Dmitry's Closet Nelson, S. (best reads TXT) 📖

or afraid, she clung to her coat shaking not from coldness but from shock. She stood in front of him on the sidewalk in the snow looking down at her knight in shining armor.

“Will you be my wife?” Dmitry asked, pulling a small box from his coat and opening it to show a very large solitaire diamond ring. Its simplistic beauty and grandiose size caught her attention instantly, but it was Dmitry’s question that captured her. When she did not answer, Dmitry continued. He felt his strength weaning. He wasn’t expecting her to say no. He began to stutter. “I… I know that you don’t know what I do, what I’ve done, who I am. If you give me time, I will show you the man that I can be...”

“Yes,” Royal said, sticking her left hand out. “Yes, I will marry you.”

“Are you sure, because you took minute,” he joked.

“Yes,” Royal screamed and a laughed. “Yes.” She smiled bright as he slid the ring on her finger and picked her up. The luminous d-grade diamond sparkled in the moonlight on her long slender finger.

“Come here,” he said, holding her close. They hugged tightly. “You have made me very happy. Now I will have beautiful wife who has promised to give me lots of children and no more lip.”

“I love you,” she said with her hands around his neck.

“You do?”

“Yes,” she looked into his eyes. “I’ll always love you.”

“I love you too,” he said kissing her lips. He scooped her up in his arms and laughed and smiled at her. His deep voice lit up the night. “We’re getting married!”

“Yeah!” Royal screamed. She looked at her ring again. “I’ve gotta get a dress,” she said, shaking her head.

Chapter 22

There was severe winter storm circling Memphis. In celebration of the weather, Ivan sat on his rooftop in a lawn chair as the wind and snow beat down on the riverside. With only a black wool sweater and a pair of jeans on, he sat with a silver flask of vodka in the silence of his thoughts, gazing at the blackness of the Mississippi under the heavy winter night skies. Instead of sitting towards the middle of the building, he positioned his flimsy chair on the very edge of the rooftop with his feet propping him safely up on the flat surface. If he dared slip, he would fall to his death, but Ivan did not care. He liked the edge and all that it represented.

He looked down at the quick fall of the snow to the ground below, where cars lined the front of his condo nearly four stories down. His men were inside preparing for a war,and he was outside preparing for his brother’s judgment day.

Guns had been shipped and stolen from many miles away in anticipation of what was to come. Many would still not do business with them until Dmitry was dead, but they sent complimentary weapons in hopes that Ivan would be able to do the job. Most doubted he could. Few believed that he would get out of this alive. He took in a deep breath and smiled. The thought of drawing first blood made his heart skip a beat. The gleeful feeling of crushing Dmitry under his boot was a far better rush than any drug could provide. It wouldn’t be long. A week at most. Now that he had his plan in action, he just had to make special plans for Royal.

A mocha-colored black man walked out on the rooftop and interrupted Ivan’s silence. He was bald, talland clean cut with very dark, prominent features. His large frame was covered by gray turtleneck and dark jeans. With him, he carried two large guns in the holsters under his arms. He coughed a little, hitting his chest as he did so.

“Люди готовы для вас,” the man said in a deep bari-tone, offering Ivan his coat. His deep voice rattled the quiet snow.

“Препятствуйте им ждать, брат,” Ivan scoffed. He offered his brother-in-arms a drink, but as usual the holy man would not touch it.

Dorian was an old friend who had flown in from Mos-cow specifically for Ivan’s coo. Before he left, he had confirmed for Ivan that Dmitry was back in their homeland, then he had quickly come to Memphis to set up shop.

Dorian was an expatriate of neighboring Sochi, Georgia with a healthy appetite for building dirty bombs. His father had been from Africa and his mother a quiet Muslim woman and native of Sochi. Dorian had been a rebel during many of the conflicts in Georgia and had since his teenage years, very much like the Medlov boys, been involved in organized crime.

Ironically enough, Ivan met Dorian through Dmitry, but not in an amicable way. Over a decade before, Dmitry sent Ivan to kill Dorian, but when Ivan arrived in the city of Tbilisi, Dorian paid him well to allow him to keep his life. The secret was maintained for a couple of years. And Ivan thought it was all water under the bridge when they left permanently to work for the Vory in the states. However, their scandal was still uncovered.

Dmitry later found out that Dorian was not dead and discovered the $3.5 million American dollars that Ivan was paid only after Dmitry came in contact with the man in New York by chance. Small world.

In retaliation of Ivan’s willful defiance, there was a bloody fall out between the brothers that landed Ivan in the hospital with his neck cut open and his wife dead. Dorian was smart enough to sneak out of the city and hide away in Thailand until it all blew over. Now, he was back to ensure that Ivan’s final stand against his brother had a fighting chance.

“You still prefer to speak Russian brother?” Ivan asked, leaning into the edge a little with his feet.

“I prefer no one language over another,” Dorian ans-wered,looking at Ivan play with death under the slick snow.

“I’ve been forced to