Vasily's Revenge: The Complete Story (The Medlov Men Book 1) Read online

The warden, a simple man with Christian values and small stature, had developed a plan after that to get Leo under control. Only nothing about the plan had worked. Confining him to solitary did nothing. Taking away his privileges and visitors did nothing.

  And threatening Leo had done only one thing. Piss him off.

  Most of the guards were too scared to be truly aggressive, and none of the other prisoners would dare go near them.

  Very recently, pissing Leo off had led to a strange order of events, including the warden’s 21-year old daughter being in a near life-threatening car wreck, his home being set on fire in the middle of the night and his grandmother, who was in a retirement home in Montana, being found in Las Vegas four days later in a hotel tied to a bed with a note that simply said ‘Checkmate.’ And all of the events happened within one week of the warden simply ordering that Leo be roughed up.

  Now, there was only the final solution left.

  There were no more answers for the new warden, who had only recently taken over after the death of the hard nose warden before him, who had in fact taken over after the 1971 riots. There was no proof that Leo was responsible for what had happened outside of the prison walls to his family, no end in sight to what could happen and no time for a transfer. The warden had to handle things now.

  Staring out of his window through elegant drapes, dark wooden blinds and bullet proof glass, Warden C. W. Stowe sipped on his gourmet green tea, watched the men whom he loathed more than Satan himself walk the grounds, and waited patiently as Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2 played in the background.

  In prison blues that clung to his muscular wide body, the ruggedly attractive, Leo looked up at the warden’s window from the walking trail and spit as he smoked on his cigarette. “Fucking suka. I know that he’s looking at me. I can feel it.”

  “No matter, boss,” one of his lieutenants, Igor said, stretching his sleeve-tattooed arms around and rotating his head in circular motion as they walked. Igor was a red-head with a splash of freckles on his deceptively innocent face but tall and broad with an athletic form that explained why so much damage had been done to the mess hall. Armed with an elementary education and still unable to read or speak much English, Igor was all brawn and no brains.

  “What are you doing?” Leo asked with a frown.

  “I’m getting ready. Don’t want to pull muscle,” Igor explained.

  “Put your arms down,” Leo ordered, swatting at him. “You look like an idiot.”

  “I just want to be… ”

  “Igor… ” Leo warned, pointing a sharp, thick index finger at him. “Now is not the time.”

  Igor tucked his head and dropped his arms.

  Oleg, Leo’s second-in-charge, put his hand on his little brother’s shoulder and snickered. “Patience, Igor. You’ll get your chance.”

  When the men made their way around the walking trail to the east side of the wall, they stopped abruptly.

  “Was it here or over there?” Igor asked, looking around.

  “Here,” Leo answered sternly. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  Noticing something was off about the huddle, one of the guards approached cautiously. “Hey,” he said, holding on to his asp baton. “Move it along. Keep walking. You only got a few minutes out here anyway before you’re sent back to your cage.”

  “I have one fucking hour in this yard every day!” Leo screamed in a raised voice. His anger was unmistakable. “And I’ve only used 10 minutes of my time. You dumb bastards don’t know the difference between 10 minutes and 60?”

  “Keep talking, jack off! And we’re only going to cut your time shorter,” the guard promised. “Now, keep it moving!”

  Suddenly the guard stopped as a siren went off above them and guards around the walls began to rally. He looked up in disbelief and heard what sounded like missiles scudding through the air right before a powerful explosion erupted dead in the center of the fortified wall.

  Debris shattered outward in every angle along with a plume of smoke and fire.

  “Holy shit!” the guard screamed as he hit the ground and covered his head.

  Out of the blast zone by only a few feet, Leo stood with his men untouched. “Whose time is being cut short now?” he asked the man as he winked. “Send your warden my regards!”

  Gunshots rang out in the yard as more brick was blown from the wall and a missile was launched into the grounds. Hard hitting machine guns specially fitted for the fixed-wing aircraft were let loose on the guards. Their bodies flew off the balconies with gaping holes in them and covered in blood. Bullet holes the size of half dollars filled the side of the prison, while the men in the aircraft laid cover from both sides of the helicopter’s open doors.

