“You know who I am.”
It’s not a question.
He sneers.“Of course I know who you are.You’re the heir to the richest family in the city.”
It’s a strange way to label the Boudreaux house, but it does tell me exactly what he’s thinking of.Money.The richest family.Not the most powerful or even the most deadly, but the richest.
Typical Russians.
They always follow the money.
Which brings me quickly to my point.
I pull him out and slam him back against the wall, satisfied when I hear the hollowthunkof his head against the concrete.“Who are you meeting with, Mikhail.”
“I’m sure you already know,” he says, shaking his head.“No one.A courier.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s taking a message to someone for me.I thought you were supposed to be smart, Boudreaux.”
That earns him a slice across the cheek with the tip of my knife, and I wink when he hisses at me.
“Smart enough to know that I’m the one with a weapon here,” I reply.“And that you didn’t bring any of your men with you.Now tell me what I want to know or you’re going to regret both of those things.”
His eyes narrow as he considers this, but I know enough of his reputation to know that he’s not an actual thug.He’s a gangster, yes, but one that only deals in money and rumors.His weapon is corruption and blackmail.He doesn’t know how to defend himself against a crazy New Orleans gangster wielding a knife.
And I’m guessing he has a very low pain tolerance.
I press the tip of the knife against his nose, testing the theory, and he immediately jerks.
“What do you want to know?”he asks.
God, this is easy.If I’d known it was this easy to get information from Russian businessmen, I would have started doing this years ago.
“Dominick Landry.He’s got a trafficking ring running out of his basement, but he doesn’t have the money to finance that sort of operation himself.I’ve heard there are Russians involved.Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” he says, too quickly.
I press the tip of the knife into his skin, drawing blood, and he jerks again.
“I don’t know them!”he shouts.
“And I don’t believe you.All Russians know each other.Maybe not personally, but at least by name.Especially in a town like New Orleans, where we don’t have a Bratva.”
His eyes meet mine and I can see him running through calculations, trying to figure out how much I might actually know.
“He has warehouses in the warehouse district and a club on Canal Street where the sells girls,” I say.“Another dance hall on Canal Street where he runs auctions.A big yellow one.Keeps girls in the basement of his house.Likes to take them from his club in the catacombs.I know enough already to know I’m on the right track, Morokov.I just want to know who he’s working for.”
I take the knife from his nose and move it to the middle of his left eyelid, letting the tip rest there in threat.
“How much do you actually want to protect those guys?Assuming they’re not even your friends.”
“I don’t know them personally,” he gasps.
“Honestly, I don’t even care,” I reply.“I don’t need an introduction.I just need a name.”
“Sean Duhon could tell you,” he says quickly.
