“He’ll surface eventually. They always do.”
We drive to Queens where another target runs a strip club as a front for money laundering. Petrov operation. Needs to be shut down. The club is mostly empty at two in the afternoon. A few regulars drinking at the bar. Two dancers on stage going through the motions for an audience that isn’t watching.
The manager sees us walk in and immediately heads for the back exit, but Marcus is faster. Catches him before he makes it to the door. Drags him into the office.
“Cassian Rourke,” the manager says, trying to smile like we’re friends. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me where the Petrov money is stored.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?—”
I shoot the computer on his desk. The monitor explodes. Glass and plastic everywhere.
“Try again.”
He’s shaking now. “The safe. Behind the painting. Please don’t kill me. I’m just the manager. I don’t know anything about?—”
Declan opens the safe. Inside is cash. A lot of cash. Two hundred thousand minimum.
“This goes to Petrov operations?” I ask.
The manager nods.
“Not anymore.”
We take the cash. All of it. Load it into bags and walk out while the manager watches. He’ll tell Viktor’s people what happened. They’ll understand the message. Everything the Petrovs built isbeing dismantled. Piece by piece. Business by business. Until nothing remains.
Over the next two weeks, we hit every Petrov operation in the city. Strip clubs, restaurants, illegal gambling dens, warehouses where they store contraband. We don’t negotiate. Don’t offer deals. Just walk in, take what’s valuable, and eliminate anyone who resists.
The money gets redistributed. Some to my people. Some to Julian’s. Some to legitimate charities because even dirty money can do good in the right hands.
The territory gets absorbed. Areas the Petrovs controlled now belong to me or to Julian or to other organizations we have alliances with. The map of the city shifts. Petrov red zones disappear and get colored over with blue for Rourke or green for Vance.
Other families notice. The Italians send a representative to a meeting Julian arranged. He sits across from me in a neutral restaurant and asks direct questions about what happens to families who cross us.
“The Petrovs came after my family,” I say. “They kidnapped the mother of my children. Tortured her. Threatened to kill her. What do you think happens to people who do that?”
“Complete annihilation.”
“Yes.”
“And if someone didn’t come after your family? If there was a misunderstanding or an accident?”
“Then we handle it like professionals. Negotiations. Compensation. Solutions that don’t require violence.”
He nods. Satisfied. “Good to know.”
The meeting ends with an understanding. The Italians won’t move on Rourke territory. We won’t move on theirs. Mutual respect through mutual fear.
The same conversation happens with the Irish. The Russians who aren’t affiliated with the Petrovs. The Chinese. Everyone who operates in the city gets the message delivered personally.
Touch my family and your organization disappears.
Most of them believe it. The ones who don’t are smart enough to keep their skepticism private.
Four weeks after the warehouse assault, Declan finally gets a hit on Alexei Petrov.
“Connecticut,” he says, showing me the surveillance photo. “Small town outside Hartford. He’s been living in a motel under a fake name.”
