Page 1 of The Bronze Garza

ChapterOne

“Kill me.”

Torin

“Igor is here.”

Dragging my gaze from the surveillance monitor, I glance up to Petrov who’s just let himself into my office, pulling the door closed behind him to shut out the pulsing, migraine-inducing music of the club.

“I saw.”

He smooths his palm over his gel-slicked hair and straightens his jacket. “He asked to speak with you.”

Well, of course. He certainly isn’t here for the topless, pole-swingers.

Rubbing my hand across my bearded jaw, I watch the smarmy man on the screen. He’s at the bar, standing next to one of his “investments.” To anyone who isn’t watching close enough, it’s innocent; just another customer chatting up a stripper. But I see the subtle grip of her elbow, the closeness of his mouth at her ear, the baring of his teeth. No doubt reminding her who owns her. No doubt asking questions.

About me.

“Let him wait,” I tell Petrov. “Ten minutes. Then send him in.”

“He will not like that he has to wait, boss.”

I flip up the lid on the box of Cuban cigars sitting on my desk. Take one out. “Too bad I don’t give a shit.”

Petrov sighs and leaves.

I scowl down at the cigar, rolling it between my fingers. I’m a by-the-job smoker. A loathsome habit I slip into only if the job I’m working, and my assumed “character” requires it. Otherwise, I hate everything about the act. When you’ve grazed death as many times as I have, when you’ve lost as many people as I have, you develop a different kind of affinity for life, and you don’t risk what fragile hope for longevity you have with shit like smoking.

But here, in Russia, I’m Marvin Marino. Millionaire Don from the Cosa Nostra with secret ties to Bratva, who fled to Moscow from the US to escape a nasty war and lay low for a while, under the protection of the Bratva.

While here, Marvin Marino realized there was money to be made from bitches. A few months later, ‘High Score’ was born, a high-class gentleman’s club with cream-of-the-crop, international dancers.

Perfumed with arrogance and a bad attitude, Marvin Marino takes pleasure in illegal, expensive-as-fuck Cuban cigars, Tom Ford suits, flashy cars, and caged whores.

So, I pick up my 8-ball lighter, spark up the cigar, and take a deep drag, slowly easing into character.

By the time Petrov ushers Igor into my office, it’s grayed with swirls of smoke.

Igor Gusev is sickeningly pale but stalwart, with a prominent nose and a brown smile. All hail Moscow’s most untouchable human trafficker.

“Marino,” he greets with an unctuous and deceptive smile.

I remain seated. What little respect I’ve gained in the short time I’ve been here wasn’t earned by licking boots. I’d established myself with arrogance, assertion, and aggression, leaving no room for questions or doubts that I was who I said I was.

It goes without saying that I’m not liked or welcomed. I’m a foreigner in a land of prideful men, who’s set up shop on turf I don’t own.

Careful plans are being made to take me down, no doubt, but I don’t intend to be here long enough for them to succeed. I’ve scarier devils that I’ve made deals with, devils bigger than them, bigger than the Bratva. So no, I’m not worried. As long as I complete my end, I’m covered.

“Igor,” I say in turn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He unbuttons his jacket and lowers down into one of the two chairs in front of my desk. “It appears that every time I come here you are doing even better.”

“That’s the idea.”

He leans over and plucks up one of the cigars from the box, then runs the length of it under his nose. “How are my girls doing?”

“Earning.” I puff out a circle of smoke. “And when they’re here, they’remygirls. Do remember that.”