Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(69)

But who he was, whatever awareness he made me feel, was of no import.

After years of tireless effort, I was close, closer than I had ever been, and closer than I ever would be again. Nothing would stop me. Not my fear, not my anger, and certainly not that man.

I’d stay out of his way, keep my head down.

Because revenge was in my grasp.

All I had to do was take it.











Anton





“I’m going to check her out,” I said the next day as I sat across from Christoph Senior. I was giving voice to the thoughts that had plagued me since I’d first seen the woman. Some of them, the mystery of who she was and what she wanted, were things that concerned him; my other thoughts, the memory of her voice, the feeling of her fingers against my skin, those were my own.

But Christoph Senior waved me off, dismissive, unconcerned. “Anton, focus. You’re worried about a nurse with all that we are facing?”

In some ways, I knew he was right. No one would have allowed her this close without checking her out, making sure she posed no risk.

But still…

Something about her didn’t sit well with me. She was pretty, very pretty, actually, but that wasn’t notable. Her calm was, though. There had been some pause in her, that natural freeze that most people experienced when I first looked at them. But they didn’t shake it off as fast as she had. And that response, the way she had stopped and then picked right back up, was enough to rouse my suspicion.

“Well?” Christoph said.

I looked to him again. “You always said it yourself. We can never be too careful. I won’t do much. I just need to be sure…”

Christoph nodded, and I could see his energy flagging.

“She was right that you need to rest more, though,” I said.

“I am not a child, Anton. Do not treat me as such,” he barked, the reaction far from his usual cool, telling me that my acknowledgment of his weakened state hit close to home. But at this point, I was more concerned with his health than his pride.

“I respect you too much for that. And I respect you enough to tell you things you might not want to hear. You need to rest more. Starting now.”

The old man nodded, his shoulders shaking with the heaviness of his breaths. “Fine. I’ll rest. But you’ll see Christoph Junior?”

“Tonight,” I assured him.

“And you’ll keep what we discussed between us?”

“I will,” I said, knowing full well what Christoph meant.

His sons had inherited many things from him, including that particular streak of stubborn pride. And if Christoph Junior knew what his father had asked of me, he would rebel, feel compelled to show his and Clan Constantin’s power without care for the toes he might step on, and would end up creating just the situation the old man hoped to avoid.

“Report back,” Christoph Senior said.

Then he stood, his suit draping on his frame where he had once filled it.

I watched him walk, each step labored, worrying, but again I didn’t offer to help. He would’ve rejected it, and I still wanted to spare him in whatever way I could. But each clumsy, slow step felt like it took minutes, and when he finally reached the end of the long hall and entered the bedroom, I felt another prick in my chest.

But I pushed it away.

Regret and sadness would get me nowhere.

So instead I went to talk to the new boss.





Three





Anton





I nodded at Paul and Sandu, two members of Clan Constantin, but didn’t slow to greet them. Instead, I made my way down to the basement in search of Christoph Junior. The old man had worked out of this club for decades, but in recent years it had become Petey’s lair, the place he’d used to entertain and self-aggrandize.

And it had worked.

Much of the respect Petey had found was only because of his name, but he was liked because of what he did for others. Maybe tolerated was the better word. Petey had thrown good parties, was always generous with women and drugs, but I often wondered how the others would have responded if that generosity and his last name had been different.

It didn’t matter, though. Not anymore. He was dead now, gone like so many others, destined to be a memory, a story, a do-you-remember-when.

And it was my job to make sure that the same didn’t happen to his brother.

I found Christoph Junior perched behind his father’s desk. He looked right there, eerily reminiscent of the old man, same face, same light hair, though his eyes were blue to his father’s black. He was more boyish though, almost delicate, something he had been teased about.

Once.

The price of the implied insult had been the offender’s top row of teeth, and the message had been received. No one else had ever dared speak of Christoph Junior’s looks. After his display, he’d established that he wouldn’t be trifled with and been free to cultivate his persona, more stockbroker than mobster.