Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #2: DEBT
Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander（Heated Rivalry烈愛對決TV版; 1965黑幫AU）
Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #2: DEBT
Shane reached for the long pipe on the rack behind the desk. Custom-made in Japan, it was nearly twenty inches long. The bowl and the mouthpiece were made of a smoky, silver-gray metal, while the ebony stem was decorated with white shell inlays. The pattern looked like tiny, hanging white bells—suzuran (すずらん). They were flowers Shane knew all too well.
He carried the pipe back to the coffee table, where the charcoal in the tobacco tray was still smoldering. Shane dropped to one knee, took a pinch of golden, thread-like tobacco, and rolled it into a tiny ball before pressing it into the bowl. Holding the pipe with both hands, he brought the tip toward the glowing charcoal while offering the mouthpiece to Yuna. He bowed his head and backed away from the table.
Yuna sat leaning against the back of her chair, her jet-black hair pinned up. The gold embroidery on her black kimono stretched from the hem up to her chest in a delicate dragon pattern. As she reached out to take the pipe, the silver flower stitching on her sleeve looked like it was tangling with the dragon's claws. She took a light puff, lighting the tobacco and sending a sweet scent drifting through the air.
Preparing a pipe for the kumicho was a slow, deliberate process. Each refill only lasted two or three hits, a classic Yakuza tactic used to wear down a guest's patience.
But Rozanov didn't seem bothered at all. His gaze stayed pinned to Shane's cheek like a needle, tracking every single movement from the moment Shane knelt down to the moment he handed over the pipe. Shane's face felt hot, he fought to push back the memory of what had just happened at the bar, carefully avoiding Rozanov's eyes.
The sharp click of a metal lighter suddenly cut through his thoughts. Shane turned toward the sound. He hadn't realized how long he’d been staring.
He told himself he was just watching the lighter in Rozanov's hand, watching the flint wheel spark over and over until the cigarette caught fire. He watched Rozanov purse his lips around the filter, taking a slow, easy breath before blowing out a cloud of smoke. The bitter smell of tar instantly choked out the sweet scent of the room. He watched the paper burn away, revealing the cheap, packed tobacco inside. Shane didn't even notice his eyes drifting up from the cigarette to the fingers, then to the lips, finally landing on those fearless, light-blue eyes. Rozanov caught his stare and held it tight, drinking in Shane's gaze.
Those half-closed, hazy eyes were the mist of the Gatineau Hills.
Clink!
Shane snapped his head back. The bowl of the pipe tapped against the tobacco tray. Yuna tapped it again, letting the ash fall. She handed the pipe to Shane, felt like she was scolding him, but he knew she was just reminding him where he was and what his job was.
"Rozanov, tell me," Yuna asked as Shane refilled the pipe. "What kind of blizzard blows the underboss of the Boston Bear Bratva all the way to Ottawa?"
"Underboss? Nu, ne... I am no underboss." Rozanov laughed softly, shaking his head. He tapped his cigarette against the edge of the clean ashtray, instantly staining the glass with dirty ash. "My brother is much older. That spot isn't mine to take." He let out a tsk, as if the whole idea was a joke.
"Even if you are young, your reputation in the Port of Boston is real. We were the ones who benefited from it a few years back," Yuna said, taking the pipe back from Shane. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be in Ottawa. Am I right?"
The first kumicho of the Suzuran Clan, Shane's mother, Yuna Hollander. A second-generation immigrant who had built the Ottawa underworld from nothing. It started with a single private Japanese ship, smuggling, shipping, and finally taking control of the entire Ottawa River. Every port you could see belonged to Hollander Trading Co., owned by her husband—David Hollander. David was an accountant who moved through the "Laurentian Elites," the top tier of Canadian politics. After a business meeting in an Ottawa restaurant twenty years ago, he moved from Montreal, settled down, and got married.
David's financial skills had grown the Suzuran Clan's power. The shadows of the Ottawa River ran deep into the ground. Every piece of land, every building with the Hollander name, every game sponsored by the company—they all carried the poisonous roots of the Suzuran flower. This aggressive, foreign plant had started at the mouth of the river and taken over the entire Ottawa Valley.
