Page 4 of The Mad Don
He looks at me.
“The Mondi family.”
“Mondi,” I say.
“Giovanni Mondi. He came to the seat three years ago after the older man died. He is not blooded. The word on the street is that he is not entirely sane.”
“How sane is not sane?”
“That is what I want to know,” Kirill says. “His ambitions and his next move. Whether he is the one who has been pulling the threads in my house, or maybe he is simply the most likely answer, and I am being lazy.”
“Do you think it’s him?”
“I think it is him. But I need to be certain.”
I sit forward.
“At your service. Always. Tell me what to do.”
He stands then and walks around the desk. He pulls open the second drawer and lays out a folder on the surface between us. I have not opened it yet.
“I am giving you whatever men you need. Tell me a number, and you will have them by morning.”
“Six is enough.”
“Six it is.” He taps the folder. “There is a shipment coming in next Friday through the eastern dock. The container number is in the file. It is a significant volume ofkoshka.”
I look up.Koshkais what we call the new compound out of the Bratva labs in Saint Petersburg. It’s a synthetic that the federal agencies on both sides of the ocean have decided to make their problem. The street value of a container is in the high millions. The legal consequences of being caught with it are greater.
“That much.”
“That much. I will be at the dock myself.”
“Pakhan.”
“It is too much money to trust to anyone else. And it is exactly the kind of move that an ambitious young Don who wants to test me would try to interrupt.” He looks at me. “You will not be at the dock.”
“Where will I be?”
“On Mondi. Watching his house and his men. I want to know if he sends people toward the dock. If he goes himself. If he so much as orders an extra car for the night.”
“And if he does?”
He puts both hands on the desk and leans down. He holds my eyes for a long moment. Then he straightens, picks up his glass, and walks back to the window.
“Get some sleep,” he says without turning. “Friday is in six days.”
I stand. I take the folder. At the door, I pause and look back at him.
“Pakhan.”
“Mm.”
“The man at the gallery tonight. The collector.”
He turns his head slightly.
“What about him?”