  The wind picked up under the helicopter and dust and dirt swirled about on the ground, making it hard to see anyone. All of Leo’s small crew of five looked up as a ladder was thrown from the helicopter down to them.

  “One at a time,” Oleg said to everyone. He turned to his best friend. “You first, boss.

  Grabbing Oleg by the back of the neck, Leo pushed their heads together. “Thieves-in-Law,” he said before he released him.

  “Thieves-in-Law!” Oleg said, urging him to climb the ladder to the helicopter. “Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

  As quickly as his strong arms could carry him and his legs could push off from one rung to the other, Leo moved up into the helicopter, praying to miss the flying bullets and hoping not to get caught. There would never be another opportunity like this one. He had to take it. He had to succeed no matter the odds.

  One of the men, on the gun on the right side of the helicopter helped him in and locked him in a seat.

  “Help my men up!” Leo screamed as the shooting continued in both directions.

  “No sir. Just you,” the man screamed back as he leaned in and touched the pilot. “Let’s move out!”

  The helicopters made a sharp left and moved quickly toward the trees in the distance.

  “What the fuck do you mean just me?” Leo screamed, trying to unlock himself from the seat. “My men are back there!”

  Quickly, the gunman put his hand over Leo’s hand forcefully. “The warden said just you!” He narrowed his eyes and snarled. “Don’t look a fucking gift horse in the mouth.”

  Leo was in disbelief. If his men didn’t go then neither could he. His mind had already processed the idea of jumping out of the helicopters back down on the ground. Broken bones would be better than stabbing his men in the back. But the gunman must have also seen his intentions and been prepared for them. Reaching into the side pocket of his pants, he pulled out a needle.

  “Hold him down,” the gunman said to the other man on the other side of the helicopter.

  They both jumped with all their weight onto Leo to hold him down while one of them stuck a needle into his neck.

  “Ahh!” Leo screamed. “You motherfuckers. I’m going to kill both of you… all of you!”

  “There. That should hold him over for a few hours,” one of the men said, getting to his feet.

  When he was released, Leo immediately felt the effects. Heat rushed through his body, coursing through his veins like venom. Then suddenly everything blurred. Reaching for his seatbelt one last time, he lost consciousness as the aircraft moved quickly away from the prison.

  Memphis, TN

  Mother Russia Restaurant

  In the authentic Russian restaurant known for its infamous history of crime and crime lords through the years, a packed house of curious visitors willing to pay top dollar sat in the main hall enjoying delicious, customary eastern bloc cuisine like Blinchik, Kulebiaka, Chicken Tabaka and Golden Osetra caviar, sampling a variety of vodkas and listening to a Russian folk band flown in from Moscow as they sang the popular folk song Dark Eyes.

  Lined with expensive green and red intricate rugs flown from St. Petersburg and elaborate paintings from Moscow, the showplace had made the cover of many magazines. Tiffany staine
d-glass windows, dark hardwood floors, tall ceilings painted in gold with elegantly carved wooden walls and gold-embossed cherubs, red leather booths and tables topped with white linen and candles in golden globes made Mother Russia a unique work of art and a one-of-a-kind eating experience, but it was the owner who made it truly unforgettable.

  Dmitry Medlov, a quiet, seven-foot billionaire who had made an excessive amount of front page newspapers himself over the years, had long since retreated to a quiet and very private life hidden behind an entourage of protective bodyguards, but he still gave appearance daily when he popped by his restaurant, usually to go to the secluded rooms in the back for lunch or dinner.

  Sightings were always posted on Facebook. People begged for selfies as he passed by or snapped clandestine photos with their phones while they were supposed to be enjoying their meal.

  Every once in a while, he even stopped by a few tables just to say a friendly Allo, which was hello in his native Russian language, always shocking his patrons to a point of no words. They stared at him in awe of both his dramatic size and unsettling beauty. Women felt overwhelmed. Men felt under achieved and sometimes flat out ugly.