And Ilya Rozanov? Shane knew he was the second son of a mob boss, the Bear Bratva out of Boston.
But the Suzuran Clan's main rivals were in Montreal, not way down in the States. Three years ago, when a Suzuran cargo ship docked in Boston to escape a winter storm, that favor was the first time the two groups had worked together.
Ilya Rozanov was their contact at the port back then. The young guy with a mole on his left cheek and a laugh that carried a thick accent.
"Boston is turning into shithole," Rozanov spat, clicking his tongue. "Because of white stuff."
Opium from Turkey, ground into powder in Marseille and shipped into North America. It was a drug so strong it shouldn't even be called "medicine." A tiny bag of that powder was worth more than a whole ivory tusk, every smuggler knew it was the fastest way to get rich. But the Suzuran Clan didn't touch that stuff. Yuna even made sure this garbage—the same trash currently paralyzing Europe—never found its way onto a cargo ship coming back from Japan.
Yuna let out a long puff of smoke. Shane could almost hear the disgust in her silence. "But isn't the 'white stuff' a business Boston welcomed with open arms?" After all, the Port of Boston was one of the French Connection’s biggest customers.
Rozanov narrowed his eyes, anger pressing against his trembling lips. "Is my brother's business, not mine. I want my own."
"So, what do you want?" Yuna's voice was low. She tilted her chin up, crossing her legs beneath her kimono.
Rozanov flicked his ash into the tray. "Port of Boston makes a lot of money, yes, but I'm done with it. I want to put my money somewhere else. Is one problem..." He took a drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I need to borrow soap. Specifically, soap that has nothing to do with U.S."
The real profit behind Hollander Trading Co., the golden root that fed the Suzuran Clan, was simple: money laundering.
Blackwood Rink was never just a hockey arena. Every week, tickets were "sold out" days in advance, even if only a few people actually sat in the bleachers. Ad spaces worth fifty bucks were sold for five thousand. The books showed five hundred hot dogs sold every game, even when only ten fans showed up.
Blackwood Rink sold ghost tickets, faked receipts, and cooked the books. David used the rink as a bar of soap, scrubbing the dirty smuggling money until it came out clean as "stadium revenue." Money was just a number. The ink in the ledgers could be rewritten whenever he wanted.
"Also," Rozanov said, leaning back and glancing at Shane. Shane refused to understand what that look meant, he just swallowed hard. "I am curious... what Canadian maple syrup tastes like. For me, leaving U.S. is not completely bad thing."
Yuna finished her three puffs, but this time, she didn't tap out the ash. She slowly turned the pipe in her hand, letting the silence fill the room while she thought.
"The Canadian Centennial," she said. Shane turned to her, shocked. "In two years, for the 1967 Centennial, a brand-new, world-class ice arena will open in downtown Ottawa."
Rozanov leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking truly interested. "How much?"
"Twelve million Canadian dollars."
"Actual cost?"
"Four million to get job done."
Rozanov let out a low whistle and leaned back into the sofa.
Eight million dollars. David had just run the numbers on the construction scam last week. Even with a twelve-million-dollar price tag, the "Centennial" name made it so any investor would be dying to throw their money into the river. But the plan was missing one final piece. Yuna wanted the Suzuran Clan to walk away with the cash and clean hands, so they needed a "frontman" to take all the legal risks. Anyone could be the scapegoat for a fraud like this. Anyone.
Ilya Rozanov was the perfect lamb for the slaughter.
Shane realized Yuna's scheme, and a chill crawled down his spine.
"Don't just 'borrow the soap.' That kind of clean is only skin-deep," Yuna said, tapping her pipe against the tray. As the ash fell, a chilling smile touched her lips. "Try a piece of traditional Canadian meat pie instead."
"Why you tell me this?" Ilya's gaze was locked on her.
"The Laurentian Elites are ready to invest, but it is not enough," Yuna said. She handed the pipe back to Shane but pressed his hand down, stopping him from refilling it. "But Rozanov, you have U.S. connections, and we have a new arena to build."
