The Boy from Reactor 4

Misha sighed and threw a handkerchief onto Victor’s lap. Victor tossed it aside. Misha offered his right hand, but Victor stood up under his own power.

Victor kept his eyes to the ground, unable to make eye contact with Tara or Stefan. After taking a few seconds to regain his composure, he pulled his own handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his eyes, and smoothed his hair.

He looked around for the other man he’d invited. He, too, would be party to the dispute Victor would try to resolve. “Where is Amazov?” Victor said.

“In his car,” Misha said. “With his men.”

“Invite him in. The three of us—to the courtroom. Everyone else—out.”

“You old-timers,” Misha said, shaking his head with admiration. “You are tough as fuck.”

“A man should never let personal animosities stand in the way of business.”

“And fucking brilliant.”

“Because eventually business gets out of the way of personal animosities,” Victor said under his breath.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Misha, grinning again, slapped Victor on the back. “Okay, Old School. Let’s do this thing.”

CHAPTER 12

NADIA STOOD IN the kitchen cradling the cat, head swirling from the vodka and Victor’s revelation. Her father had told her he had a brother who died as a child, but they had never even discussed his name. If this Damian was, in fact, her deceased uncle, it might explain why the man posing as Milan had called her. She felt a strange tug, as though she had lost something she never even knew she had.

“Is everything okay?” she said when Victor returned. “I heard a sound. As though someone fell.” His eyes looked puffy, his face flushed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Sometimes people in the community call me to help resolve disputes. This was a family matter, and things got a bit emotional. For all of us.”

Nadia handed him the cat. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No, no. That matter is completely resolved.”

“Are you sure Damian’s last name was Tesla?”

Victor placed the cat on the floor. “Your parents didn’t tell you about him?”

“My parents didn’t talk much about their past. They put all their energy into molding my brother and me into their vision for the next Ukrainian American generation. My father did tell me he had a brother who died at a young age. He never talked about him. But then, he never talked about anything.”

“That’s no surprise. Damian was a thief.”

“I’d like to know more about my uncle. But…if this isn’t a good time…”

The cat darted around Victor’s legs in a perpetual figure-eight motion.

Victor said, “I have two guests with a business dispute they’ve asked me to help resolve. It’ll only take ten or fifteen minutes. Would you like to have a seat and wait?”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Victor rubbed the stubble on his chin and studied Nadia for a moment. “Actually, you know what? Why don’t you come in with me as an observer? You might find it interesting.”

“Oh. Really? I don’t know…I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be my guest. A business went bad. Restitution is demanded. It’s a simple matter. It won’t take long. Verdicts are quick in my courtroom.” He winked.

Victor led her upstairs to a stark room with a small wooden table and five chairs, three on one side and two on the other. Two men sat on one side with an empty chair and plenty of space between them. Neutral ground. A manila folder lay on the table in front of the empty chair.

Victor motioned at the two empty chairs facing the men. Their eyes undressed Nadia as she sat down beside Victor.

Both looked her age. One was well built, with lush lips and a chin carved from granite. Worth a kiss, but ultimately too pretty. A show dog. The other was stout, with curly hair, pugnacious cheeks, and a day’s beard just past noon. A wolverine. Too menacing.

Diamond-crusted watches glimmered around their wrists. Black leather spilled into their laps. Avtoritet. Young, rich, powerful, and irreverent crime lords. The Show Dog looked Ukrainian or Russian—he had to be Misha. The Wolverine looked Georgian or Chechen. Ethnic distrust probably had exacerbated fallout from their business venture.

“We’re here to resolve a dispute,” Victor said in Russian. His choice of language meant one or both men didn’t speak Ukrainian. “One party has been wronged, another stands accused. The wronged party is demanding restitution from the accused for lost income. This is a courtroom. Verdicts are final and cannot be appealed. Punishment for noncompliance will be immediate and severe. Does each of you agree to abide by this proceeding? Its verdicts and its remedies?”

Both men grunted in the affirmative.

Victor nodded. “Very well.” He stood up, moved to the other side of the desk, and sat down in the empty chair between the two men, facing Nadia.

Nadia squirmed. What the hell?

“The three wronged parties sit behind this desk. Income was lost because our business of importing antiques and religious art from Ukraine was shut down in December by the FBI. The accused party is the one responsible for its being shut down.