  It was as if Michelangelo himself had carved the man’s face out of stone and painted it the most beautiful shades of flawless tanned skin, brilliantly honey gold blond hair, startlingly crystal blue eyes and wide, pink lips covering pearly white teeth. And no one could deny his signature smell, an intoxicating and no doubt customized sandalwood, subdued cinnamon and mint. Like a drug, when he passed a woman, she was left with her eyes closed and mouth open, chomping at the bit for just one more interaction.

  However, there was never any more than one sighting of the giant by most. Dmitry’s schedule could never be truly pinpointed. His head of security saw to that ensuring him and his family’s safety.

  However, no matter how low key he tried to be, he, his son and his empire were still the topic of polite and impolite conversation in the city of Memphis. The Medlov Organized Crime Family had chosen this small metro to settle down in for good and could not be uprooted even by the most persistent of law enforcement agencies. Because no one could ever prove a case against him, he had become a thing of urban legend, making it unclear if the stories were true or not.

  What most people did not recognize, despite the evidence before them, was that the stories were not only true but also very much watered down. The gory details of their real underworld dealings were never revealed to the public, because Dmitry never left a witness to tell the story.

  Dmitry Medlov and the Medlov Crime Family were not only the most powerful Russian mafia group in the country, they were also the most deadly. However, because of their legitimate business ties and their governmental influence, they had also become known as untouchable.

  And tonight, while couples paid unforgivable prices to dine at their infamous restaurant, pop the question and celebrate promotions, the real men behind the vast empire met in the bowels of the building in a reinforced steel basement to talk about their international trafficking.

  The small council was a select group of men in the Medlov Crime Family, who met quarterly to discuss the inner workings of a multinational gun and jewels trafficking business. Among them were Dmitry Medlov, his son Anatoly Medlov and his nephew, Gabriel Medlov.

  While sipping vodka and mulling over digital files that showed seven-digit dividends, they mapped out how the deals that they were working on would be planned out for the upcoming quarter.

  In the corner, watching their every move and every move that happened on the floors above them through a closed-circuit camera system embedded into the wall was their most trusted bodyguard and head of security, Vasily Kavlov.

  Vasily was a quiet man of questionable origins, one of the many reasons that he’d become more like family to the Medlov’s than a simple captain. He was shorter than the seven-foot Czar, but a few feet taller than his immediate boss, Anatoly. However, his body builder physique was no less menacing. He had a prison build from years of working in the gym not only to maintain his size but also to strengthen his lungs, which had been punctured over 10 years ago by Leo Rasputin’s bodyguard.

  Women always noticed him, despite how invisible he tried to be. With a pensive stare, tanned skin, a low black haircut that he’d recently grown and symmetrically attractive features, Vasily was by all accounts attractive. However, not once was he ever seen with a woman. His black-as-night past only made him more alluring, but even when advanced, he never showed interest.

  A feared, revered henchman of the Vory v Zakone, all Vasily had ever known for the last eight years was in this room. He had served the most powerful men in the mafia and his reputation had been nearly flawless doing so. He had killed more men than he cared to count. Done more deals for his bosses then he would ever say. And he had done it all without ever seeking anything in return, except once, and he had learned that lesson painfully.

  Quietly, with arms crossed over his wide, cement chest, he listened to chatter on his earpiece of guards around the perimeter checking in while at the same time listening to every detail of his boss, Anatoly Medlov’s game plan.

  “Our men in Kiev have a serious advantage,” Anatoly said, sitting back in his chair. He also had a Russian accent and hailed from the grimy streets of Moscow, though no one could tell from the looks of him. He ran a hand through his blonde locks and sighed. “At least until Putin and the UN come to some understanding. Right now, the people who are planning their uprising have been purchasing our munitions in bulk to fight the Ukrainian and Russian army.”

  Dmitry, sitting at the head of the large antique table, poured himself another glass of water in his crystal goblet. “Don’t raise the prices,” he ordered. “Right now, we do better to gain their trust. This uprising might not be successful for them, but it won’t go away overnight. To price gouge them now would surely turn them to other means.”

