Anatoly's Retribution: Book Two Read online

  Anatoly's

  Retribution:

  Book 2

  The Medlov Men Series

  Latrivia Welch

  Anatoly’s Retribution: Book Two

  Copyright © 2017byLatrivia Welch

  RiverHouse Publishing, LLC

  1509 Madison Avenue

  Memphis, TN 38104

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All RiverHouse, LLC Titles, Imprints and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising and educational or institutional use.

  www.latriviawelchbooks.com

  www.riverhousepublishingllc.com

  For Granddaddy Ivory

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be possible without God’s strength and protection, my family’s love and understanding, my team at RiverHouse Publishing, LLC and their passion for publishing, my editor and dear friend, Karen Moss, and intern editor, Lisa Terry, for their attention to detail, my design team lead by Kandace Tuggle, my talent agent, Tracy Christian and her motivation, and our social media team and their skill at Welch Public Relations. A special thank you goes to my husband, Bruce Welch, for all of his perfect affection I would also like to thank the Red Door Retreat on Facebook, all of my members of the Quill Pen Newsletter and my die-hard fans across the world. God bless each of you.

  Table of Contents

  Author's Statement

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Books by the Author

  Contact the Author

  Author's Statement

  H uman trafficking has surpassed the sale of arms around the world. Our families – men and women, boys and girls - have become slaves to an underworld $23 billion industry. We must fight back against it and reclaim their lives in order to reclaim our souls and our futures. This is not a rich or poor problem. This is not a race problem. This is not a religious issue. No one is safe from the effects of these atrocities. But you can do your part.

  Call 1-866-DHS-2-ICE (1-866-347-2423) to report suspicious criminal activity to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) Tip Line 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, every day of the year. The Tip Line is accessible outside the United States by calling 802-872-6199.

  Submit a tip at www.ice.gov/tips. Highly trained specialists take reports from both the public and law enforcement agencies on more than 400 laws enforced by ICE HSI, including those related to human trafficking.

  Dear Reader

  This has been a long road for me. Writing this book was therapy for the cold reality of losing someone I love. On October 11, 2017, the man who raised me passed away. It was not expected. Although all the signs were there, I could not accept it. But the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, decided it was time for Ivory Artis, Sr. to come home.

  I learned a lot through his passing. Family is everything. During the course of this book, we watch our favorite Russian bad boy fight to save his sister, Anastaysia, and to connect with this half-brother, Anil. We see the Medlov family come together, not for money, but for the love that they have for one another.

  This book is just for your entertainment, but I pray that after you are done reading, you make a call to a family member that you have not seen or spoken with in some time and tell them that you love them. Send a letter. Send an email. Send a text. Just make the connection. Tomorrow is not promised for any of us, but today, while we still have breath in our bodies, we can tell those who have shaped our lives and given us purpose how much they mean.

  God bless you all,

  Latrivia Welch

  Chapter One

  A Gift for You…

  Nine Years Ago, Christmas Eve

  Mother Russia Restaurant

  Memphis, TN

  I t was just after dusk, and a light feathery snow fell across the city of Memphis for the second year straight in over three decades. A warm, holiday cheer was in the air as people moved up and down Main Street past small eateries and clothing stores, carrying colorful bags of gifts for loved ones, cuddled together and smiling.

  Cold, bone-chilling winds ripped westward down the trolley line, picking up discarded paper and pushing it down the cobblestone thoroughfare. Grover, the street corner jazz man, played an upbeat tune on his saxophone only a few feet away from Mother Russia restaurant as guests hiked up the stairs and disappeared behind its smoky-windows and large black doors.

  Among tonight’s guests at the restaurant was Mr. Franklin Gentry. He was an elderly Vietnam veteran with a remarkably full head of beautiful silver hair. He sat at the head of the small dinner party, watching his grown children, their spouses and his adorable, little grandchildren enjoy another holiday together with an overwhelming sense of pride.

  God had blessed him with a long life and a wonderful family, minus a black sheep here and there. For the most part, his legacy was intact, and not because he deserved it more than any other man, but because he was lucky.

  Franklin wished his dear wife, Rose, had been here to celebrate with them, but God had called her home. His precious better half had been gone now for nearly five years, but every day he woke up expecting to still see her resting beside him.

  On a warm Spring afternoon, he had found her in their backyard sitting in the gazebo, eyes averted to the wooden roof, wrinkled little hands folded in her lap.

  Her Bible had fallen out of her grasp and was face down on the concrete by her sandaled feet. Her red and silver hair danced in the breeze, wisps of it danced over her cheek.

  She looked at peace with a faint smile on her thin lips. There had been no warning signs, no hospitalization. She had gone the way she said she always wanted to go – in a blink of an eye. But her plans had not included him, and he was still here - left behind, forced to move forward each day without her.

  Father Time had been kind by not yet taking Franklin’s life, unlike many of his friends and all his other siblings, but in exchange for his prolonged journey, he had been forced to evolve from the brawny, independent man of his youth to a frail, senior citizen dependent on everyone else.

