End of June. A black sedan rolled into Little Italy, its engine humming low as it slipped through the lively streets. Sitting in the back seat, Slavi suddenly shivered, goosebumps crawling up his arms. "What the hell is this weather? How is New York colder than Boston?"
He rubbed his arms. "I was fine before we got here… but the second we hit Little Italy, I started feeling off."
It wasn't the dry bite of northern cold; it was something damp, creeping—like a slow, invisible attack. The wind slid down your collar like a blade, brushing against your skin and sending a chill straight down your spine.
Slavi looked out at the street—bright, crowded, full of laughter and noise. "Looks lively enough… so why does it feel like something's wrong?"
When they arrived at the SSR Club and stepped inside, the warmth hit immediately. The chill faded, but that faint unease lingered, buried under a calmer state of mind.
The place was packed. Slavi glanced around, impressed. "More people here than in our place."
His subordinate grinned in a way that made it obvious what he was thinking. "Maybe the girls are better, too?"
Slavi shot him a look. Couldn't he see half the crowd was female customers? Or was he suggesting something else entirely? Either way, it wasn't that kind of place.
Slavi had been in the business long enough—he could tell at a glance whether a place offered "extra services." The women here didn't carry that kind of air. This crowd was here for something else.
They approached the front desk and found the concierge, William Sommerset.
"I'm here to see Luca the Dove."
"He's expecting you at the bar."
William signaled a waiter, who led them through the club. The bar was busy even in the daytime—not quite a nightclub, but the kind of place where people drank from morning to midnight without apology.
In the corner, Luca sat with a newspaper in hand. Slavi glanced at it—financial reports out of Boston.
Still watching that market? Seriously?
Next to Luca sat Abram, drink in hand. The moment he saw Slavi, he stood up with a forced smile.
Slavi cursed him silently. That bearded bastard had already taken a slice of his port business. If not for Mr. Pushkin's orders, Slavi would've buried him by now.
Luca looked up. A system panel flickered briefly—a low-tier D-rank card. Nothing worth noting.
They shook hands, exchanged a few pleasantries, and got straight down to business.
"I understand how your gasoline tax operation works," Slavi said, leaning back casually. "Abram sent a lot of guys back to Russia to take the fall for you. Those guys are still on the IRS radar. If Mr. Pushkin hadn't stepped in on the Russian side, you think your operation would still be running this smoothly?"
Luca didn't buy a word of it.
Pushkin had influence, sure—but enough to interfere with the IRS? Unlikely. The CIA held far more sway overseas, and even that had limits. As for how deep the investigation ran, Luca didn't know yet.
What he did know was this: the IRS and CIA hadn't traced anything back to him—yet.
So the plan was simple. Make as much money as possible before the loophole closed. Gasoline tax fraud was tied directly to federal policy; once regulations tightened, the whole scheme would collapse. Maybe a few years, tops. After that, it'd be back to running legitimate gas stations—less profit, but safer.
Eventually, the government would patch the system. They always did.
"Then I'll thank Mr. Pushkin for taking care of those men," Luca said lightly, brushing it aside. "Now, let's talk about cooperation. Your influence in New England isn't as strong as the Patriarca family's. I could've gone with them. But I chose you—and Mr. Pushkin—because of our past dealings. I prefer working with people I know."
"You sold Abram's share of the oil, didn't you?" Slavi shot back immediately. "If you hadn't opened up the Port of New York, Abram wouldn't even have access to Pushkin's supply. And now we're talking New England—they don't need your ports there."
He leaned forward, grinning. "I've got manpower. Refineries. More oil than Abram. Even wholesalers like ExxonMobil buy from me. We can work together—but this time, I take the big share."
He shrugged. "Pushkin's terms."
"More resources. Bigger investment. Bigger cut."
Luca didn't react. "You don't have the experience. And you Russians can't get wholesale licenses."
Slavi laughed. "You think this business is complicated? I know every trick you're using. Tax fraud? We figured that out a long time ago. Hell, we're doing it with health insurance too. And licenses?" He waved a hand. "You're not the only ones who can get them."
Luca's mood darkened slightly.
This was the worst-case scenario. The Russians knew too much—and they controlled upstream supply. Oil, weapons, people—they dealt in the big stuff.
Pushkin's network spanned both coasts, but his organization didn't rely on massive manpower. They didn't need it. They operated at the top of the chain.
Like Yuri—few men, massive influence.
Luca, on the other hand, controlled the ground level: truck drivers, gas stations, distribution. A completely different structure.
The largest operations in the world? Cartels. From cultivation to street sales, total control. The Triads too—tens of thousands of members globally.
The Russian Bratva? Masters of upstream crime. Cryptocurrency, money laundering, logistics—they excelled where others couldn't compete.
When Luca mentioned his driver networks and gas stations, Slavi barely reacted.
"You control the drivers' union in New Jersey," Slavy said lazily, "but New England? That's my turf. You want in, fine—but you play by my rules. I need your help, not your leadership."
Luca calmly lifted his glass. Letting Slavi take control would cut deeply into his profits—and worse, it would weaken his grip on the operation.
And that was unacceptable.
Gasoline tax fraud was already risky. Luca had only scaled it up after securing every link in the chain.
And Slavi? A loose cannon. The kind of guy who'd end up dead the moment he crossed the wrong person.
Better to squeeze every last bit of value out of him before that happened.
Looks like this partnership is dead.
So what—abandon New England?
Working with the Patriarca family was the obvious alternative… but that came with its own risks.
After a few drinks, Luca stalled Slavi and led him into the casino, then quietly arranged a meeting with Patriarca representatives.
Inside, Slavi sat at a card table with the 10,000 chips Luca had generously handed him, grumbling to his men.
"That Abram… left a goldmine just to trail behind the Dove picking scraps. Pathetic. If it were me, I'd have gone independent a long time ago."
One of his men nodded. "He's never been as bold as his brother. Probably thinks sticking close to Luca is safer."
"That's why he'll never make real money," Slavi scoffed. "Do not let the Dove have the big cuts—we'll toss him breadcrumbs. He's not a vulture. Doesn't know how to hunt."
"So… we still working with him?"
"Ha." Slavy just sneered.
They walked in laughing. Hours later, they walked out broke.
Not a single chip left.
"What kind of casino is this?!" one of them muttered. "Since when are the dealers this good?"
Negotiations hadn't collapsed completely—but they weren't moving forward either. Luca shifted his focus to the Patriarca family, waiting for their response.
Two days later, Fat Tony called.
"Luca… they agreed to talk at first, but last night they backed out. No idea why."
Tony sounded genuinely frustrated. "They made it clear—they don't want you anywhere near their territory. Everyone sticks to their own turf."
Luca closed his eyes briefly. Worst-case scenario confirmed.
The Patriarca family chose isolation over cooperation.
"I understand," Luca said evenly. "I'll find another way into New England. Worst case, we shelve it and expand elsewhere—Miami, New Orleans, the West Coast."
New Orleans—deep south, near the Mexican border. Rough territory, cartel-adjacent.
Miami—beautiful beaches, sunshine, bikinis… and chaos. Cuban refugees, drugs everywhere, a prototype sin city.
West Coast—California. Clean, profitable, promising.
Luca had options. Plenty of them.
But Boston… was too close to ignore.
Three days later, Abram delivered the final piece.
Abram said bitterly "Luca, Slavi and the Patriarca family just partnered up. Gasoline tax operation in New England."
Luca smiled slowly.
"Perfect."
Now we can clean them all up in one go.
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