my shoulder holster as well. Not today. Given the reactions my mere presence had brought both at the gates and now with the men guarding the house itself, had I been packing, death would have had another soul to collect on Indian Creek Island today.
“They look a bit jumpy, sir.” My driver peered at the don’s guards. “Are you sure you want to go in there alone and unarmed?”
“I’ll be fine,” I replied, “I was invited, after all.”
From the tight-lipped frown on his thin face, I knew my words hadn’t done a thing to lessen the driver’s worries. Unsurprising. The man didn’t have the constitution required for the actual work I performed. If he had, he might have become more than just a chauffeur.
Without waiting for the driver to get out and walk around to open the door, I did it myself. This act deepened the driver’s frown. Not that it mattered at all to me. Even if I truly angered the man, he’d do nothing but stew in it.
The two guards flanking the doors watched my every move as I approached. All for show. The man at the gate called ahead. They knew to expect me. I stood tall, but didn’t need to make myself look any larger. My reputation proceeded my arrival, it seemed. Good. A little fear worked wonders for keeping the men in line.
Before I reached the guards, one of the doors behind them crept open. The don’s attorney stepped through. As tall and thin as Dimitri’s driver, he didn’t suffer from the same faults. His confident steps took him past the wary guards. An empty hand extended to me.
“Mr. Petrovitch, I’m so glad to meet you face to face.” He smiled like a politician. It was fake, but the man’s charisma sang through the deception.
He understood his worth and position. In a brawl, he’d be the first one on the ground. But even an illegal enterprise like the don’s, like the Petrovitch Bratva, needed legal experts. The man had handled the don’s affairs for over a decade. He didn’t want that fruitful relationship to end with the man’s death.
“Likewise, Mr. Rudolf,” I replied and accepted his hand. Weak and clammy, it contrasted with his confident facade. “I only wish it was under better circumstances.”
Rudolf winced and nodded. The sentries behind them relaxed, seeing the lawyer’s friendly tone with me. Another reason to keep the man around. He had the respect of the don’s men already.
“We should hurry. I don’t know how much time he has left.” Mr. Rudolf frowned as he stepped to the side and waved up at the mansion’s double doors.
With a nod, I followed him past the sentries and into the don’s home. Dark wood dominated the decor from the polished floor and slatted wallboards to the exquisitely carved chairs and table along the wall. Beyond the entryway, two staircases rose to either side of a vaulted ceilinged great room.
An ostentatious display of the don’s wealth, given the quality of the workmanship. I couldn’t help but contrast it with the style of my Russian brothers in crime. Had the don been in the Bratva, gold filagree would have covered the lot. Instead of simple but tasteful and well-made furniture, he’d have modeled each piece after something at the Summer Palace.
Both styles displayed a man’s wealth and with it his power, but the differences said so much. The don didn’t need to brag. The respect he held, the way he commanded every room he entered—until recently—displayed his power better than any gaudy baubles, unlike my uncle.
Instead of going up one of the swooping staircases, Rudolf led me into the great room and down a hallway to the side. He stopped in front of a closed door but did not enter himself.
“He’s through here,” the attorney said, motioning toward the door, “I have a feeling you’ll be talking about some things I wouldn’t want to hear.”
A weak excuse. The man handled the legal affairs of the most powerful Mafia family in the States. You didn’t do that without conveniently forgetting about your ethical obligations to the Bar from time to time. Maybe he didn’t want to see his boss in such a state.
I had no such luxury. After steeling my nerves with a breath, I pushed open the door. The room beyond was spacious. A pool table with a short cocktail bar came into view first. For a moment, I wondered if the lawyer had sent me through the wrong door, then I turned to the far end of the room.
A raised hospital bed sat against the wall next to the windows. The don’s chest rose and fell under the covers, but his gaunt gray face hardly moved. A chubby man in a bright red priest’s robe leaned over the bed, whispering something to the dying man. A woman on the other side of the bed held his hand, her back to me. Another woman wearing light blue scrubs stood a few feet back.
For a long moment, I watched the scene, my eyes on the only person in the room beside the don that mattered: his daughter Olivia. The don hadn’t shared his plans with her yet. It minimized her chances of changing his mind. Tough to argue with a man on his deathbed.
Even now, she was dressed for business in a dark pinstriped skirt suit. The shoulder pads in the blazer gave her a masculine profile, perfect for a woman trying to make her way in a man’s world. The quality of the tailoring betrayed her though. Below her shoulders, it tapered in at her narrow waist before flaring at her hips. The skirt pressed tightly against her shapely ass, leaving nothing to the imagination.
She had dressed that way as far back as I could remember. When the other girls at the Swiss boarding school where I’d first met her dressed down on weekends, shedding their uniforms, Oliva donned business wear suitable for any office.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse.
Her words didn’t just startle me out of my reminiscing. Both Olivia and the priest turned their attention to my entry. The don’s daughter sneered at the sight of me, and not just because I’d been staring at her backside.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.
