Drake
The docks smell like diesel and salt water and the kind of desperation that clings to men who've made bad choices their whole lives.
Including me.
I've spent thirty years breathing this air. Started when I was fourteen, hauling cargo alongside men twice my age, lying about my birthday so the foreman wouldn't ask too many questions. Now I own the foreman. I own the dock. I own every container that passes through this port and the trucks that carry them to every corner of Chicago.
But tonight, none of that matters.
Tonight, all I can think about is brown eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses and a fucking bruise someone put on a delicate woman’s soft skin.
"Mr. Moses." Sergei Markov's voice cuts through the fog of my distraction like a blade through silk. "Are you listening?"
I drag my attention back to the man standing in front of me. Markov is in his mid-forties, built like a boxer and has the kind of face that suggests he's taken a few fists in his time. Black ink covers nearly every spec of skin the man owns but what really stands out is the tail of a black and green dragon wrapped around his right forearm. It represents the Dragon fight club he pertains to in an underground fight club I own. When he’s not fighting and making us both money, he runs a faction that's been testing Syndicate territory. The chaos of Magnus's death and the church confrontation and the fire at Redthorne left people thinking we might be vulnerable.
They were wrong about that. But the vultures circled anyway.
"I'm listening." My voice comes out flat and cold, the way it does when I'm not in the mood to play games. "I'm just not hearing anything worth my time."
Markov's jaw tightens. We're standing in the shadow of a cargo container, three of his men behind him, two of mine behind me. The math is in my favor, but I don't need numbers. I've never needed numbers. I just need people to understand that crossing me costs more than it pays.
"The shipment was delayed," Markov says, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. "These things happen. Customs, weather, the usual problems."
"The shipment was delayed because your people tried to skim off the top." I take a step toward him, and to his credit, he doesn't back up. Most men would. "You think I don't have eyes everywhere? You think anything moves through this port without my knowledge?"
Something flickers in Markov's expression. Fear, maybe. Or calculation. Hard to tell with men who've spent their lives hiding behind masks.
"Mr. Moses, I assure you, there has been a misunderstanding."
"There's no misunderstanding." I keep my voice low, controlled. The trick isn't volume. The trick is making them understand that the quieter I get, the more dangerous things become. "You skimmed forty thousand dollars worth of product. You thought we were too distracted by recent events to notice. You were wrong."
I can feel Kon shift behind me, that subtle adjustment of weight that says he's ready to move if I give the word. Konstantin Vetrov is the kind of man you want at your back when negotiations turn bloody. He's also the kind of man who finds the whole situation vaguely amusing, which I can tell from the soft exhale of breath that's almost a laugh.
Markov's eyes dart to Kon, then back to me. Smart enough to recognize the danger. Maybe not smart enough to do anything about it.
"I'll make it right," he says quickly. "Full restitution. Plus interest."
"Plus interest." I let the words hang in the air between us. "And a message to whoever you're working with in the Russian networks. I know you've been talking to people. I know you've been making promises you can't keep. Tell them the Syndicate's position hasn't changed. Tell them Chicago belongs to a select few and they are not among them."
There's a flicker of something in Markov's face at the mention of Russian networks. Just a twitch, barely perceptible, butI've spent three decades reading men. He's got connections he doesn't want me to know about. Connections that probably trace back to people with names like Kedrov.
The thought sends a cold spike of rage through my chest for multiple reasons. Power shifts happen all the time. That’s nothing new to me, Kon, or any of the brothers who work at my side. People are always trying to flex their muscles to see how far pure brawn can get them in our city.
Not far, is the answer. We maintain a tight city and work in hand with men like the Men of Genesis and a few others. We stay loyal to the core men.
Markov and others like Kedrov are the rats among us. They scurry underfoot and try to make a living from the crumbs we leave behind.
That is another reason the name Kedrov pumps rage into my blood. There’s been a lot of rumblings along the wires of the underworld about Kedrov. He feeds off the innocent and we’ve made it crystal clear no one harms the people of this city.
Katriana comes to mind. Seeing the bruises on her face and throat and the fear in her eyes tells me she’s gotten herself wrapped up into something. Someone put their hands on her, and I'm going to find out who.
"You have forty-eight hours to make restitution," I say, forcing my mind back to the business at hand. "After that, I send Kon to have a different kind of conversation. Are we clear?"
Markov nods rapidly. "Crystal clear, Mr. Moses."
"Good." I turn and walk away, not bothering to wait for whatever else he looks like he wants to say. Men like Markov respectpower, not politeness. The message has been delivered. What he does with it is his own problem.
Kon falls into step beside me as we head back toward the car, his long stride matching mine without effort. The night air is cold against my face, carrying the smell of the lake and the distant sounds of the city that never truly sleeps.
