Chapter 1 - Josiah
Closing the door of my Bugatti, my reflection moves over the smooth, pitch-black surface: close-cropped dark blonde hair, short, sculpted beard, dark, cold, blue eyes, a perfectly fitted black suit.
Everything reflects in the car like a mirror.
It’s nicknamedthe black car,and there was only one made in the entire world. Of course I had to have it. And I always get what I want.
Bugatti was going to auction the La Voiture Noire, but I approached them with an offer that exceeded their desires.
A car that no one else has.
A car that speaks to my personality and standalone strength.
Across the road from where I’ve parked, my skyscraper towers in front of me as a testament to my power in this city. It is a monument, one of many, built in my name and representing the far-reaching influence I have in every corner of Chicago. Chicago belongs to me. My underworld kingdom has such deep roots in this place that my empire is untouchable. People have tried and failed to rip me from my throne, but I am embedded in the very concrete that this city is built on.
My roots are what keep this city running and hold it together.
I walk in silence as I approach the building. My eyes take in everything, always alert, always ready for anything. I move with military precision in everything I do.
The two-story high glass doors slide obediently open as I walk towards them.
“Good morning, sir,” the doorman says, his face remaining stern as he steps aside with a small bow to let me pass.
I nod in greeting.
Walking through the building, I ignore most workers and nod in acknowledgement to others. My employees are not my friends. There is no more than respect shown. I don’t want to hear about your kids or your sick wife, or how you slept last night. Save your sob stories for HR. I want to see performance and efficiency. When you are at work, work. Nothing else exists.
The name I have sculpted for myself in Chicago was very carefully crafted to the specific image that I wanted to portray. Power. Dominance. Intimidation. The unspoken threat of violence should you consider crossing me. People know better than to take chances around me.
As I walk past my assistant’s desk, she stands and nods in greeting, then silently waits for me to make any requests.
“Double espresso. Dash of cream. No sugar.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman says. “And please note the messages I left on your desk for a callback request.”
“Who was it?” I ask, looking Bianca up and down. She has worked for me for nine years. Her stoic professionalism and very quiet mannerisms, teamed with her supreme efficiency in doing her job without me having to look over her shoulder to keep her in line, are exactly what I admire about her. She’s older, in her early fifties now, and outperforms most of the younger employees.
“It was a Mr. Rostov. He said he was calling from San Francisco.”
“Interesting,” I mutter to myself. Nestor Rostov. One of the West Coast Pakhans. There are five of them who hold an incredibly strong alliance to maintain power over the entire West Coast strip.
I wonder what he wants.
“Thank you, Bianca,” I say, before heading into my office. I’m intrigued and eager to get back to him.
In all honestly, I have been interested in developing some kind of business integration with the West Coast Pakhans for some time now. Stretching my reach even further will only strengthen my footing in everything I do. I’ve been watching them and keeping my eye on their businesses since their alliance solidified. I would certainly rather have them on my side than against me. Even though I do not fear powerful people, I know the benefit of allies in high places.
Sitting at my desk, I pick up the piece of paper and look at the neat, feminine handwriting in blue pen. It’s the one thing she won’t bend on. Blue ink. I prefer black.
I read Bianca’s note, then slide my phone from my inside jacket pocket and dial the number on the paper.
Standing up, I walk to the window and shove one hand into my pocket as I stare across the vast, sprawling view of early morning Chicago.
“Mr. Josiah Belov,” a friendly voice answers on the other side of the call.
“Nestor Rostov, I hope you are having a good morning so far?” I say politely.
“I am, yes. I’m up in my home office waiting for the fog to clear so I can enjoy the view I paid so much for,” he chuckles.“Funny that summer in San Francisco brings in this cold fog and makes the penthouse views so eerie.”
