The Rat
Alexander Petrov
As the leader of the largest criminal organization in Chicago, it's my job to know when things in my kingdom go askew.
When shit is out of place and not in order, I get a prickling sensation throughout my skin, a low throb begins at my temple, and pressure builds just behind my eyes.
I made the mistake of ignoring those telltale signs once, and I almost got myself killed. Since then, I've always heeded my body's warning signs, either preparing for, or destroying, any oncoming danger or threats.
Until now.
The Sokolovs basically barge into my home office, every last one of them disarrayed and in shambles.
Ivan, ever neat and prim, now mirrors his younger brother Mikhail's usual rugged looks, with his shirt and face covered in dark smudges. Unless he was playing mechanic with his brother, I see no reason why my second in command would show up to my office resembling nothing short of a train wreck.
I'm used to seeing Mikhail disheveled. The bandages on his arm, the smudges and blood on his face - they're nothing new when it comes to Mikhail Sokolov. What's new is the charred jacket he's wearing. He loves that jacket. And now it's hanging unto his person by webs of burnt leather.
Even the youngest Sokolov, Dmitry, has graced me with his presence for the first time in what feels like decades. He, like his brothers, is sporting tattered and burnt clothes, smudges on his body, and a bruise on his face that's the size of Texas.
He's nervously glancing from me to his brothers - who still owe me an explanation for barging into my abode without prior notice.
"Well..." I probe "...out with it."
Ivan clears his throat.
"We have a problem, pakhan."
Boss.
"Clearly," I roll my eyes.
"Someone tried to burn the warehouse down. Over eighty percent of the shipment was destroyed."
That explains why they all smell like smoke.
I rise from my seat, feeling needles prickling my skin at the mere mention of chaos.
"Any idea who did it?" I ask.
Surely it can't be an enemy. They'd be downright stupid to cross me. I'd like to think I've spooked all my rivals enough that they'd stay the fuck away from my empire.
However, there's always the stupidly brave few who dare to test my nonexistent patience.
"Not yet, but we'll find them," Ivan assures.
"I'll comb over the security footage and see what I can find," Dmitry says before promptly exiting the room.
"Not sure how much help that's gonna be, the cameras were smoked," Mikhail shakes his head, a smirk slowly gracing his face. "How about I go bash a few heads instead. I'm sure I'll get answers quicker than the computer nerd." He points at the door where Dmitry just exited.
"No." Ivan and I say at the same time.
As much as Mikhail's love for violence comes in handy, it's often also gotten us in trouble. One punch to the wrong person is all it takes for the cops - or worse, our enemies - to be on our ass like a leech.
"All that will do is scare the sorry fucker away. We wait for Dima," Ivan tries to reason with his leeway brother.
Mikhail makes a disgruntled sound, halfway between a groan and acceptance, before he exits my office, barely restraining himself from slamming my door on his way out.
"Who do you think it could be?" I ask Ivan once we're alone.
He plops himself down opposite me, getting grime and the scent of smoke all over my damn chair.
I avert my eyes, choosing to look out the large floor to ceiling window at the forest, rather than murdering my only friend for ruining my leather chair - a leather chair that probably costs more than his organs would if I were to sell them on the black market.
The vast forest stretches for what seems like miles. I take a few deep breaths, picturing myself outside amongst all that nature. The sprawling green scenery before me seems to do the trick in calming me down.
He sighs, "Could it be the Mexicans?"
I shake my head.
"Emilio Costa and I have an agreement. I don't trespass on his kingdom, he doesn't enter mine. Besides, it's not his style."
The leader of the Mexican cartel would quicker run a dagger through me, than set a measly warehouse on fire.
"The Italians?"
I shake my head again.
"Dante Russo is basically an ally."
His consigliere recently got engaged to my sister, which practically makes us all family.
So who else in Chicago would have the balls to go against the Russian mafia?
"What about the Irish?"
My eyes snap from the view of the forest to Ivan.
Since the incident five years ago, no one has dared to even utter the word Irish. It's not forbidden per se. But the mere mention of the Irish makes me remember the person that betrayed me.
Every time the Irish are mentioned, pure unfiltered rage fills me and I get the urge to either tare down a wall with my bare hands or rearrange someone's limbs.
"It can't be the Irish. Those fuckers wouldn't dare-"
"Oh they would dare," Dmitry says as he bursts back into my office, laptop hanging in his hand haphazardly.
He places the laptop in front of me and Ivan immediately leaves my leather chair - to which I breathe a sigh of relief - in order to see the screen.
Displayed on Dmitry's laptop is footage of the warehouse before it was set on fire. Several crates of drugs and actual legit pharmaceutical products sit untouched and ready to be taken out to the streets. I wince just thinking about the damage that's done to my stock and warehouse.
According to the time stamp on screen, it's the ass crack of dawn when a man waltzes into the warehouse, looks wildly around, then lights a few of my crates on fire.