"Shane, go get it." She kept her eyes pinned on Ilya, not even glancing at Shane.
"But—" Shane started to protest.
"Go." Yuna's command was short and sharp. Shane stood up and headed for the desk.
"Besides," Yuna said, taking total control of the conversation. Her voice went low and dangerous. "I know why you left Boston. New York is calling for blood." Ilya's shoulders went stiff the second she said it. "The Five Families are planning to carve up Boston while you and your brother tear each other apart."
"But how did the Russian Bears fall so far? It makes me wonder. How is your old father doing these days?" Yuna tilted her head like she was actually confused. Shane know she didn't need to hear Ilya's answer, the fury in Ilya's eyes told them everything.
Shane walked back to the coffee table with the files. Yuna nodded, and Shane spread the papers out in front of Ilya.
"Rozanov, we worked well together three years ago. I am grateful you protected my ship, which is why I said no to New York. I am happy to offer you protection. However," Yuna crossed her hands over her lap, looking every bit the authority. "Favors are favors, and business is business."
Ilya scanned the documents, his face turning even worse than before.
These were the papers Shane had drafted himself. Shane knew that once Ilya signed, he was selling his life to the Suzuran Clan—becoming the only person responsible for the Ottawa arena scam. Shane knew Ilya was the perfect choice because the Clan would hide him, but in return, Ilya had to do whatever they wanted.
Shane held out a pen. Ilya finally looked at him, those light-blue eyes trembling.
However, Ilya looked away and finished his cigarette in one long drag. He flicked the cigarette butt into the ashtray and reached for the pen.
Shane didn't let go. He gripped the other end of the pen so hard his knuckles turned white.
Ilya stared at him, confused, until Shane spoke up. "Aren't you curious how Blackwood Rink became so successful?" Shane remembered the smile under the hat in that storm years ago, the way the mole on Ilya's cheek moved when he laughed.
"Tell me," Ilya said, still holding onto the pen.
Shane shrugged, ignoring the look Yuna was giving him. "If you want to convince the Americans, you need to learn the sales pitch, right?" His voice shook a little, then he saw Ilya's mouth twitch. Shane pushed his luck. "You don't know how we do things in Ottawa yet."
Surprisingly, Yuna spoke up. "As my wakagashira (わかがしら) says," she said, choosing the title over his name. "Rozanov, we are going to be business partners. Trust is important."
"Right?" She turned to Shane. "Wakagashira."
Shane didn't know if Ilya felt his hand shaking as he finally pulled the pen back from his grip. "Yes, kumicho," Shane replied to Yuna.
"I look forward to it," the Russian finally spoke. His posture relaxed, and a huge, cocky grin spread across his face. He was facing Yuna, but his eyes were flicking toward Shane. "I don't mind... deeper partnership. But before that,"
"I like your idea, Shane Hollander." The freezing fear Shane felt turned into a burning heat instantly. Ilya's gaze felt like it could burn his skin. "I am very curious how Suzuran does business."
Ilya's smile stayed fixed on his face.
***
SHANE'S COTTAGE, OTTAWA, ONT. 17:49, 28-OCT-1965
***
After dinner at the office, Shane should have sent Rozanov to a hotel. But after seeing the power struggle between him and Yuna, Shane couldn't trust the Russian yet. He needed to make sure Rozanov wouldn't be a threat to the Clan, even if he had just been bold enough to defend the guy.
"So," Rozanov looked at the large floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunset painted the floor in orange and gold. He dropped his duffel bag. "This is your house."
Ilya turned around. The twilight carved out his features, and as he brushed his hair back from his forehead, Shane thought of the statues in the National Gallery. Rozanov was practically glowing in his home.
Shane cleared his throat and pointed toward the rooms and stairs. "My bedroom is on the first floor. You'll stay on the second. Pick any guest room you want. The upstairs bathroom is yours, too."
"Car?" Ilya grunted.
"What car?"
"A car for me to get around, Hollander. Don't tell me you only have one." Rozanov waved his hand as if Shane's question was ridiculous. "I need to eat. Need to buy cigarettes."
