Chapter 5 - THE VOLKOV RETALIATION
The peace at Lake Placid lasted four weeks.
Back in New York City, Nikolai Volkov—the ruthless patriarch of the Brighton Beach syndicate—was not a man who accepted humiliation quietly. The destruction of his gaming operation at Finnegan’s, combined with the public loss of his leverage over Ray Alvarez, had severely damaged his standing among the five major crime families of the metropolitan area.
On a cold Tuesday evening in late November, a dark storm brewed over the Atlantic coast.
Inside the dimly lit back office of a caviar import facility in Brooklyn, Nikolai Volkov sat behind a heavy steel desk, swirling a glass of high-proof vodka. He was a broad, weathered man in his late sixties, with a silver beard and a long, jagged scar running from his left ear down to his collarbone—a souvenir from the Chechen wars of the 1990s.
Sitting across from him was Julian Vance, a dirty private investigator who specialized in corporate espionage and high-value tracking.
"Did you find them?" Volkov demanded, his voice sounding like two heavy millstones grinding together.
"It wasn't easy," Vance replied, sliding a manila envelope across the steel desk. "Cole locked down the accountant's paper trail completely. Erased his lease, canceled his bank accounts, and moved his records to an offshore trust. But he made one mistake."
Volkov narrowed his small, greedy eyes. "What mistake?"
"The kid," Vance smirked, tapping a finger on the envelope. "Marisol Alvarez was enrolled in an online educational program managed by a private academy in Burlington, Vermont. I traced the IP address back to a satellite dish mounted on a secure lodge near Lake Placid. Damian Cole has them tucked away in his family's private mountain estate."
Volkov leaned back in his chair, a cold, vicious smile spreading across his weathered face.
"Damian Cole thinks he is untouchable because he sits in his grand estate in Oakridge," Volkov growled softly. "He thinks he can step into my house, break my machines, and walk away without paying a tax."
"The lodge is guarded," Vance warned. "Cole keeps four of his top security men posted at the perimeter twenty-four hours a day."
Volkov waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing away a pesky fly.
"Four men are nothing to twenty men with heavy weapons," Volkov sneered. "We don't need to kill Damian Cole in his own house. We take the accountant and the little girl from the mountain lodge. We bring them to my docks in Brooklyn. Once I have the child, Damian Cole will give me the shipping registers, the port keys, and half his territory just to see her smile again."
May you like
Volkov stood up, towering over the desk, his eyes flashing with cruel, unyielding malice.
"Assemble the strike team," Volkov ordered his lieutenant standing by the door. "We leave for the Adirondacks tonight under cover of the snowstorm. By sunrise tomorrow, the Cole empire belongs to me."