  No more bulging muscles or Herculean strength. No more fixing cars on his days off or cutting the yard with his shirt off in the hot summer sun. His skin had eroded, turning from perfect, white porcelain to deep wrinkles and worn leather sprinkled with liver spots. Arthritis had made it impossible to hold a cup, let alone a tool. He had lost the ability to walk, take care of himself, or be his own man. Such a loss was the ultimate neutering that left an Alpha with little reason to live. Still, he found the will on days like this when he could see all those he cared for happy.

  Shaking as he tried to stick his fork down into his carefully-cut lamb chops, he stabbed the succulent meat and slowly lifted it to his mouth. A dollop of brown gravy dropped on the brand-new shirt from his granddaughter, Sue. Just as he got the food close enough to slip in between his lips, the morsel fell from his fork and clumsily bounced to his lap and finally onto the hardwood floor.

  Heaving a sigh of defeat, he shook his head.

  Just tw
enty years ago, he was fifty-five and able to still do thirty pushups first thing in the morning. Now, cancer, arthritis and age had him struggling to do something most two-year old children accomplished with little effort.

  Frustrated, he looked down at the tainted meat on the floor and rolled his eyes. Damn it to heck. He was too hungry to give up and too stubborn to ask for help.

  As Franklin was about to aim his fork again, his son, Daniel, who was sitting adjacent to him, reached down beside his father’s chair and picked up the meat with his bare hand. Squeezing the juice from the lamb, he clasped it in his balled-up fist.

  While the rest of the family continued with their jovial chatter, Daniel stealthily placed the piece of meat back on his father’s plate and gave him a stern glare. His lips tightened, and eyes narrowed, daring his father to say a word.

  No one else saw the mean-spirited gesture, only Anatoly Medlov, who was sitting at the bar only a few feet away from the table. For some reason, Anatoly had noticed the old man and wondered what it would be like to have a grandfather. He had never had the pleasure. But he saw Franklin and without knowing the man at all, knew he was a good person.

  It was Christmas. He was being a bit nostalgic, possibly because of the five shots of vodka he had just downed, but when he saw what the younger man beside the old man did, it immediately infuriated him.

  SUKA! Anatoly seethed quietly. He clenched his jaw and willed himself not to dart across to the table and snatch the man up. What a way to treat old people. It was worse than kicking a dog.

  Franklin’s face turned pale at his son’s obscenity. He had raised Daniel and given him everything that he had, but the ungrateful boy had turned into an even more ungrateful man.

  “I don’t want that,” Franklin managed to muster, heart palpitating fast. His voice croaked. “It fell on the floor, Danny. It’s no good now.” He pushed the meat away with the edge of his fork despite the pain that radiated from his curled fingers.

  Daniel leaned into his father, making sure no one else could hear. “I’m paying an arm and a leg for this meal. You’ll eat every single bite,” he scolded, face smug, eyes gleaming with resentment. Taking the fork from his father, Daniel stabbed the meat and put it to the old man’s lips.

  “Eat it,” Daniel insisted with a raised brow.

  Holding back tears, Franklin reluctantly ate the food. He knew if he put up a fight, everyone would just assume he was having another episode and cut dinner short for him to go and rest.

  His girls on the other end of the table were oblivious to their father’s struggle with his son, and he aimed to keep it that way. He hadn’t spent nineteen months fighting in Vietnam, worked sixty hours a week at the steel factory for decades and spent forty years devoted to their late mother to be a burden now. Plus, he lived with Daniel, and if he fought at the table, he’d have to pay later when no one was looking.

  Franklin swallowed down the meat and his pride, choking on the very last bite. All the years of sacrifice he had given to his family and this was how he was repaid. It pained him to his very core.

  “Daddy, are you okay?” his daughter, Liz asked, noticing her father coughing. She went to stand up, but Daniel raised a hand in protest.

  “He’s fine,” Daniel explained. “I’ll just take him to the bathroom and get him cleaned up.”

  “Daddy?” Liz asked. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Franklin nodded at his daughter’s concern, trying not to let a single tear drop down his red cheeks. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin her Christmas.

  Standing up, Daniel wiped his face with the napkin and grabbed the back of his father’s wheel chair. “We’ll be back in a jiffy,” he promised as he moved toward the bathroom in the back of the restaurant.

  ***

  They were all alone in the three-stall bathroom. Pushing his father up to the sink, Daniel pulled a few paper towels from the steel holder on the wall, wet them under the stream and wiped his father’s wrinkled mouth.

  “Don’t you dare make a scene in there,” Daniel warned. He glared into his father’s glaucoma-covered eyes. “I don’t want to deal with your shit tonight. It’s Christmas Eve for goodness sake.”

  Franklin had to know. “Why do you hate me?” he asked, gripping the sides of the wheelchair. He remembered like it was yesterday wrapping gifts for this son of his and placing them under the tree on Christmas Eve. He remembered holding Daniel when he was afraid of the dark and changing his diapers.

