Page 111 of Devious Corruption

“Just watch.”

Another car pulls up while the twins stand on the sidewalk. One of them lights a cigarette. The door to the car opens and two men get out.

There’s a familiarity to them. I freeze the frame and zoom in.

“Tony DeAngelo. I thought he kept his hands clean of his family businesses?”

“Yeah, that’s what a lot of people think.” Vas nods. “He’s been making a play for his brother’s crown. At least that’s what it looks like. All these deals we thought Marco was behind—it wasn’t him. This is all Tony.”

“Okay, but what’s he meeting with the twins for?” I start the video again. The three of them stand around talking, the one twin still smoking as another car pulls up.

Again I freeze frame the video as the person’s face comes into view.

My jaw tightens.

“Milo Brankovich.” I raise my brows and hit the button again; a security guard stands a few feet away. After he approaches the twins and Tony, they all walk into the club together.

“And now he’s bringing in the Brankovich family. The Petrosyans have fought them for territory for years, but if Tony can get both of them to go up against us, he thinks he can take us out, overthrow his brother, and sit pretty at the top. Then he’ll let them fight each other for what tiny scrap of territory he wants to give out.”

“You have to hand it to him, he’s cleverer than Marco. All Marco does is blow up shit and hope he gets his way. Like a toddler having a tantrum in the candy store.”

“And how do the twins work into this?”

Vas hands over a manilla folder. Inside are photographs and documents. “What’s all this?”

“Emails I was able to get off their phones. They werenever in league with the Armenians. Looks like they’ve been trying to get onto one of DeMarco’s crews. Tony got a hold of them and has been using them as the go-between.”

“You’re a hacker now?”

He scoffs. “Far from it. But Sasha gave me some pointers. I was able to get into the emails and text messages. Click on the next message, it’s an audio. You’ll like that one.”

I open the file, double clicking on the first audio. Milo’s voice come through clear, he’s speaking in his native language, but I recognize enough of it to understand he’s talking about undercutting the Armenians, getting them out of the deal they’ve been working on with the DeAngelos here in the States.

“The twins are brokering this new deal?” Those two wouldn’t be able to negotiate a good price on a used car, much less getting two families like the DeAngelos and the Brankovics together, while simultaneously backstabbing the Armenians.

Vas laughs. “No fucking way. Those two are useless idiots. They’re trying to play all sides. I’m still not sure how they managed to get involved with any of these families.”

“They approached the Armenian’s here in the states. They fancy themselves gangsters.” I explain. “But how they’ve gotten to this point of double crossing them with the Italians and Milo, I’m not sure.”

“Well, they’ve been staying at the DeAngelo familyvilla. I’m guessing they’re using the idiots. Fools like them follow the money. If the pay is better with the DeAngelos, that’s where their loyalty will go. More than likely, they’ve been promised a fee for getting this done.”

I sit back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the desktop.

Maxine isn’t going to take this well.

Her brothers have gotten themselves put in the middle of two families that hate each other almost more than the DeAngelos and the Volkovs. If they’re caught going behind the Petrosyan family’s back to make this deal happen on the DeAngelo’s behalf, they’d be lucky to be killed. The Petrosyan family isn’t known for swift retribution. They’ll make them suffer as long as possible before leaving them to die.

“What do you want done?” Vas asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Nothing yet. Let’s get through this meeting and see where it goes.” I hand him the phone as we pull up to the restaurant where we’re meeting Vartan Petrosyan.

A neutral place, where we’ll all be on our best behavior.

Cigar smoke clings to the air, thick and suffocating as we enter the room.

Vartan sits at the head of the long table, his head back as he blows a cloud of smoke into the air. His son, Levon, is beside him, a hard expression fixed on his face as his gaze meets mine.

Vas shuts the door behind us, the sound snapping Vartan’s attention to us. A grin crosses his lips, but there’s no joy there. Only the sneer of an old man clinging to what little power he thinks he holds.