The soon-to-be-dead motherfucker!
I watch as my warehouse goes up in flames, the fire licking away at new and old shipment alike. The flames just keep rising, despite the Sokolovs and a few warehouse workers' efforts to douse them. Eventually the fire engulfs the camera and the feed is cut off.
Dmitry cuts to another camera's feed, showing a different angle of the warehouse just as the soon-to-be-dead motherfucker entered.
"His name's John Blackwell," Dmitry pauses the camera feed and enhances the image of the arsonist.
"John Blackwell," I rake my brain, trying to remember the oddly familiar name.
"The accountant?" Ivan supplies.
I feel the rage, that I've been trying my hardest to keep a tight lid on, spike and boil over.
"MY WAREHOUSE WAS SET ON FIRE BY A FUCKING ACCOUNTANT!"
"Not just any accountant," Dmitry says, and I can barely hear him due to the ringing in my ears. "He works for the Irish as well."
"The Irish probably sent him to set the fire," Ivan grits out.
He almost looks as pissed off as I feel. Almost.
Nothing can compare to the blinding, deafening rage that's boiling just below the surface of my skin. It's like magma just waiting for a fault to shift to be able to spew over.
However, I know that kind of beast can't be allowed to roam these neck of the woods. So I tap the rage down, storing it in the deepest darkest alcoves of my being.
But that doesn't mean the rat that double crossed me gets to live in peace. No, quite the opposite actually.
John Blackwell the accountant is going to suffer.
"Me? Send an accountant to torch your warehouse? What am I? An amateur?" The leader of the Irish mob looks severely offended at the insinuation.
Now I'm not saying I believe a word that comes out of Killian Kilpatrick's mouth, but I at least trust he's not stupid enough to step foot into my kingdom.
Then where does John Blackwell get the balls to torch my warehouse?
I'm sure the accountant isn't working off his own volition.
"If you didn't send him, then who did?" I ask.
He shrugs.
"Don't know. I'll tell you what I do know, though. I don’t like traitors. And if John’s been working for both the Irish and the Russians, then the two timing scum needs punishment."
"Then point me in the direction of his house so I can burn it to the ground like he tried to do to my warehouse. I'll make sure he's in it when I set it on fire."
"I may be the least reasonable person on this planet, but can I give you some friendly advice on how to handle the rat?" Killian asks.
I only stare at him in response. Like fuck I want advice from the Irish.
"We're open to suggestions," Ivan answers.
I send him a glare which he completely ignores. I want nothing to do with the Irish. Least of all taking advice from Killian Kilpatrick.
"Maybe leave him alive," Killian says.
"Excuse me?" I grit out through clenched teeth.
"Death is too kind a faith, Alexander," Killian explains. "If you want to punish him and get answers out of him at the same time, make him truly suffer."
I unclench my jaw, slightly intrigued at where this is going.
"And how do you suppose I should do that?"
"He's got two daughters. You're an eligible bachelor. Maybe make the rat watch as you wed his daughter."
I scoff.
"That's fucking insane."
"Have it your way," Killian shrugs.
He starts exiting the room, clearly done with our meeting. But then he halts and says over his shoulder, "I've known him my whole life. He'd quicker bite his tongue off than admit to his wrong. So unless you have something to hold over his head, enjoy getting answers out of him once he's dead."
With that Killian leaves Ivan and I alone in his creepy ass living room.
The room is gloomy courtesy of the large drapes that shield any sunlight from entering, and it's almost symbolic of the darkness that threatens to descend upon me and my empire if I don't find a way to deal with this rat soon.
"I think Killian might be right," Ivan says once we're back in his escalade.
I don't like that my second in command is siding with the Irish.
"Elaborate."
"There's a possibility that John Blackwell isn't working on his own. But if he'd rather die than cooperate, then we're short on options here, boss."
My eyes narrow on their own accord.
"So you want me to take Killian's stupid fucking advice and marry the rat's daughter?"
Ivan shrugs.
"There's worse faiths than marrying the enemy's daughter. Who knows, maybe the next time it'll be your mansion they're setting on fire and not just some shipment."
Fuck. He has a good point.
After a prolonged silence, Ivan says, "Don't take too long to make a decision. Remember, they got as close as your throne the last time."
I inhale sharply as bitter memories resurface.
"You're going to have to die. I'm sorry, Shura." Was all I heard before the knife came slashing across my face.
"It'll be a cold day in hell before I let something like that happen again," I say through clenched teeth.
"So what's your decision?" Ivan probes.
Instead of answering him, I dial his brother.
Ever efficient, Mikhail answers on the first ring.
"How can I be of service to you, boss?"
"I need you and Dmitry to locate one of John Blackwell's daughter's and bring her to me," I hang up without waiting for a response.
Ivan seems satisfied with my decision.
"So you're taking Killian's advice after all," he teases.
I smirk.
"As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer."
