Scott Medbury - Inga

The events of the previous night confirmed that nothing had changed though, the fleeting, bloodless period of calm was about to come to an ugly end. This morning, Molenski would be ‘talking’ to the man his security team had abducted the night before. If the Russian was true to form, it would end very badly for the man sitting in the basement.

If there was one thing that eased Ivan’s burden of guilt, it was the fact that, generally, Molenski did bad things to other bad people.

Unfortunately, that didn’t negate the fact that over the years, each bullet, each scream, each drop of blood, had chipped away at Ivan’s resolve and loyalty to his boss. Like a tooth that had been eroded by overuse, he was almost down to the raw nerve and was less and less immune to the misery inflicted by and for the Russian.

Ivan kicked his thoughts around like a soccer player practicing for a big game. He knew it would be impossible to break his contract with Molenski without either running for his life or killing his employer. Both would be difficult, near impossible, given the resources at his employer’s disposal.

No, it was better to see his contract to its bitter end and take the large sum of money he had been saving all his working life. Far easier to jet off somewhere, live by the beach and pay for some top-notch counseling to repair the damage done by his service to the brutal mob boss.

Given Molenski’s ruthlessness, Ivan should perhaps have been concerned about his boss turning on him once the contract ended. He wasn’t. He had been around the Russian long enough to know that his warped moral code put business deals above all else. The contract between them was business and the Russian always honored those deals and expected the same of others.

In fact, that was why the man currently sitting in the basement was in so much trouble.

The phone rang.

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 jacket. He stepped lightly to the door, with his hand on the handle of his hidden 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 in 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 afford to be relaxed, but Dimitri Molenski was a man who 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 in 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 on his tanned chest as he 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, got back to his feet in an instant and whipped his boss’s bathrobe fom its hook. It didn’t pay to keep Molenski waiting. The mobster stood, dripping wet and unconcerned with modesty as Ivan passed him the robe.

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 comical, 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 down the stairs 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 of a hotel or department store 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 and a ramp that led up to the driveway.

On the far southern wall, opposite the opening they had just walked through was a guard’s quarters, the armory and the Red Room . The guards on duty were sitting in a circle playing cards and smoking. They stood up eyeing Molenski nervously, 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 destination 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?