I spend about four minutes listening to them bitch about a nine-block radius of ambiguous territory, which they both want to claim for their dealings. In that time, they divulge that nine oftheir men and six of their women are dead as a result of them battling over it for the last several months. That isn’t an unusual story among my members, but it is a sore spot with me, which all of them know.
I slam my fist down to shut them the hell up, grab a red marker, and draw a line through the map they provided of the nine blocks, cutting it directly in half. “Next time, book a meeting fucking sooner. Women shouldn’t die because men are throwing tantrums.”
Meeting Four: Lev Popov, Russian Outfit, and Angelo Barone, Italian Outfit, from New York City
This is the final arbitration of the day, but I am in a shit mood after the last meeting, and this one is sure to piss me off. The groups are volatile, and neither of them would sacrifice their pride to consult with me unless it was dire. They’ve warred on and off for decades, so the thought of what constitutes dire is alarming.
The men have been stripped of their weapons, given cigars (Gurkha Black Dragon, which is Lev’s guilty pleasure) and glasses of The Macallan 72 Year Old in Lalique (Angelo’s preferred single malt scotch).
They’ve caught me up on the carnage. Friction has worsened since they began fighting over the territory left vacant by the loss of the Makarov crime family, which was decimated a little over a year ago.
“He fucked my wife,” Angelo growls.
“Ah.” Lev waves that off. “Your first one. That was years ago. She’s not even alive anymore.” He sets his deranged gaze on me,his gruff tenor devoid of emotion. “Seven months ago, he killed my daughter.”
“Jesus Christ, Angelo,” I hiss.
Angelo plucks his cigar from his lips and roars, “She married my son and squealed to the goddamn Feds!”
Lev shakes his head, but his face says he would’ve done the same. Betrayal is always a ticket to the grave in this line of work.
Their finger-pointing carries on for another ten minutes. Back and forth, they spit about one transgression after another. Angelo’s temper threatening to blow the roof off. Lev’s unbothered demeanor infuriating him further.
“It’s never going to stop,” Angelo finally drones, slamming his empty glass on the table. “The marriage was meant to bring peace. It made things worse. We’re both bleeding out, short too many men. Our businesses are at risk. There was a false news report released—”
“False news report?” I ask them both, but stare down Lev. “How does that work?”
He glowers at me with an arched brow, not buying for a minute that I’m in the dark about this. “Makarov had an in with a media conglomerate who could infiltrate the news. Since he is no more, I’m employing some of his special contacts now.”
“Thestronzoreleased a story that my restaurants had fucking roaches!” Angelo howls.
Lev hitches his shoulder, blowing a thick plume of smoke and an air of indifference across the table. “Better than shooting your daughter as payment. Maybe we’ll fix this by giving her to my—”
“Enough. Both of you.” I level them with a leer that quiets the room. “Let’s discard the notion of marriage between the families. It’s not something I barter with in my arbitration, and obviously, it didn’t work for you. I’m going to look over your businesses, your areas, and Makarov’s old territory and propose a split and joint ownership of his dock. This is the end, apeace treaty.” I stuff the cigar I never lit in my suit pocket with my phone and rise. “You’ll have my verdict in your inbox by tomorrow before you leave.”
I walk toward my security guard, who will usher me into the passageway first, but turn back nonchalantly, as if my statement were an afterthought. “Lev, send me the media conglomerate contact.”
He nods his agreement, announcing, “Will do,” before the door closes.
This is where things get dicey with me being in a trusted position to handle members’ most confidential dealings and being a KORT chair. When I acquired the seat, I was clear that I wouldn’t betray my La Lune Noire role unless there was a direct threat to KORT. But anything surrounding this media issue straddles lines because there are only three people who can access the media conglomerate and, in turn, rewrite news stories across multiple platforms. Two are part of KORT; one is the unidentified person—or people—threatening Rena and her family.
The KORT members with access use it judiciously. They don’t sell the service. It’s only utilized to remedy something directly interfering with KORT business or the safety of the members.
So, Lev Popov using it to sabotage restaurants of a nemesis means he bought that service from the asshole hunting for my sister and her family.
My security and I breeze through the passageways, until I make my way to a hidden entrance near the front desk. I take another turn, searching for Bernard. He generally expects me after my arbitration meetings, and his office is back here, not that he spends much time in it.
He rounds the corner, coffee in hand as he steps past me into his office. “Long day?”
“Is it written all over my face?” I chuckle, rubbing my forehead. “The last two pissed me off.”
“That should have been expected,” he drawls, setting his coffee on his desk and sauntering back toward me in the doorway. He arches a salt-and-pepper brow, heavy on the salt. “Did both parties survive meeting number four?”
“For now. They’re desperate enough to cease fire, and I’ll compose a plan this evening, so I suppose we’ll see.” I reach into my pocket and pass over the cigar. “Snatched you an extra.”
“Ahh. Gurkha Black Dragon.” He grins, gliding it beneath his nose. “I do love when he visits.”
“I know. And while you’re smoking that, I need you to dig into something for me. He’s using Makarov’s contact for the media conglomerate. He’s getting me the name.”
