In America alone, racism was reflected in the system, in every layer of the American dream. That was how we’d toyed with their last presidential election. Misha had handled it personally for the Kremlin, dividing the population on social media. His team had created fake protest groups on Facebook, coordinated the meetup places for the movements, and then secretly invited both sides to fight it out on the streets. It had created an ugly year for America. Misha had hated the task and vowed to never do it again. Our President Smirnov had not been pleased.
But racism in my own home? Among the brotherhood?
I hadn’t been prepared. I’d thought everyone would understand the consequences. I’d believed many would see the magic of my mouse and not the color of her skin.
Someone didn’t and that person will die.
Pavel ended the silence. “Maybe the monkey heads came from someone else.”
“Who?”
“The French.”
I smirked. “I doubt it.”
“It wouldn’t be wise to sleep on Jean-Pierre.”
“I’m surprised you even know his name.”
“The world is learning his name.”
“The world is a funny place.”
Pavel quirked his brows. “Why’s that?”
“I remember when I first met Jean-Pierre, four years ago in Tokyo. We had a few shots of sake.”
“Was the Dragon there?”
I nodded. “Jean-Pierre looked too soft. He’d brought his silly cousin with him, the one that thinks he’s funny. The cousin claimed they’d broken out of jail.”
“Did they?”
I nodded. “But they used dynamite and a helicopter.”
I’d looked it up. The news had reported that two men stormed into the jail dressed in black with some sort of grinding machine. They’d used that machine to open the visiting room’s door. Rafael had then blasted his way out of prison with explosives smuggled to him earlier and concealed in tissue packs. The helicopter came right at the end, taking Rafael, his accomplices, and Jean-Pierre with them.
The cops discovered the helicopter on fire in the northern suburbs of Paris. Rafael had been the suspected mastermind and head of the Corsican. Meanwhile, nothing else had been reported of Jean-Pierre.
Both men disappeared from French media after that.
“Dynamite and helicopters? Amateurs.” Pavel laughed. “But not everyone can break out of one of the toughest jails with just a spoon.”
“The next time I talked to Jean-Pierre, it was at Uncle Igor’s request.”
“I’d heard the Corsican and your uncle had been fighting. That battle had spilled into my territory, but lucky for the French there were no real damages or injuries.”
“I went to Paris to make sure the conflict didn’t continue in Russia. I talked to them all—Jean-Pierre and his three cousins that stay by his side.”
I thought back to that time. Misha and Sasha had come with me. We’d arrived at badly decorated restaurant owned by his cousin, Rafael. The man had attempted some sort of odd fusion of French and Chinese cuisine. It hadn’t worked.
The décor had been god-awful. We’d walked out to the garden behind the restaurant to finish our conversation. The sun had begun to set. Lit red lanterns had dangled from the newly planted bonsai trees outlining the walls.
I gestured to the ugly thing. “You really went with the theme.”
His cousin Rafael spoke up. “I had no idea the Russians had such a talent for decorating.”
We reached the garden. Iron wrought benches sat in the center of roses and tulips.
I sat down on the first bench.
Jean-Pierre lowered on the other.
The rest of our men stood around us.
I looked at Jean-Pierre. “Four years ago, we had a shot of sake in Tokyo.”
He nodded. “We did.”
“And the conversation was to your liking?” I asked.
“It was.”
“Yet, you’ve been killing my men for the past two years.”
“My anger has nothing to do with the Bratva,” he said. “My conflict has nothing to do with your uncle either. He just has provided my enemy with your men.”
Tired of the bullshit, Misha walked toward Jean-Pierre and handed him a large picture of a woman—the one the whole battle was about.
Rage covered Jean-Pierre’s face.
Misha asked, “Is this the reason for the conflict?”
Jean-Pierre gave the picture back to him. “Yes.”
Misha smiled. “Then, if I kill her, we’ll be done?”
Jean-Pierre rose. His cousins flanked behind him. My men took out their guns.
I remained seated. “I’m sorry, Jean-Pierre, but my cousin is not as proficient with negotiations as we are.”
Misha chuckled, walked over to me, and sat down.
Jean-Pierre straightened his jacket and returned to his seat. “Killing Eden is not an option.”
“I didn’t think it was,” I said. “However, I’ve been known to take the wrong measures when a problem begins to annoy me.”
“Then, we should find a solution,” Jean-Pierre said.
“What would resolve this?”
“Your uncle’s men staying out of this.”
“It seems Uncle Igor will only pull back if his lover agrees.”
“Then, I can’t see a solution.” Jean-Pierre rose from the seat. “Let’s not waste any more time.”
I directed my gaze to the darkening sky. “The new moon comes tonight.”