Mikhail
I return to the Lanzzare mansion, unsure of the reception I’ll receive. Christian Genovesi looked delighted to get rid of me the last time I was here. A bodyguard opens the door and immediately steps aside to let me in. At least the truce is still intact after all these weeks. Waiting in the hall, I look around the mansion, opulent but impersonal. A show of wealth without any personality. It feels cold and sterile, like a showroom rather than a lived-in home.
The bodyguard shows me into the living room, and I look even closer. The furniture is sleek and modern, with no signs of wear or use. It almost feels more like a luxurious film set than a lived-in space. I keep displays of my personal life hidden, as anyone in my position would. But this is different.
Christian enters the room, increasing the atmosphere of pretentiousness and artificiality.
“Mikhail,” he grasps my hand before sitting across from me. “What brings you back? Is there something else we can help you with?”
“Yes,” I reply simply.
He’s taken off-guard by the bluntness of my response. He meant it as a cheap blow aimed at my pride, but my pride has taken a bruising from better men than him. The Lanzzare respect how I stepped in and saved Mercy, but that was weeks ago. What am I going to do for them this week?
“It’s time I met with your don,” I tell him. “I wish to see Emilio Lanzzare.”
Christian Genovesi shifts uncomfortably as if he’s landed in the hot seat. He masks his thoughts quickly behind a smile. “That may not be easy to arrange.”
“Why?” I ask sharply, sitting up in my chair. “Because he’s in a coma? I presume he can still hear.”
“Emilio can’t speak with you,” Christian replies, “because he died years ago, Mikhail.”
The revelation shoves me back into my seat, and I stare at Christian, and then my gaze scans the room. There is nothing personal about this place because it is a facade.
“We didn’t make it public,” he explains. “It wasn’t in the Lanzzare Mafia’s interest.”
I nod, taking it in. “So it’s been you this whole time, Christian?” I ask.
“It has,” he replies proudly. “Things have changed, Mikhail. Peace is on the horizon between our families. Your marriage to Maria will solidify that.”
I don’t correct him about my relationship with Maria-the illusion serves me. Just as Emilio’s longevity served the Lanzzare Mafia.
“We’ve lost men fighting your battles,” he replies. “But I admit, fewer than if we had been fighting each other. There is mutual interest here, and I find that mutual interest makes a solid bedrock for continued cooperation.”
I nod. “It does.”
Christian laughs. “We could do a lot more together than squabbling over warehouses. Emillio approved of the marriage.”
I narrow my eyes in confusion. It makes no sense. “What do you mean? He couldn’t have known about Maria and me.”
“Not you and Maria, but Aria and Zakhar,” he explains. “He saw value in a truce between the Ivanov and the Lanzzare for business reasons, but your men burned the olive branch.”
“Then why did he kill my brother?” I ask.
“I don’t know everything, Mikhail.” Christian shrugs his shoulders. “Only Emilio knows, and Emilio is gone. The feud is senseless, and your brother’s death is just more proof of that fact.” Christian smiles as he relaxes into his role as the host. “Stay, Mikhail, and have lunch with me. I have an amazing chef, and we can talk business.”
“No,” I say, standing. “Unfortunately, the fight isn’t over for me yet. Things have turned around, but it won’t end until Gunsyn is dead.”
Gunsyn’s financial accounts have been closed. His real estate has been confiscated. The remains of the men who have gone over to him have either returned to the fold or are finally dead.
I have the truce Maria’s captivity has bought.
But I don’t have Maria.
“In that case, I won’t hold you here.” Christian walks with me to the front door. “But a word of advice. Grudges are best buried with the dead.”
I nod curtly and leave, haunted by the actions of a dead man.
A strange emptiness takes root as we wade through the remains of Gunsyn’s latest stronghold. We located him at another abandoned mall near the GWB, but when we arrive, he’s already gone. The stench of his cigarettes pollutes the air.
Inside, we look for clues, but the offices are bare, and the floors are covered in dust and broken glass. The faded signs of chain stores hang crookedly, some missing letters. The corridors have a damp and stale odor mixed with a faint hint of old cleaning products. The only signs of life are the occasional stray animal seeking shelter.
I turn to Zakhar. “Gunsyn is the last piece,” I say.
He nods. The escalators sit motionless and rusty, leading up to quiet and dark levels.
“If the result is Gunsyn lying low, never to emerge again, maybe that’s good enough.”
But as I glance at Zakhar, I know he doesn’t agree, by the scowl on his face.
“There’s nothing here, Mikhail Ivanov. And maybe there is nothing left for you to do.”
“Then I want to meet with Sorokin.”
He holds the door open, and we exit into the empty parking lot. The cracked blacktop is covered with weeds and ditched shopping carts scattered around.
“Will this ever be truly over, Zakhar Sergeyevich?” I ask, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“You know as well as I do,” he answers, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. “It’s never settled until the other person is dead.”
I nod, knowing that he’s speaking from experience. I can’t deny the allure of vengeance. And it’s a desire that never seems to end. As we drive, I realize we’re hunting Gunsyn the same way that Gunsyn and the other brigadiers once hunted Zakhar.
I try to think of better things. My thoughts drift to nights spent tangled in the sheets with Maria, those brief moments where everything else faded away.
But if Gunsyn lives, I’ll have to look over my shoulder. He kidnapped Maria twice, and it could happen again if I let him run free. But the leads are gone, and it looks like we’ve won for the moment. I’ve crushed Gunsyn’s rebellion, but some serpents regenerate even after losing their heads.
Zakhar is right.
It won’t be settled until Gunsyn is dead.
“Remember,” Zakhar says, his voice steady. “We’re only talking.”