Chapter 4 - War in Brighton Beach
Brighton Beach at 2:00 AM looked like a ghost town draped in fog. The elevated subway tracks groaned overhead as a train rumbled past, casting long, shifting shadows across the wet boardwalk.
Victor Radkov operated out of a nightclub named The Golden Tsar, a flashy, neon-lit establishment overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The red neon sign flickered through the rain, reflecting in the puddles on the street like pools of fresh blood.
Our five SUV convoy pulled up two blocks away. We killed the headlights.
Jimmy crept up to my window. "Boss, Radkov’s got at least fifteen guards inside. Heavy weapons. Guards on the roof, too. If we hit the front entrance, it's going to be a bloodbath."
"We're not hitting the front entrance," I said, checking the magazine on my suppressed Beretta. "Radkov thinks he's safe because he thinks I don't know about Marco yet. He thinks we're still blind."
I turned to Bruno, who was sitting in the back seat, perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on the club's side entrance.
"Bruno," I whispered, opening the door. "Find the back way."
The dog slipped out into the rain like a shadow. He didn't bark. He moved low to the ground, taking advantage of the darkness between the parked cars. Me, Tony, and four of our top shooters followed close behind, keeping our weapons low.
Bruno stopped near a steel service door behind the club's kitchen. A heavy smell of fried fish, trash, and cheap cologne wafted through the alley. Two large Russian guards were leaning against the doorframe, smoking cigarettes and talking in low, guttural Russian.
Bruno didn't rush them. He crouched behind a industrial dumpster, waiting for my signal.
I raised three fingers. Two. One.
Tony and Frankie stepped out from the shadows with suppressed pistols. Two soft pop-pop sounds cut through the night air. The two guards crumpled to the wet pavement before their cigarettes hit the ground.
Bruno immediately sprinted forward, sniffing the lock on the service door. He nudged the door with his snout—it was unlatched.
"Good boy," I muttered, pushing the door open gently.
We stepped inside. The noise of the club hit us like a wall—heavy bass, flashing strobe lights, and the clinking of glasses coming from the main floor above us. We were in the basement storage area, surrounded by crates of vodka and champagne.
"Tony, take two men and secure the stairs to the roof," I ordered in a low whisper. "Frankie, come with me and Bruno. We're going to the VIP lounge."
We moved up the narrow wooden staircase, Bruno leading the way. The dog was incredible—his natural instincts made him navigate the tight, dark corridors with effortless grace. He stopped at every corner, sniffing the air, letting me know if the path ahead was clear with a subtle shift in his ears.
We reached the second-floor mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. The VIP lounge was at the end of the hall, guarded by a double mahogany door. Through the tinted glass, I could see Victor Radkov sitting on a leather sofa, surrounded by high-end liquor bottles and three of his top lieutenants.
I didn't knock.
Frankie kicked the door open with a deafening crash.
Radkov spun around, reaching for the chrome pistol resting on the glass table. Before his hand could touch the weapon, Bruno was across the room like a thunderbolt.
The dog didn't bite Radkov's throat—he knew better. He launched his chest into Radkov’s sternum, slamming the 220-pound Russian back onto the sofa, trapping his right arm under his massive paws. Bruno’s jaws hovered inches from Radkov's nose, a horrifying rumble echoing from his throat.
"DON'T MOVE!" Frankie screamed, pointing his submachine gun at the two lieutenants. They froze, their hands hovering near their belts, staring in sheer terror at the monster holding their boss down.
Radkov was pale, his eyes wide with shock as he stared into Bruno's yellow eyes.
"Hector..." Radkov choked out, struggling to breathe under Bruno's weight. "What... what is the meaning of this?!"
I walked into the room calmly, picking up Radkov’s chrome pistol from the table. I ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and tossed the empty gun into a ice bucket.
"The meaning, Victor," I said, pulling up a chair and sitting down right in front of him, "is that your secret business with Marco Ricci has come to an end."
Radkov’s eyes flickered with panic. "Marco? I don't know what you're—"
"Quiet," I snapped.
Bruno let out a sharp snapped bark, his teeth brushing against Radkov’s chin. The Russian boss flinched, closing his eyes tightly.
"I know about the three million," I continued, my voice smooth and icy. "I know about the docks. And most importantly, I know about the little girl Marco ran over while trying to cover up your little deal."
Radkov swallowed hard. "Hector... listen to me. Marco came to me! He needed cash! I didn't know anything about a girl! I swear to God, I didn't know he killed anyone!"
"You put a rogue dog on my street, Victor," I said, leaning in. "And when a rogue dog causes damage, the man who fed him is responsible."
"What do you want?" Radkov squeaked, his pride completely broken by the giant dog holding him hostage. "Money? You want the three million back? Take it! Take five million! Just take this beast off me!"
"I don't want your blood money, Victor," I said. "I want your exit from New York. By sunrise."
Radkov blinked. "What?"
"You will pack your things. You will sign over your dock concessions to my family. You will leave the city, and if I ever see your face in Queens, Brooklyn, or Manhattan again... I won't send my men." I looked at Bruno. "I'll send him."
Radkov looked at Bruno’s gleaming teeth, at the cold, calculating intelligence in the dog's eyes, and he knew I wasn't bluffing.
"Okay..." Radkov whispered. "Okay! I agree! Just get him off me!"
I whistled softly. "Bruno. Heel."
The dog instantly backed off, stepping smoothly to my left side, his posture regal, his duty fulfilled.
May you like
Radkov gasped for air, clutching his chest, staring at us in disbelief.
"You have four hours, Victor," I said, turning my back on him. "Don't be late."
