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New Orleans
The melancholy tune of the saxophone is dark and foreboding as it echoes the walls of Bourbon Street. From the shade of the veranda above my head, my hands shoved into the pocket of my trench coat- it's awfully chilly in the French quarter today- I watch the man pour his every sin, sorrow and soulful despair into that tune. He's longing for something, aching for that hit of whatever it is he's addictive to to get him through the remainder of his days. He's been denied his addiction and it's driving him crazy.
I don't know why his song resonates with me so much. What could I possibly long for That's as strong as what this man is? Or am I reading too much into some bozo looking for a dime to pay for his next bottle of Jack?
Turning my back to the man, I walk around the building and find the back entrance and ascend the stairs til I reach the fifth floor where this ludicrous meeting is taking place. Upon further research on the jet here, I learned that the mutual business partner who's playing mediator to Scarpone and Konstantin is Jason Drakos, private equity investor who made his first million when took Scarpone has a client over six years ago when the Italians took over the east coast.
Jason's family is as old money as it comes, starting with a distillery business in their mother country if Greece before expanding west across the Atlantic. When they were up to there necks in debt, Jason's grandfather made a deal with Konstantin that forever sealed a friendship of sorts between the Kamenev's and the Drakos family. Jason is the same age as Mikhail and practically grew up with us, but never cemented a foothold in the Bratva, always wanting to see if the grass is greener on the other side. What he never realized is that the grass on both sides is synthetic.
I find the conference room and hide myself in the shadows near the curtains. It helps that it's nightfall and the sun can't expose me. I count the seconds as they turn into minutes. It takes precisely 32 minutes and 16 seconds before the three of them enter the room. Konstantin, Mikhail and one of his guards for the Bratva and Scarpone, his second in command Antonio Bianchi, and a guard of his own. Jason is in between the two parties, a boyish grin on his lips and he swaggers into the room.
The two leaders of the respective crime organizations take a seat at opposite heads of the table with Jason choosing to stand with his hands behind his back in the middle of the table directly in front of the intricately carved fireplace. The firelight darkens his silhouette, making him look larger than life and all the more striking and antagonizing.
"Alright, this is case number 271. All parties have been sworn in and have already taken their seats, so let's get started. Both parties stand accused of-" I roll my eyes at Jason's antics.
"What are you doing?" It's Antonio who interrupts his tirade and asks. Jason actually pouts at the interruption before shrugging.