  What in God’s name had happened?

  Daniel roughly wiped his father’s mouth. “Because you are a thorn in my fucking side, old man. If you’re not sick, you’re whining. I can’t have a normal life with my wife or my own kids, because I’m too busy being your fucking wet nurse. Why can’t you just get it over with already?”

  Franklin shook his head. “Just put me in a home, Danny.”

  “Yeah, so they can suck up all your social security benefits and what’s left of your pension. You know, you didn’t come from money. If I sign over everything to one of those senior homes, there is nothing left for my family, for your grandkids. It’s either this or…”

  “Go to work?” Franklin sneered. “Like I did all those years to take care of you and your sisters?”

  “Mom took care of us. You were never there.”

  “I had to work,” Franklin said, voice pitched high. “I kept a roof over your head and food on the table and you treat me like…like a dog.”

  “I treat you better than most old people. You’d think you’d be grateful.”

  “For crumbs?” Franklin snatched his face away from Daniel’s grip. “You’re an ungrateful bastard, is what you are. Rose and I would have been better just having girls.”

  Daniel was about to raise his hand to slap his father when the door to the bathroom burst open. He quickly lowered his hand and threw the paper towels in the garbage can. They would resume this conversation when they were alone later at home.

  Anatoly strode in casually, eyes locked on the old man in the wheelchair. He had the plate of lamb from Franklin’s table and one mission in mind.

  In a deep, Russian baritone, the young man spoke. “Merry Christmas,” Anatoly said, closing the door behind him. He bent down and looked to see if anyone else was in the stalls.

  Daniel’s entire demeanor instantly changed. He smiled cordially like he had done nothing wrong. “Merry Christmas to you.” Something about the Russian was all wrong. He eyed the plate and smirked. “I don’t think it’s very hygienic to bring food into the bathroom.”

  Anatoly locked the bathroom door to make sure no one else could come in with them. The sound of the door clicking echoed through the room. He snorted derisively. “Well, if you don’t like that…you’re not going to like this.” He turned the plate upside down and watched as the food hit the gray ceramic tile. It splattered into a mess against his boots.

  Daniel bucked his eyes. Evidently, this guy was off his rocker. “We were just leaving. So, if you’ll excuse us.” He grabbed the handles of his father’s wheel chair, preparing to leave the strange man to whatever he was up to, but Anatoly stepped in front of Franklin and blocked their path.

  “What’s wrong? You don’t like food on the floor?” Anatoly asked. His chest swelled, expanding against the soft cotton T-shirt. As it did so, his muscles imprinted against the fabric, giving a better view to a finely-tuned physique.

  Daniel’s eyes scanned Anatoly’s tattooed body, assessing the man’s predatory-like stance. “Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Daniel said nervously.

  “Who the fuck is we?” Anatoly snarled. He sidestepped the wheelchair and grabbed Daniel by his collar before the middle-aged man could react. Daniel was delicate, weak from avoiding the gym for most of his life. Wrapping his tattooed, cold hands around Daniel’s flimsy neck, Anatoly led him over to the food on the floor.

  “Let…Let go of me!” Daniel struggled to get out of Anatoly’s grip, but the young man was far too strong. His b
ody was yanked around like a rag doll, made to heel to Anatoly’s demands.

  Anatoly’s large biceps bulged as he squeezed Daniel’s neck tighter. “Eat it,” he growled, missing words in his frustration. He pushed the man’s face down to the splattered food on the floor. “Like you made the old man eat off the floor at table. You treat your father like dog. Now, I treat you like one. It’s only fair, eh?” His lips thinned as he watched Daniel squirm.

  “Let go of me!” Daniel struggled to speak. Frightened by Anatoly’s sudden, unprovoked attack, he looked toward his father as though he was going to miraculously get out of his wheelchair to save him.

  “He can’t save you,” Anatoly taunted.

  Anatoly pulled his gun from the back of his pants. He cocked it and put the barrel to the back of Daniel’s head.

  Immediately hearing the distinct sound of impending death, Daniel froze. No more fighting. No more protesting.

  Anatoly’s voice was low and foreboding. He leaned into the man the way Daniel had leaned into Franklin at the dinner table. “I won’t say it again. Eat the fucking food, suka.”

  Breathing hard, forehead pressing against the cold surface, Daniel opened his mouth and ate the tainted food.

  Gagging with each bite at the thought of the germs he was ingesting, he pushed his hands against the floor, trying to find his balance on his knees, praying that the stranger didn’t put a bullet in his head.

  Anatoly looked over at the stunned Franklin Gentry while Daniel lapped at the karma-laced meal. His eyes were brooding and dark, but his heart full of compassion for the veteran. “If this repugnant piece of shit ever lays a hand on you again, old man, if he ever makes you eat from the fucking floor, if he ever threatens you again, call to this restaurant. Ask for Anatoly.”