: Chapter 10

“Where’s Lexie?” Roscoe asks when I climb into the car alone.

“She’s staying here. I don’t need her to be there for this,” I state, grabbing the briefcase off the floor of the vehicle near my feet.

Clicking open the latches, I lift the top to check the contents. Four bricks of cocaine lay stacked in the case, ready to serve as payment. It’s more than enough coke to bribe a truck driver to give up his employer, even if it means betraying the Bratva.

“You like her,” Roscoe states, navigating the car onto the crowded city streets.

“I’m doing my best to see her naked.” My agreement isn’t enough for him.

“More than just trying to bed her,” he insists. “The pretty pink nurse has gotten under your skin.”

“She’s made her way into my blood. I just need to get her out of my system.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.

“Sometimes the only difference between poison and medicine is a matter of dosage.” Roscoe knows me too well, despite my best efforts. I understand exactly what he’s saying—and he’s right.

I’ll never admit it.

“What, are you waxing poetic now?” I growl, irritated at the knowing look in his eyes then they cut over to me. “Just drive and focus on what we need to do.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” His comment carries a smugness that pisses me off. Forcing my focus back to the plan, I mentally walk through each step with their potential outcomes.

Getting someone to turn on Alek Kozlov was easy. He surrounds himself with greedy, disloyal men—like birds of a feather.

And how fitting for Joey Finch to be that bird. As the driver of Alek’s delivery truck, he knows the different routes and schedules. Just the mention of Colombian cocaine had him blabbing on about the time and location of his next drop. Information I’ll be giving to the police to set up Kozlov’s arrest.

Technically I have the information I want, so there’s really no reason to pay Finch at all. Not too smart on his part, but I don’t expect much from lowlifes like him. But I’m a man of my word, so Roscoe and I are on our way to deliver the payment. Half now, half after his information proves useful. Joey Finch might be dumb enough to give everything away without guarantees, but I’m not.

***

If there was a better alternative than attending a charity gala, I would do it. Hell, I’d pull my own molars out if it meant I didn’t have to stuff myself into the confines of a tuxedo and play nice all night. Unfortunately, this event has everyone I’m looking for under one roof, and my name is on the guest list. I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

A charming smile settles over my face as I step into the ballroom. Tugging on my cufflinks, my eyes scan the event’s attendees—crowds of people dressed to the nines in order to flaunt their importance. A room full of city officials, each one sure their political reach extends farther than it does. They flock together, schmoozing and greasing palms as they scramble to lift themselves up higher than the person next to them.

People like this, in the political arena, are all driven by the deep seeded desire for one or more of three things; money, power, and influence. Greed. Getting what you want from each of these bureaucrats is simple once you’ve identified their driving force. When you give them what they want—what they really want in the deepest parts of them, what they’ll do anything for—they become useful tools. They might deny it to themselves, but I see it.

My eyes connect with the man I’m here to see on the opposite side of the ballroom. Entering the crowds, a robust frame steps into my path.

“You clean up good, Russo.” Russell Moore greets loudly, his veneers flashing as a grin spreads across his ruddy face. His tuxedo looks cheap and wrinkled, probably rented. No doubt a result of being kicked out by his third wife six weeks ago after she found him in bed with the co-ed dog walker.

Keeping an easy smile on my face, I don’t miss how Moore pushes back his shoulders and stretches his spine to compete with the seven-inch height difference between us. His need to feel large in stature and importance has always been Moore’s biggest weakness, one I use in my favor.

Influence.

“First Deputy Mayor Moore,” I use his full title, feeding into his need for recognition. His shoulders relax slightly, his grin broadening. “I hear your municipal budget hearing went well.” It’s light conversation, exactly something you hear at a function like this. Unless you know what I know. What Moore knows.

He laughs, eyes lighting like we’re in on a private joke together.

“It did. Our funding was approved, we got everything we wanted,” he boasts. Including the point one percent being funneled right into his offshore account. Point one percent of the hundred billion dollars per year city budget adds up. A hundred million dollars a year going straight into his fat pockets, and my ten percent is what makes it possible. Which is nothing to say for the full one percent going to the Mayor’s account in the Caymans. My ten percent of that is what keeps me on retainer.

And they wonder why there’s never any funding for arts programs in public schools.

“Who’s your date?” My eyes move to the redhead on Moore’s arm who looks barely legal. I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t. Russell looks over at his date, his eyes flickering in irritation that they’re almost the same height in her sky-high heels.

“Nina is an undergrad at Columbia. She’s writing a paper on the Mayor’s office, I’m giving her an inside look.”

“I’m sure you are,” I say, making eye contact with Robert Crenshaw over the Deputy Mayor’s head. Excusing myself, I get intercepted three more times before I’m able to successfully cross the room to be face to face with the Commissioner of Police.

“Good evening ladies, looking lovely as always.” I greet the two women he’s standing with, his wife, Mallory, and her best friend Trisha. I’ve met both on several occasions.

“Callum, you’re such a charmer.” Trisha is flirting with me, a common occurrence. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” I flash her a non-committal smile, my eyes moving to the man I’m after.

“Commissioner Crenshaw,” I nod, my eyes holding his meaningfully. “I’m on my way to the bar, I need a refill. Join me.”

“I could use another too,” he affirms, turning to kiss his wife on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

Crenshaw follows me through the throngs of people, to a darkened back hallway meant for service staff. We both know why I’m pulling him aside, but I say it anyway.

“I need you to make an arrest.”

