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him. He checked his jet-black hair in a mirror and adjusted the ponytail that dangled at the back of his neck. He was now in his late fifties, but age hadn’t lessened his vanity. He believed in being at his best, fearing the newer model that was always trying to come up behind him. And when you are the don of the Russian Mafiya, it usually comes up behind you looking to kill.
    He took one more glance into the mirror and came away impressed with himself, as usual. His face wasn’t the same since the shooting, but it was improving each day. “Not bad for a poor boy from Orensburg,” he mumbled to himself.
    His childhood dream was to be a pop star like his idol, Joseph Kozolbol. So as a teenager he left home and moved to the Black Sea port city of Odessa, known for its wealthy residents. He took a job crooning on a cruise ship, which allowed him to travel abroad—a rare opportunity in the Soviet Union at the time. Even as a young man he was always thinking business, and took advantage of his travels to bring back items that were near impossible to obtain behind the Iron Curtain. He sold them at a huge markup, showing a pretty good knowledge of the free market for a communist kid.
    The cruise ship was the start of his lucrative music and business careers. Mixing his great love of music with business to create a cocktail of power.
    But this past year, he learned what a toxic mix love and business could be. When his son Alexei was accused of killing his longtime friend and business partner, Karl Zellen, he was forced to leave the US and relocate to this dreadful strip of sand called Israel. Viktor knew that Alexei wasn’t the one who killed Karl, but was sure that the Americans would twist Alexei’s words, or lie about evidence in order to come after him. That’s why he was forced to flee. America was a lot like him—they covered up their dirty deeds behind music. America the Beautiful. God Bless America . He spit at that—America was no different from these protestors—pledging morality, yet lusting for the dark side.
    Viktor took another glance at the scene he created. He felt the crowd closing in on the limo, continuing to taunt Natalie in screaming Yiddish. It reminded him why he hated Israel. But unlike others in the region, he took no issue with their choice of deities.
    His main point of contention was that they were always arguing and shouting, and when they weren’t giving him a migraine with their constant volume, they were whining about their plight. Viktor didn’t understand this thinking—the way he saw it, all Russians were dealt a bad hand before they left the womb. But they grabbed, clawed, and stole their way to the top. They made their own way without complaint, even if their methods were harsh.
    As he watched Natalie bounce beautifully through the bloodthirsty crowd, the ringing of his phone startled him.
    “It’s Kelli,” the voice on the other end began.
    “Make it fast—I lack time,” he said, watching Natalie moving toward the vehicle, surrounded by bodyguards.
    “Nick’s on the move.”
    As he processed this news, a wicked smile came over his face. “I want him to come to me in one piece. Get word out—especially to Zubov—only I deal with Nick. This is personal.”

Chapter 11
     
    Natalie Gold was whisked into the limo. Once the door slammed shut, the protestors began rocking the vehicle.
    Viktor looked Natalie up and down like he was checking for scratches on a new Ferrari. She wore a transparent fishnet body stocking with only a skimpy bikini underneath. Natalie’s curves were trapped underneath the body-stocking like a bear in a bag. She had a different look from most Israeli women, which besides her powerful voice, was one of the reasons he chose her. There were no doubt many exotic beauties in Israel, but he liked that Natalie looked American. The buxom blonde who oozed a take-no-prisoners sexuality. Viktor might have been forced to stay in Israel, but that didn’t mean he