Chapter 61 Russo
My hand hovered over the phone for a second before I grabbed it.
The contact had been sitting there untouched for years.
Antonio Russo.
Stone Mountain.
For a moment I just stared at the name glowing on the screen. Atlanta stretched out beyond the glass in ribbons of headlights and taillights, the skyline glowing against the humid Georgia night.
A beautiful city.
A greedy one too.
And lately… it had started feeling like it belonged to Aleksander Volkov.
That thought alone was enough to sour the whiskey in my mouth.
I pressed call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then the line clicked.
“Russo.”
His voice was rough and steady. The voice of a man who had spent most of his life giving orders that ended with someone bleeding.
“Antonio.”
Silence.
Then a low chuckle.
“Well… look what crawled out of the Russian woods.”
Another pause.
“Viktor Sokolov.”
I leaned back in the chair.
“I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“That makes two of us.”
Russo sounded amused.
“I always wondered how long it would take before you called me.”
“And why would I call you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said lightly. “Maybe because that Volkov boy has been stealing half the city out from under everyone.”
There it was.
Straight to the point.
“You mean the garbage routes,” I said.
Russo snorted.
“Don’t make it sound small, Viktor. You know damn well what those routes are worth.”
Of course I did.
Garbage wasn’t glamorous work. Nobody bragged about owning dump contracts. But every building in Atlanta produced waste. Construction sites. Restaurants. Hospitals. Apartment towers.
Trash didn’t stop.
Which meant the trucks never stopped.
And wherever trucks moved, money followed.
For decades the Italians had owned that part of the city’s bloodstream. Waste disposal, transfer stations, landfills. It wasn’t flashy like casinos or clubs, but it was steady.
Reliable.
Aleksander hadn’t taken their glamour.
He had taken their foundation.
“He’s been busy,” Russo added.
“Yes.”
“That boy thinks Atlanta belongs to him.”
I smiled faintly.
“He’s starting to believe it.”
Russo chuckled.
“So why exactly are you calling me?”
I let the silence stretch for a second before answering.
“Because we have the same problem.”
“Volkov.”
“Yes.”
Russo laughed again.
“Well that makes two of us.”
“Three.”
That made him pause.
“Explain.”
I poured another glass of whiskey before answering.
“Aleksander has made enemies across half this city.”
“That happens when you start taking things that belong to other men.”
“He’s also distracted.”
“With what?”
“A woman.”
Russo barked out a laugh.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“The great Aleksander Volkov… distracted by a woman.”
“Yes.”
“Well now,” Russo said slowly. “That’s interesting.”
“He’s protecting her personally.”
“How personally?”
“She lives in his house.”
That shut him up for a second.
Then he spoke again.
“You tried to take her.”
I didn’t answer.
Russo let out a low whistle.
“And it didn’t go well.”
“No.”
“Well,” he said after a moment, “that tells me she matters.”
Yes.
More than Aleksander probably realized.
And that was the problem with men like him.
They built empires.
Then they let something soft walk straight through the door.
“Still,” Russo said, “I’m not hearing why that should concern me.”
I took a slow drink.
Because this was the real reason for the call.
“The Pahkan is in Atlanta.”
Russo didn’t answer right away.
Then—
“Maxim Volkov?”
“Yes.”
That changed the conversation.
In the Bratva, a Pahkan wasn’t just a boss. He was the head of the entire organization. The man other captains answered to. When someone like Maxim Volkov left Moscow and got on a plane, it meant something serious was happening.
Men like him didn’t travel for sightseeing.
“When did he arrive?” Russo asked.
“Yesterday.”
Russo muttered something in Italian under his breath.
“That old wolf never leaves Russia unless there’s blood in the water.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s your angle here, Viktor?”
“The same one it’s always been.”
“And that is?”
“Pressure.”
Russo hummed.
“You’re thinking about the waste routes.”
“Yes.”
Now the conversation sharpened.
Because Russo understood immediately what I meant.
Aleksander’s system depended on efficiency. Trucks running on time. Dumps accepting loads. Contracts moving smoothly. That was how he had taken the business from the Italians in the first place — by making it run cleaner.
Faster.
Better.
Break that rhythm and everything started to shake.
Truck delays.
Drivers refusing routes.
Transfer stations “too full” to take loads.
City inspectors suddenly asking questions.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing loud.
Just… problems.
Enough problems and suddenly the man running the system had to scramble.
“You want us leaning on the routes,” Russo said.
“Yes.”
“And while Volkov is busy fixing that…”
“I take something else.”
Russo laughed quietly.
“You Russians really are ruthless.”
“Sometimes.”
A long pause followed.
Russo was thinking now.
The Italians liked patience. They liked to watch how things developed before committing to a move. That was part of why they had survived as long as they had.
But the idea clearly interested him.
“If we start pushing those routes,” Russo said slowly, “Atlanta is going to get messy.”
I looked out the window again.
“It already is.”
Another pause.
Then Russo sighed.
“I’ll talk to the families.”
Good.
Very good.
“If they agree,” he added, “you’ll get your pressure.”
“And if they don’t?”
Russo laughed.
“Then you’re on your own.”
“I’m used to that.”
The line clicked dead.
For a moment the office was quiet again.
Then my phone buzzed.
Alina.
The photos from Nobu were still on the screen. Wine glasses raised. Smiles that looked harmless to anyone who didn’t know her.
Alina never did anything without a reason.
Another message appeared.
Heading to Alpharetta.
My eyes narrowed slightly.
Because I knew exactly who lived in Alpharetta.
Nina Smith.
Adam’s former girlfriend.
Another person Aleksander’s circle had managed to leave angry behind them.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I leaned back in the chair and picked up the whiskey again.
Aleksander Volkov believed he had this city under control.
But cities didn’t collapse all at once.
They cracked.
Little by little.
Pressure from every direction.
And tonight…
that pressure had just begun.