CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) Read Online Free

in Soviet gulags. Loosely organized murder-for-hire and extortion bratvas using “Moscow rules” killed indiscriminately. They soon evolved into various families, frankly emulating the Italian Mafia, or at least the Mafia portrayed in The Godfather . This cut down on the murders, but now Russians were enthusiastically engaging in prostitution, gambling, securities fraud, hijacking and drugs, as well as every sort of legitimate business, only some of which was designed to launder criminal income. For Brighton Beach Russians, mobsters and otherwise, the natural progression was to Staten Island. Presumably the next stop is that Nirvana of all emigrant Brooklynites – New “Joy-sie.” They had settled in Arrochar, South Beach and Midland Beach, and were slowly spreading along the Island’s southern shore. Rahm’s family ran most of the illegal activities on Staten Island not held by the remnants of the Mafia.  
    “From the looks on their faces, you’re giving our friends over there indigestion,” I said, nodding at the two men staring at Rahm. “Not worried about them?”
    “Those two clowns? What can they do? Even the Carluccis know this is neutral territory. Besides half the people in here are cops.”
    I looked at the other Russian.
    “Still brought Quasimodo with you.”
    Kalugin had been Marat Rahm’s personal bodyguard. After  Stefan’s assassination, Marat probably told him to stay close to his remaining son. 
    Rahm shrugged.
    “It’s a long walk from the car.”
    Apparently even Russians didn’t double-park in front of the Red Lantern.
    Rahm’s eyes were still on the A.D.A.
    “You know, I’ve never fucked a District Attorney, at least literally.”
    “Aren’t you worried it might be a setup? She could wear a wire.”
    He looked at me. His dark eyes were mischievous.
    “I’ll do a full cavity search.” He leaned back against the bar. “I heard you were wounded in that Muslim shit hole. Roadside bomb?”
    “AK-47. Thanks for that, by the way. You guys left a few lying around after you skedaddled.”
    Kalugin growled, “How many times?”
    “How many times what?”
    “You shot.”
    “Twice.”
    “Pizda!”
    “Yoda just called me a pussy,” I said.
    “I was there,” Kalugin said. “In 1987. The 58 th Motorized Rifle Division. Taliban shot me four times. And it was with one of the million fucking Kalashnikovs you assholes gave to the rag heads. Where you hit?”
    “Leg and side.”
    Pizda!”
    Two pussies is my absolute limit.
    “Potselui mou zhopy,” I said. Kiss my ass.
    I got off the bar stool. Might as well find out how my rehab program was working out, although I’d rather have tested it against someone who didn’t have the pain threshold of a mollusk. Legend had it that Kalugin once fell asleep in a dentist chair getting his teeth cleaned. Rahm said something sharply in Russian that I didn’t catch. Kalugin looked at me and smiled. The teeth cleaning had apparently been some time ago. Rahm patted my arm.
    “Ignore him, Alton. Reminds me of my grandfather. He fought the Germans. Nobody could tell him anything, either. Speaking of which, why did you go back? Didn’t you have enough the last time?”
    “Reserve unit was called up,” I said, sitting down. “I had a specialty they needed.”
    “What was that?”
    “Target.”
    Even Kalugin liked that.
    “Who order eggplant?”
    We turned to see an old Italian women, who would have given Kalugin a run for his money in the girth department, holding a paper bag. I took the bag from her and she gave me the bill, which I put on top of my remaining money on the bar. She looked Kalugin up and down, wiped her hands on her stained apron and snorted before walking away.
    “Lady killer,” I said.
    “Smells delicious,” Rahm said. “Glad you’re back in one piece. Again. Maybe we can shoot a few hoops some day. ”
    “But not at Cromwell,” I said.
    Cromwell Center was a huge city-run athletic facility where generations of