Page 117 of Frozen Heart
His “damage control specialist,” Mikhail Orlov. Whatever that means.
Adriano introduces the tall, dark-haired guy as Pavel Morozov and mentions that he runs Bratva’s nightclubs, before moving to the last guy at the table, one with strikingly blond hair.
“And that’s Belov.”
I’m wondering about the lack of details when Taffy bounces past us into the room.
“There’s my sweet grandpuppy!” Belov shouts, dropping to the floor to wrestle with the dog.
“Luca Rossi, Don of ChicagoFamiglia,” Adriano continues, nodding at the guy with shoulder-length hair leaning on the mantel, while everyone completely ignores the blond Russian rolling around on our floor, receiving doggy kisses from a hundred-pound cane corso.
Adriano skips over Don Spada, who is slouching in a recliner near a window, looking pissed as hell. According to Ms. Zara, Massimo did not take it well when my husband informed him of the actual extent of Ruffo Enterprises’ operations.
“Drago Popov, the head of the Serbian Syndicate in New York.” Adriano motions to the other side of the room, to the man in a leather jacket with a biker’s helmet under his arm.
I do a double take. There seem to be glittery pink butterfly stickers all over the man’s black headgear, and a bunch of them are plastered to his leather jacket, too.
Finally, Adriano faces the last two men, who are standing near one of the bookshelves that has my collection of newmystery novels, and introduces them as Don Salvatore Ajello of New YorkFamigliaand his underboss, Arturo DeVille.
“Um… Welcome,” I say.
All nine men nod in unison; even Belov, who’s back in his seat with Taffy calmly sitting at his side. Some of the guys even attempt to smile at me politely, but it looks kinda odd. The Russianpakhan’sbrother, however, is grinning our way like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. As for the rest, there’s no mistaking the charged atmosphere that surrounds them.
These men don’t look all that happy to be together in the same room. That must be the reason they were asked to disarm upon arrival. When Adriano and I walked in after leaving Mom’s, I saw the collection of weapons, all neatly stacked in cute baskets that I had left near the front door. One of the guns looked like it might be a rocket launcher.
“I assume you’re wondering why I have invited all of you here, so I will make it quick. Then, you can all return to your homes and wives, as far away from mine as possible.” Adriano’s voice seems to echo in the utter stillness that has gripped the library.
“There’s no love lost among many of you. That’s fairly obvious. But in business, there’s no room for personal grudges. Thus far, I tried to hedge against your mutual animosity, mainly because I have to work with each of you directly or, at least, with your organizations.” He pauses, and his icy gaze sweeps over the men.
“That nonsense ends today. It affects my business, and frankly, I’m sick of all the shit you motherfuckers try to pile on me every fucking week.”
Adriano abruptly turns to Don Rossi. “Luca, you haven’t caused any direct headaches for me, yet, but you’re here becauseI’m sure you know what the hell I’m talking about. But also, I would appreciate it if you stop trying to outbid me on every damn warehouse in the Midwest.”
The Chicago Don only nods in return.
My husband’s attention zeros in on the big Russian casually holding a cane. “You’ll stop trying to bribe my drivers to sneak additional crates into your deliveries, Roman. You get what you pay for, nothing more. Frightening them with your butcher won’t work either.”
Then he turns to the man with an eyepatch. “Mikhail, you ever get tired of being brandished as Baba Yaga, give me a call.” The scarred man almost smiles, but it’s not easy to tell with the hard lines on his face.
“Also,” Adriano redirects back to Roman Petrov. “If I receive one more report thatsomeonetried to sneak a one-off assault weapon into the hidden compartment of one of my trucks to get it smuggled across the border, things won’t end well. For you, when it comes to the bottom line. Or for your brother.”
The Russian leader grits his teeth, his face a mask of boiling rage. Slowly, he twists to face the man whistling innocently while petting Taffy.
“I’m going to strangle you, Sergei,” Petrov growls.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen, Roman,” the blond guy throws back. “I was only— Ouch!” He rubs his shin. “That hurt!”
“Your head will be next,” thepakhanbites out, pointing his cane at his brother, then faces Adriano. “Agreed.”
“Good.” My husband nods and shifts his gaze to the biker. “You, Drago, will stop trying to sabotage the deliveries I’m handling for your brother-in-law. If even one more of my vehicles headed to Arturo ends up with an unexpectedmalfunction, we’re done. And you”—Adriano’s head whips toward the New York underboss—“You’ll cease messing around when it comes to Drago’s shit. I’m tired of ‘random’ border inspections that only creep up when my trucks are loaded with product for your wife’s brother. Am I clear, Arturo?”
“Fine,” the Italian grumbles.
My husband nods. “Perfect.”
“What about if the product is for his sister’s husband instead?” pipes up Belov.
Everyone ignores the blond guy, except for Pavel Morozov, who punches him in the arm.