“Name?” Crenshaw’s eyes scan the corridor for other party goers, but there are none. I scouted the location beforehand, Roscoe locked the door leading out of the ballroom to this hallway. We’re alone. I note the way his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking tellingly. Crenshaw’s quick to ask for my services whenever there’s something in need of fixing, in exchange for favors of my own. His hesitation is only ever when it’s time for him to hold up his end of our arrangement. His nerves grate against my calm control.

“Alek Kozlov.” I hand him the envelope of information. “The drop is Thursday afternoon at two fifteen over in the canning district. The evidence log is in there, you’ll have what you need to convict at the scene.” He knows the drill. Unsealing the envelope, he takes a peek at the documents inside.

“Kozlov? That’s Russian,” Crenshaw comments, glancing up at me for my reaction. I give him none, and he knows better than to press the issue. “Fuck, arms dealing? You gonna give me the big fish in this minnow’s pond too?”

“No. Kozlov’s alone.” Viktor is off limits, Alek is a means to my end. A stepping stone to Anton and the girls. All of which Crenshaw doesn’t need to know.

“Arrest?”

“Conviction.”

“Who’s he going to?” he asks, putting the papers back in and resealing the envelope before it disappears into his coat.

“Just take care of processing. Judge Mitchell will handle the sentencing.” His Honor Judge Henry Mitchell already has his instructions—delivered to him by his favorite call girl, Cherry. “I shouldn’t need to say it, but Russian weapons dealers don’t show up unarmed. Make sure your men are prepared, I’m not paying for casualties.”

“Of course.” Crenshaw scowls at the implication, but I don’t miss the realization that flashes in his eyes. “Anything else?”

“I need this one alive. You lose a black and white before you lose Kozlov, understand?”

“Got it,” Crenshaw affirms tensely. “You’ll get your guy. I’ll call you when we have him.” My phone beeps in my pocket. Glancing down, I see a text that reads ‘Meet me outside the south entrance.’

“Good.” I don’t bother to offer Crenshaw any type of pleasantness in consolation, instead giving him a dismissing glance. There’s no need to pretend, I dropped the mask with him a long time ago. “Always a pleasure, Commissioner.” With that, I’m striding down the hallway.

Roscoe steps out from one of the darkened doorways, emerging from the shadows to fall into step beside me. “Turns out my dance card is full tonight.”

“Mayor?” Roscoe guesses as I shoot off a quick text in reply as we navigate to the back entrance of the venue.

“D.A.”

It’s perfect really, the District Attorney is just who I needed to speak to next, he’s saved me the trouble of tracking him down. Although, if he’s the one reaching out, that usually means he needs something from me. Not the most convenient timing, but I’ll do what needs to be done.

District Attorney Ford Barlow is leaning casually against the back of the building when we exit through the south door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Glancing over at us through black frame glasses, he takes a long drag and holds the smoke in his mouth before releasing it in a slow breath.

“I can hardly stand these indoor events. It’s illegal to smoke almost everywhere nowadays,” he comments, reaching into his tux pocket to pull out a box of cigarettes. He holds it out to me in offering, and I take one. I’m not in the habit, but a good smoke hits just right every once in a while. Roscoe positions himself in front of the door, and with a quick look around I can see Barlow’s security stationed not too far away.

“You just get lonely out here smoking by yourself?” I ask, taking a puff of smoke. I pinch the cigarette between my thumb and index finger, watching the end spark in the darkness. The security lights hanging over the exit doors cast long shadows across the back alley, our smoke clouding the beams until they’re hazy. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Sounds intriguing. Knowing you, this’ll be good,” Barlow responds easily, one of his hands going into his pocket. “What’ve you got?”

“There’s a case coming your way. Alek Kozlov, Russian arms dealer.”

“You want him to walk?”

“I want a conviction. Ten years in Sing Sing.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Mitchell,” I respond. “Crenshaw’s on delivery.”

Taking another drag, a buzz of energy settles over my skin as the nicotine amps my system. The sounds of the city echo from the street—white noise to my native ears as we stand in the cool night air. I feel at ease here in the darkness, the shadows stealing the need for me to put on a mask to appease an audience. My fingers itch to remove my tux coat and roll up my sleeves, but the urge is ignored with practiced control.

“You won’t have any interference from my office.”

“That’s good to hear.” Taking this moment for the constant racing of my mind to settle is a small reprieve. When my companion’s eyes cut to me, I know it’s a fleeting one. Back to business. “Either you really like my company, or you’ve got something for me.” My tone informs him I’m very aware it’s not the former. Barlow doesn’t bother with pandering, instead giving me a nod.

“Someone’s looking for you. He’s using a lot of capital to get your name.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Preston Wells, he’s the President of Welling Industries.”

“Electronics manufacturing, I’ve heard of him.” I run a hand over my beard thoughtfully. “What does he want?”

“His company is competing with Moda Manufacturing for a merger with PlexiTech. He wants the competition fixed. You’re the best Fixer.”

“Give him my name. If he can pay, we’ll see if it’s worth my time.”

“Oh, Wells can pay alright,” Barlow says with a laugh.

Good, my price for corporate espionage is ungodly steep by design. The amount of red tape that needs to be skirted to gain results while remaining discreet is a real pain in the ass. While violence has its time and place, fixing mergers requires a level of finesse that takes more strategy than anything else—with schmoozing and palm greasing that makes me miss the old days when pulling the trigger was the solution to every problem.

“Send him my way,” I say. Barlow nods with a grin, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground and stamping it out with the grind of his shoe. I don’t bother to put out my light, instead just flicking it across the alley.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Russo.” With that, he’s turning to re-enter the building to get back to the party. I don’t follow him. Now that my business here is done, I’m leaving. The sooner I can get out of this fucking tux, the better.