Blurred Lines

Chapter 12

Ruslan stood with his hands in his pocket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking at Taro the Greek. His hulking frame sat slumped unconscious on a wooden chair, his hands bound behind his back in the rundown warehouse Petrov owned.

In the last 4 months, Petrov's vessels were being intercepted with increasing frequency. The harbour was swarming with marine unit divers who always happened to time their visits to the days Petrov's ships docked. This increased interest in Petrov led to one assumption; they had an informer among them, and all fingers were pointing at Taro.

Taro was a hulking Russian. The kind of guy even a mother couldn't love. Despite his name, his only connection to Greece was rumoured to be from his maternal grandmother, but he was an unlikeable man, even by notorious Bratva standards. Until recently he'd been dissociated. Known for having a vice for young girls and an aggression which knew no bounds, he was about as loyal as a snake. Petrov found him imprudent and disrespectful, but had formed an alliance with him to keep the peace. 

Taro had joined organised crime in his teens, dabbling in narcotics and illegal liquor distribution before hitting the big time when he joined forces with Luis Perez. In the 1990s he'd began smuggling arms to the Israelis via the Middle East and had been encroaching on Danil's territory since he'd taken over those trade routes. When Perez was squeezed out by Danil a decade later, he offered Taro an opportunity to work with his own people for the first time in decades, but the honeymoon didn't last long. Taro's dissatisfaction at the way Petrov cut his share, was well known in the underground circles of Chicago, but till recently he'd played by the rules. But when the CPD Marine Unit started camping out in the International Port District, you didn't need to be Einstein to figure out who'd put them there.

Ruslan grabbed a bucket of iced water and splashed it over Taro's face.

He let out a gasp from the shock.

"Time to wake up starik," he said.

Nikolay had brought in Taro last night.

Taro was getting on in age and no match for the likes of Ruslan. He'd blacked out even before Ruslan had warmed up. 

His left eye had completely closed and his right was almost there too. His brow was busted, and dry crusted blood ran along the side of his face.

"Ya trakhnul tvoyu mat," he said, shaking the water off his face.

He thought the way to get to Ruslan was by insulting his mother.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Ruslan said, his tone even and calm.

"You and half of St. Petersburg probably did."

He drew back his fist and punched Taro in the face without warning.

Taro keeled backward, taking a few seconds to recover before spitting the blood that pooled up in his mouth.

"Tell me, what's it like being the son of a sukin syn?"

"Every Russian in Chicago knows my mom was a whore Taro. You really need to come up with some new material. Why are you so obsessed with her anyway?"

Ruslan's eyes lingered on Taro's.

"Is it because you have two daughters yourself?"

Taro shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his girls.

"They're pretty," Ruslan said, watching Taro for a reaction.

"That one that goes to NYU... she's my favourite. I think she must take after her mother, cause she sure as hell doesn't look like you. I looked her up last week. What does she study?"