Near Miss

Chapter 44

Peter Greco sat in a row of chairs in a thick forest of headstones in a Queens cemetery and listened to a priest drone on in Russian, which he understood only poorly. The Greek’s wife, Olga, who was twenty-odd years the junior of her late husband, sat at Peter’s elbow and made snuffling noises while clutching his arm. Peter was conscious of the breast pressed against him and of her cleavage, which looked good in black.

He had not planned on attending the Greek’s funeral. He had assumed he and his family would have been preparing to move across the country, where they would be under the protection of the FBI. But yesterday he had received a call from the Bean Counter, who had asked him as a personal favor to attend and had guaranteed his safety. So, with some reluctance, he had come.

The service ended, and Olga turned to him. “I would like you to come to my house for a glass of tea,” she said, “and there are those of our community who wish to speak to you.”

“I’ve already attended one funeral this week,” he said. “I would rather not star in another.”

“No one wants you dead. Quite the opposite.”

Intrigued, he followed her to a black limousine and took note of her shapely buttocks as she bent to enter the car. When he seated himself, he was surprised that she occupied her seat in such a way as to keep herself thigh-to-thigh with him.

“Who wishes to speak to me?” he asked her.

“People,” she replied, then spoke no more for the remainder of the ride. They entered the old, but well-kept house, and she pointed to the dining room door. “In there,” she said. “I will wait for you upstairs.”

Peter opened the door and peered into the room. A group of men rose as he entered, then settled themselves in the chairs around the table.

“Shall we speak Russian?” an elderly man asked him.

“Please, no. I haven’t spoken it since I was very young. Just English.” What the hell was this about?

“Very well,” the man said. “We are here to remind you of your duties.”

“My duties?” Peter asked. “What duties?”

“The first is revenge,” the man said, and there was a positive rumble from the group.

“Revenge toward whom?” Peter asked.

“Toward the man who killed the Greek, or rather, who ordered his death.”

“And who might that be?”

“This person, Barrington, the lawyer.”

“And how did you come by this information?”

“Alexei predicted his death by Barrington’s hand or on his order.”

“That’s not evidence enough to suspect Barrington in his death,” Peter said.

“Is the Greek’s word not sufficient for you?”

“No,” Peter said, “but I don’t see why it even matters what I think.”

“It matters,” the main said, “because as our new leader, you must take charge of the effort against Barrington.”

“Leader of what?” Peter asked, baffled.

“Why of our family and its businesses,” the man said. “The Gromykos did not work out. It’s time for a Pentkovsky to lead the family again.”

“I cannot accept that,” Peter protested. “I had already expressed to the Greek my intention of leaving the group and governing my own existence. That has not changed. Besides, I do not believe Barrington capable of ordering a murder.”

“You are naive,” the man said.

“Perhaps so. But I am Peter Greco now, not Egon Pentkovsky. And I must decline any participation in the family’s affairs, and certainly anything to do with revenge against someone who has been wrongly accused.”

“We shall see,” the man said.

“We shall not see,” Peter said. “And I will not be pressed into replacing the Greek in the family, whose activities I wish to have nothing to do with.”

The man sighed, ignoring Peter’s protests. “And then there is the matter of the Greek’s widow,” he said.

“I’m sure he has provided for her generously.”

“He has provided money and the house,” the man said, “but those are not all the woman needs. She is young and beautiful, and she must be attended to.”

“I have a wife and family, and I attend to those,” Peter said. “She will have to look elsewhere for attention.”

“Then you must explain that to her personally.”

“Please explain to her on my behalf.”

“She is waiting upstairs to speak to you of this. It is ceremonial, on such an occasion. Go to her now. You will not be disturbed.”

Peter stood up. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your interest in me, but I have quite another life to live, so I must leave you now.”

“As you wish,” the man said. “We will speak further.”

Peter left the room, closing the door behind him. As he walked toward the front door, wondering how he was going to transport himself back to the city, he heard a voice from upstairs.

“Peter?” Olga called.

He stopped. “Yes?”

“Please come upstairs.”

He was going to have to explain his position to her and be done with this foolishness. He climbed the stairs and came to a half-opened door.

“Please come in,” she said.

Peter pushed the door further open and entered the room. The door closed behind him.

“I knew you would come,” she said. “I knew it in the car.”

He turned and saw her standing next to the door, and she was entirely naked.

She quickly closed the distance between them and pressed her body against his. Peter instinctively put his arms around her in a gesture of comfort, but what he felt against him had nothing to do with comfort, and everything to do with lust.

Peter’s relationship with his wife had cooled over the years, and his response was nearly instantaneous. She did something with his belt buckle, and his trousers dropped around his ankles.

“Come,” she said, taking his penis in her hand and leading him toward the bed. His choices were to follow her or to trip over his trousers and fall flat on his face. Before they reached the bed, she had stripped him to the skin, and he fell on the mattress with Olga on top of him. From there, he had only to follow her moves, which he did automatically. She sat on top of him and enveloped him with her thighs.

She was an expert. Again and again she brought him to a near climax, then slowed, until finally, he could hold back no longer, and they climaxed together.

“There,” she said, “that’s so much better, isn’t it?”

Finally, they dressed, and she led him to the limousine parked outside, waved goodbye, and then returned alone to the house. One of the men who had spoken earlier at the family meeting got out of the car and shook Peter’s hand.

“Now she is yours to do with as you will,” he said. The man embraced him. “And you belong to your family again.”

Before Peter could manage a response, he found himself inside the car and it was driving away. He was in a daze and didn’t much care where he was going. Eventually, the car pulled up outside an elegant apartment building where he maintained a comfortable pied-à-terre that he had been steering clear of while hiding from the Greek.

The driver held the door for him and, as he got out, pressed a card into his hand. “This automobile is now yours and is at your disposal. I am Boris, and I am yours, too. You may call at any hour.” He pressed a red iPhone into Peter’s hand. “Use this to conduct business. I will always be nearby. There are two airplanes at Teterboro that are at your disposal as well, one for long flights and a smaller one that can be landed at short fields. I can arrange any flight.”

Peter walked into his building and was saluted by the doorman. He took the elevator upstairs and entered the apartment. He was greeted by a large vase of calla lilies on the hall table, and a card read: From your family. We request a meeting Monday, at noon, unless you postpone. You choose the location. Our number is in your iPhone. The sum of one million dollars has been deposited in your account at the corner bank. You must report it as income on your tax return.

He went to the bar and poured himself a neat Scotch, then sat down in his study and sipped it, reviewing the events of the day. Olga, alone, had not sealed the deal, but she had helped. The car, the two airplanes, and the money had done the rest.

The phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Marla, sweetheart,” his wife said. She and his daughters were at the home on Islesboro that Stone had helped them find. “When may we expect you?”

Peter looked at his watch. “Meet me at the airfield at four pm,” he said. “How is the house?”

“Just wonderful. Stone Barrington sent some lovely yellow roses. See you at four.”

Peter hung up and sipped his Scotch while he thought ahead. If he was going to be in charge of the family, then he was going to do it his way. He would legitimize the family business; it was the only way he could live with his new circumstances. Then there was the business with Barrington. He would have to find a way to deal with that. And finally, there was the testimony he’d given to the FBI. He would call Assistant Director Kinder, see if he could negotiate a deal for time to get the family on the right track.