Inga

Ivan loosened his tie and collar. The heavy steam of the bathroom had dampened the material of his suit and, compounded by his boss’s cigar smoke, made it hard to breathe. He surreptitiously checked his watch. One hour and twenty-seven minutes had passed.

Surely he will be done soon.

There was a knock at the door. The big man jumped to his feet, his hand reflexively reaching underneath his sports jacket. He stepped lightly to the door, his hand on the handle of his gun.

Molenski, relaxing in his hot bath, didn’t move. He simply blew out a plume of cigar smoke and watched as it curled upwards, mingling and dissipating into the steam. To the casual observer, he may have appeared disengaged, perhaps more interested in his cigar smoke than the knock at the door. They would have been wrong.

Of course, given the fact that the estate was watched over by twelve armed guards, a sophisticated security system and was also under 24-hour remote surveillance, he could perhaps have afforded to be relaxed, but Dimitri Molenski was a man that never left anything to chance.

His hand moved imperceptibly closer to the folded towel on the arm rest of the tub, or more accurately, to the compact Ruger LC9 pistol under the towel.

“Da?” Ivan called.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice. Ivan relaxed. “I tried knocking at the bedroom door, but no one answered. It’s Marina; please let Mr. Molenski know that his… delivery has arrived.”

“Da, okay.”

Her footsteps retreated.

“Did you hear?” Ivan asked, his chiseled face neutral and hiding any curiosity he had about the delivery.

“Dah,” said Molenski, waving his cigar and sending a sprinkle of ash onto the marble floor.

The bathwater lapped at the heavy silver cross resting against his tanned chest as he settled and took another drag of his Cuban.

It was finally here. He felt a thrill of anticipation but didn’t allow it to manifest itself physically. Since his volatile, formative years in Russia, he had become a master of self-control. That was how he had become so successful, first in his hometown by taking out the leader of his gang, Marat, followed a few years later by wresting control of a major Moscow crime syndicate.

Every move was thought out. Nothing was done on impulse. Nothing left to chance.

Finally, when he arrived in America at age 30, it was that famous self-control that had helped him take down the Italians, the Triads and the Croatians, seizing organized crime in Chicago by the balls and within ten years making the city his very own ‘Russian empire’.

No, as excited as he was by the arrival of the package, his gratification would have to wait. He had other business to attend to first. The cigar hissed as he extinguished it in the bathwater before letting it float away like a tiny, breached submarine.

Molenski clicked his fingers and began to rise. Ivan, who had only just sat back down, was back on his feet in an instant and reaching for his boss’s bathrobe. It didn’t pay to keep Molenski waiting. The mobster stood, dripping wet and unconcerned with modesty.

At 47 years of age, the Russian was in impressive shape, his frame spare but ropy with muscle. His deceptively pleasant face was relatively line-free and, partnered with his thick black hair, made him look younger than he was.

Ivan led the way into the large bedroom. His boss followed, a comic yet sinister sight with his open bathrobe flapping and Ruger in hand. Minutes later, Molenski, darkly handsome in a black sweater and freshly pressed chinos, slipped on a new pair of Vans and tucked the Ruger into the back of his pants before turning to Ivan.

“Has he been softened up?”

“Dah, Boss. They kept him awake all night.”

“No one has touched him?”

“Nyet.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

On their way to what Molenski had dubbed the ‘Red Room’ in the sub-basement of the sprawling mansion, they stopped in the kitchen on the ground floor. There were two short blacks, freshly brewed waiting on the counter top. His 10 o’clock shots.

Ivan looked around for the cook Isabella, but she was nowhere to be seen. The mob boss downed the coffees, one after the other.

“Come.”

Molenski scorned the purpose built lift and ran lightly down the stairs, whistling as he went, his Vans silent on the marble steps. His bodyguard followed the bigger man just as light on his feet as his boss.

The long staircase was interrupted by a large landing on the basement level. Molenski had converted the whole level into his games rooms and a private cinema. They continued and arrived at the bottom, where a large double door opened onto the northeastern corner of the sub-basement.

The sub-basement level of the mansion was huge and ran the entire length and breadth of the big home’s footprint.

Entering, it looked much like an underground car park and, for the most part; that’s what it was. On the eastern side, or rear of the home were the cars of Molenski’s staff and security team. Opposite, along two-thirds of the western, or front wall, was his collection of rare and luxury vehicles, then a ramp that led up to the driveway.

On the far southern wall, opposite the opening they had just walked through was a guards quarters, the armory and the Red Room. The guards on duty were sitting in a circle playing cards and smoking. They stood up as Molenski approached, still whistling as he casually made his way across the expanse of polished concrete.

“It’s fine boys,” he said, good-naturedly. “Continue your game.”

The men slowly relaxed and sat back down.

Molenski’s target was the bright red door to the right of them. Ivan could almost detect a skip in his walk. Was it the anticipation of his appointment with the man in the Red Room, or the mysterious package?

As per the protocols he had established years ago, Molenski stopped before reaching the door and allowed Ivan to come forward. The mob boss hardly ever knocked or entered a door before Ivan. If there were to be a surprise attack, Ivan would bear the brunt of the assault, allowing Molenski valuable seconds to take action to protect himself or escape if need be.

The protocol had only been tested once, during the ambush at the hotel thirteen months before. It had worked as planned. While Ivan had almost been shot to death, and another guard killed, their misfortune had allowed Molenski and his lieutenant, time to take down the shooters,

Ivan knocked on the door. It was opened by a big man in a white, sleeveless undershirt and black pants. Andre, Molenski’s lieutenant.

Andre Chichenko was a scary looking customer. His heavyset frame, hairy apelike arms, and heavy brow gave him the appearance of being a few rungs back on the evolutionary ladder. But despite his Neanderthal-like appearance, he was intelligent, dangerous and quick.

He looked over Ivan’s shoulder and nodded to his boss before stepping back and allowing them to enter. Ivan allowed Molenski through and closed the door behind him.