"I'll drive you. I'll bring you food." Maybe it was the backlighting from the sunset, but Rozanov's light blue eyes looked as dark as lake water. Shane couldn't look away. "We'll go out together when it's necessary. And no smoking in the house."
"Oh, so is a date." A loud noise from outside caught Rozanov's attention.
"A... a what?" Shane's voice shook. He suddenly started pacing.
Rozanov looked at him again. "I know I'm handsome, Hollander, but you don't have to—" A waterbird cried out from the darkness, making Rozanov's shoulders flinch.
"Whoa! shit," Rozanov walked to the window, his eyes wide. "Are there wolves outside your house?"
"No, that's not a wolf." Shane laughed, his anxiety finally slipping away. He walked to the window, searching for the bird. "That's the sound of a Canadian Loon."
Shane found a loon flying back toward the lake and pointed into the distance. "There, that's a loon."
He turned back to show Rozanov, and their eyes met—if the Ottawa River reflected the Gatineau Hills in spring, they would be emerald green.
Shane's face immediately dropped. "What?"
"Nothing," Rozanov shrugged, smiling as his tongue brushed the front of his teeth. His eyes drifted toward Shane's chin. "Stupid Canadian wolf-bird."
Shane might have bitten his lip without thinking, or maybe he glanced at Rozanov's mouth, thinking about how it had felt around him only hours ago; or maybe it was the golden twilight making everything blurry—Rozanov's smile was too much to handle.
When Rozanov's breath hit his face, his tongue had tasted the bitterness of the cigarettes, and the sound of his own moans echoed in his head. Shane didn't move to stop the weight of Rozanov's lips pressing against his own. Rozanov grabbed his jaw, just a light squeeze that made Shane feel like he could collapse right there. He reached into Rozanov's hair to hold himself up; it was pure reflex.
It wasn't until Rozanov's fingers slipped into his waistband that the cold air from the window dragged him back to reality.
Shane pushed Rozanov away. "Stop!"
He reached up to wipe his mouth but caught himself, only using the back of his hand to wipe his chin.
"What? Just relaxing," Rozanov said, holding his hands out. "Is harmless."
Shane realized he was savoring the bitter taste in his mouth. He told himself not to lick the spit off his lips. "Not in my house. Not here."
Shane imagined Rozanov breaking every one of his rules. Smoking in the car, kissing in the office, making love in the cottage. It made his skin crawl.
He was terrified of getting lost in these hills without any warning.
"Why? What is difference between here and your office?" Rozanov stepped closer again.
"There is!" Shane didn't realize he was shouting until he saw Rozanov back away in shock.
"Okay," Rozanov's face fell. He walked back to his duffel bag. "I will stop, Hollander."
But why was the arrogant Rozanov now actually listening to him? Why wasn't he breaking the rules anymore? Come back.
"My room is on second floor, yes?" Rozanov picked up his bag.
Shane looked down, trying to breathe. The orange light on the floor had faded. "Yes." He heard Rozanov's footsteps get further away as he headed up the stairs.
"Hollander," Rozanov called out. Shane looked up. The floor lamp in the living room was now the only light in the whole house. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." Shane heard himself say. "Goodnight, Rozanov."
－
♪Listening: Bruno Major "The Most Beautiful Thing"
I don't know who you are
But I'll save you a seat
Hang my coat on a chair next to me
Glossary and Historical Notes:
- Suzuran flower (Lily of the Valley / Convallaria majalis): In Canada, this is an aggressive, invasive species. While beautiful, the entire plant is highly toxic.
- Japanese Tobacco Pipe: A traditional Japanese smoking pipe. Here's a video showing how to use it.
- Laurentian Elite: A sociopolitical term referring to the powerful individuals in the St. Lawrence River. They are believed to control the political and economic levers of Canada.
- Wakagashira (若頭 / わかがしら): Literally "young head." This is the second-in-command and the first lieutenant of the clan. The wakagashira acts as the boss's right hand and is typically the designated heir.
留言
張貼留言