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In our world, marriage was a sacred business arrangement. Emphasis on sacred. Honor dictates it that on one's wedding day, there should be leave out of respect for not only the bride and groom, but the two parties that were joining with this union. It didn't matter if there was tension or grudges or if the marriage was just a means to an end to keep the peace. Everything was swept under the rug for one day; the wedding day. To forsake those norms and traditions of our world of sin was simply unheard of. To attack a wedding and go against honor was sacrilegious.
Until Luchenzo Scarpone.
He and his cavalry bursted into the church where the pakhan, his heir, the bride and her family, and almost all of the members of the Bratva stationed in Chicago were gathered. Of course there was security measures and precautions in place, and most of the kade men there were armed. But Scarpone had the element of surprise, he caught them off guard. Because no one, not even the Russians as callous and ruthless as they were, expected a mafia wedding to be the target of an enemy attack.
And it kills me to admit that I'm impressed. The world of organized crime is old school and set in their ways. These old traditions and notions had no place in the modern world of business. It was an incredibly strategic and ballsy move by Scarpone, one that I would've taken if I were in his position. Though the question remains, why?
To attack the wedding after finding out that Ivyana and I intruded on his territory was an extreme overreaction. I had expected him to put a hefty hit on my head, if not come for me himself, but to attack the wedding? There had to be more to the story.
Nevertheless, time kept running and there was business to attend to, no matter how much I longed to return to Chicago. Konstantin had sent me here to negotiate a deal on his behalf with one of his contacts who wanted to raise the price they agreed on for Konstantin to export product out of his docks. Cuba was advantageously located in terms of trade, but it was not the main market for the Bratva. The Bratva focused more on east European and Asian markets. Cuba was unclaimed land, due to there being several low level gangs fighting each other for power. Though through the grapevine that those circumstances were rapidly changing.
It was past midnight in Havana, as I walked down an empty street, my hands in the pockets on my jacket playing with my switchblade. I could feel their eyes on me as they followed me. The sounds of a Latin beat somewhere in the distance covered the sound of their footsteps, but an awareness prickled the back of my neck and my instincts never failed me. Instead of revealing that I knew I was being followed, I walked another two blocks before taking a right and entering the bar I came across when I first landed here.
I chose to walk up to the bar and sit at a center stool. I ordered a Manhattan, because there was nothing better than the cold taste of good quality whiskey, vermouth, and a few dashes of bitters. I didn't acknowledge the shadow who entered the bar nor a few seconds behind me, who chose to sit one stool away from me and ordered a cognac on the rocks. His voice was hushed as he spoke, not yet desiring my full attention, but the low volume did nothing to hide the hint of an accent. I couldn't quite detect if he was a native Cuban yet or not.