  Anatoly rolled his eyes. “But right now we are making 2-1 for every gun sold,” he said, biting his rose-colored lips in frustration. Blue eyes narrowed, he pushed away the iPad “We stand to make more money off of them now… more than we ever have.”

  For Anatoly, everything came down to money, nothing more.

  Dmitry raised a hand to quiet his son and tilted his head. He could already see where Anatoly was going. “This problem won’t go away. Our friends in Kiev need to know that we can be trusted with their best interests. Lower the prices and let them know that we are sympathetic to their cause. It will be more profitable in the end.”

  “We are not freedom fighters,” Anatoly grunted. “We are businessmen.”

  Gabriel, in his normal fashion, listened quietly and neutrally but with a stern glare warned his cousin of challenging Dmitry with such blatant disregard.

  Anatoly could feel his cousin’s urging but chose to ignore it.

  “Do you actually need to tell me what we are, Anatoly?” Dmitry asked. His deep baritone echoed throughout the room. Placing both of his elbows on the table, he clasped his large hands together to relieve some growing agitation. “What do you know of wars, really? You’re a young man, who has never had to walk through city streets that were lined with dead bodies. For people who depend on our guns to stay alive, we are nothing if not freedom fighters.”

  “I don’t take sides, Father. You taught me that. I focus on the deal. If it makes sense financially, then it is the right thing to do. If we lose money, then I am opposed. My position has been the same for the whole of my life as a Vor.”

  Dmitry looked down the table at his ambitious son and sighed. He knew Anatoly’s heart and knew that it would take more than a conversation to change it. “Then I pray you live long enough to see that there is more in life than the immediate bottom line. These things take time.”

  “The war will be over soon. Putin’s men are on the border and ready to invade. They won’t last against the entire Russian army.” Anatoly shook his head. “We should make as much money as we can now.”
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  He had heard enough from his son. “What are your thoughts, Gabriel?” Dmitry asked his nephew.

  Gabriel, a mossy green-eyed man nearly as tall as his uncle with ink black hair and his father’s ruggedly handsome face, cracked a smile despite his desire not to be put in the middle of the discussion. His American accent always stuck out in conversations. It was distinctly east coast and reeking of privileged private schools and Ivy League colleges. “I don’t agree with Anatoly on this. I think we should lower the prices to help them, but I also don’t agree with you completely, uncle. No disrespect. We should tell them that the prices will rise after the conflict. However, considering every dollar matters now, we will work with them. We prove our loyalty on the front end, but we also ensure that at some point, we recoup any losses.”

  Anatoly, for once, could see logic in his cousin’s reasoning. He flexed his fingers. “He might just be a Medlov after all,” he quipped.

  Dmitry raised a brow. “And what will make them stay with us after the conflict, if we tell them that we will raise the prices after the war, even if they lose?”

  “The same loyalty that we have shown them, of course,” Gabriel answered with a frown. Was that not obvious?

  Dmitry laughed and slapped his hand on the table truly amused. “Good luck with that.” He pushed away his paper file. “Very well. You two will never learn if I don’t let you make your own deals. Do this your way, but if they don’t win, and they don’t come back to us after the conflict, then the both of you will pay any losses out of your own pockets. And based upon these projections in this file, that’s a lot of money. 2-1 is what you said, right Anatoly?”

  “That is over two million dollars… American dollars,” Anatoly huffed. “Each quarter.” He looked over at Gabriel as if to tell him that he’d blown it.

  “Well, let us hope that you are right,” Dmitry said softly. “Otherwise, you will both be two million dollars lighter every single quarter if you are wrong. We have a deal with people leading a revolution in the 8th largest country in Europe. To fuck it up is unacceptable. You will not learn how to deal with global conflicts on my dime. If you are wise enough to do things your way, then you will be wise enough to pay the consequences if things don’t turn out the way that you predict.” He gave an easy smile. “But I trust your decision. And I have faith that you won’t end up two million dollars poorer… per quarter until you find someone to replace the account.”