I can see that I've gotten to the men around the table. Sabotage and wars between bratva may not be as common anymore, but they are not entirely unheard of. One may try to take advantage of another's weakness to extend fortunes, without incurring too much censure from the other bratva. It is our way. But this? Andrey has always wanted to take me down, that much is clear. My hope is that everyone around this table understands Andrey well enough to know that he will not stop at just me.
Andrey shrugs, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. “You can throw around accusations all you want, Dmitri. But didn't we warn you when you wanted to add a legitimate businessto your portfolio that you would attract unwanted attention? What Fed, what officer, could avoid looking into a mobster who seems to have gone clean and straight? Doing so put all of us at risk, just as we warned you it would. The police will make the connection. And as you said, once they come for you, they will come for us.”
He hits the keyword:connection.
“The connection,” I say, standing tall, letting the power of the Smirnov name fill the space. “The connection is the motive—control and power. You want to cripple the Smirnov Bratva so that you can take everything that is mine and make it yours, strip the corporation for cash, feed off the spoils of my fall, and make yourself king.”
Andrey scoffs, but there is a tick at the corner of his mouth, and I know that I have finally hit a nerve.
I point at him, my finger trembling not with fear, but with the immense effort it takes to restrain myself from leaping over the table, breaking one of the crystal glasses, and plunging a shard through his eye. “I built this empire. I tripled the syndicate's wealth in five years, not with brute force, but with intelligence and foresight. And all of you have benefited from it. Now, Andrey seeks to destroy what I've built, make it his own, and bring you all down with it until everything is his. And he began with a bomb intended to kill my family.”
“It is a good story, Dmitri. But it is just that—a story. You found out about the vote against you, that we feel you are a danger to all our operations, and now you are lashing out,” Andrey counters smoothly, then turns his attention to the table. “While Dimitri is distracted by his pregnant girlfriend, his temper, and his delusions, I am securing the future. Which of us, mybrothers, is the true leader? Me, or the man who let a woman and her death destroy his grip on reality, his bratva, and this council?”
Andrey meets my eyes, and a slow, diabolical smile spreads over his mouth. It is the final straw, and I lunge.
Oleg and Ivan barely manage to intercept me before I can plunge my knife into Andrey's neck, the knife I grabbed from the sheath I wear strapped to my ankle, the one the guards outside didn’t check for when I came in. They restrain me, the strength of two family heads necessary to hold back the beast I've become.
“Stop this madness!” Oleg's grip is like iron on my arm. “How dare you bring a weapon into this room!”
Andrey, now safe behind a wall of bodies, regards me serenely, even though the weapon had been within inches of ending his life. “See, gentlemen? The volatility. The lack of control. Dmitri lost himself when his wife died, and he's never fully regained his composure. This is not the leadership we need.”
Oleg pushes me back, breathing heavily. Ivan still holds the arm that’s holding the knife in a death grip. He fixes Andrey with a glare that is slightly less hostile than mine.
“Andrey, Dmitri's accusations are grave. And while unproven, your conduct is noted. I am giving you a formal warning: Pressing this no-confidence motion now will be seen as an act of bad faith against the Smirnovs.”
Andrey bows his head slightly, a mocking gesture of respect. But his eyes remain on me as his lips curl into slow, silent triumph, a smile of pure, contemptuous victory. He has succeeded. He has provoked the fight and gotten the reaction he wanted. No onewill forget what they've heard or seen, no matter what they're told to do.
I tear myself away from Oleg and Ivan, straightening my jacket and fighting the impulse to go after everyone in the room until only blood and bodies remain.
“You have no spines,” I tell the collective council, my voice dripping with disdain. “You let a viper sit at your table because you fear the fight. The old blood has weakened. You will all regret this.” I turn on my heel and stride out, the sound of the doors closing behind me a quiet promise that the fight has only just begun.
The air outside is cold. Two of my men, silent, hulking enforcers who are armed to the teeth underneath their wool coats, slip up beside me, guarding me as I walk several blocks to a place that smells like stale tobacco and cheap liquor.
It should be Pavel beside me, but he’s yet to reappear. I don’t know whether to be concerned that he’s lying dead somewhere or angry at his silence. Regardless, he would tell me to concentrate on the fight right now, and not on him.
I make my way to the back, where a man waits at a table bathed in low light and deep shadows.
“Dmitri.” The voice rumbles from a heavyset man who grips a glass of clear liquid. The man has known me since I was a prodigal son, a disappointment to his father. An angry teenager with a fast car and access to too many weapons before the suits, quarterly reports, troubles, and responsibilities of apakhantook over.
“How did the meeting go?” The man sounds like a growling bear when he speaks. He fights and kills like one too, ruthless and brutal.
I order a vodka.
The man chuckles and throws back the rest of his drink before gesturing to the bartender that he wants the same. On my dime, of course.
“About as well as I expected then,” he says. “You never could hold your temper. You’ve always been volatile,lettingyour emotions run your actions, instead of your head.”
“My father is dead and buried, Nikolai. Let's keep him there.” It's a warning to the old enforcer, one that his chuckle doesn't tell me whether he will heed or not. The man is still loyal to my father, even after all these years. He does not think much of me and what I have done with the bratva, but he is loyal to the Smirnov name. So are most of the men in here, all frightening and tattooed, with murder in their eyes and madness at their fingertips.
“Are our men ready?” Nikolai asks.
“On my end, they are. Armed, ready, and waiting for the signal to take out the Mikhailov targets. Areyoursready?” I jerk my head in the general direction of the room, to the gazes trained our way, watching, waiting, ready to be called into action they have not seen in far too long.
“We go to war then?”
“We do.”
A frightening smile breaks out on Nikolai's face. He holds up his glass of vodka, thrusting it into the air so that liquid spills overthe rim, leaving small puddles on the tabletop. It’s the signal that all have been waiting for.
