I sat down at the stool by the counter. “I’ve had macaroni and cheese in London.”
“If you didn’t have it in the American South or at certain spots in Harlem, then you didn’t eat it.”
I grinned. “I must try that and other soul food.”
“We’re talking beef ribs, collard greens, and cornbread. I could go on, but I might make myself hungry. And I don’t need to eat. I’m full.” He shifted to chopping onion. “Soul food was made from the slavery days, man. We would get the worst cuts from the masters. But we made that shit work.”
He dropped the knife, spun around, lowered, and returned with a pan. “Fast forward to when motherfuckers are now free. Lots of freed slaves migrated to the northern spots. Fast forward some more and we’re now starving in the inner cities.”
“Now I understand.” I nodded. “Some of the best food is made from a generation of hunger.”
“There we go.” Maxwell took the pan to the stove, went to work, and continued to talk the whole time. “I know lots of people that would get free food from the government. Powdered milk and government cheese. We’re talking big ass blocks of old yellow cheese. Fuck that. We made the best of that shit.”
“Soul food.”
“That’s right.”
A key jiggled in the door.
Without being told, my men jumped in position.
Maxwell continued to cook while I watched him.
Before the door opened, shots rang in the hallway. I had men waiting in the staircase to surprise Akiva’s guards. Another set was ordered to ride the elevator up after Akiva and them, just in case my men in the stairway didn’t get his guards.
Five of my men paused from their magazines and phones. Taking out their guns, they marched over to the front door and waited. The rest continued to sit. They would do the clean up afterward.
“The potatoes are almost done.” Maxwell opened a drawer and pulled out a spatula. “I sliced them up real thin. You’ll be eating soon.”
“Sounds good.” I watched him, enjoying Maxwell’s friendship.
The door slammed opened, hitting the wall. I checked over my shoulder. Two of Akiva’s guards stumbled in with him. Shock replaced the fear in their eyes as they spotted us. My men pointed their guns at the three fools. I checked the doorway.
Three men lay dead on the ground. Several of my men had already begun getting rid of their bodies and painting over the bloodstains in the hallway. Apparently, that specific coat of paint had been a bitch for them to find—periwinkle with a hint of olive green.
In St Petersburg, there was no need to worry about the police as long as one cleaned up their messes. If I left the bodies, blood, and bullet holes, it would force the police to investigate. In this situation, a decent clean up would allow the cops to feign confusion at Akiva’s family calling for justice.
“Surely, Akiva is simply on holiday,” the cops would explain to his loved ones. “Perhaps he was running from some conflict. Either way, there is no evidence of anything more.”
I watched the door as Akiva spotted me.
“Hold on.” Akiva’s eyes watered. “I can explain.”
My man in front slammed him with the butt of the gun, grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged him to the couch. With the Solntsevskaya guards, there would be no discussion.
“Get over there.” My man gestured to the plastic floor.
Both guys knew what would come. They tried to rush off in the other direction, but they were circled. Struggling ensued. Big bulky guys dragging other big bulky men to their end.
I turned back to my friend.
Maxwell whistled, went over to a cupboard, took out a plate, and studied it. “Dude has good taste.”
“Nice design?”
Maxwell showed me. Gold flowers were etched along the plate’s border.
“Fit for a king.”
“Yeah, man. You need to get plates like this when you have Ava over for dinner. You have to make her something nice too.”
The Solntsevskaya screamed behind me. Several bangs of the silencer came next.
“I can’t cook.” I shrugged. “I’ll have a chef make Ava something.”
“No, man. A chef won’t mean anything at this point. You’ve already shown her you can out-spend any dude around her. Getting a chef is just spending more money.”
Akiva cried from the couch, “Misha, please don’t kill me. I-I was only doing what the—”
Keeping my view on Maxwell, I raised my hand.
My man punched him in the face. “Shut up.”
I raised my eyebrows at Maxwell. “A chef won’t be enough?”
“You must cook for her.” Maxwell plated the potatoes, sprinkled salt on them, and then grabbed eggs from the fridge. “Take this situation now. How does it feel to have me cook for you?”
I grinned. “I feel special.”
Maxwell cracked an egg onto the pan and then glanced over his shoulder. “And you feel loved? Admit it, man.”