Page 21 of The Bratva’s Monster

I snort. “That little shit went up for murder? Get the fuck out of here.”

Alex laughs. “Yeah. Kostya says that his guy at Rikers thinks it's stolen valor. The story is that he was following his big brother in trying to get in good with the Irkutsks by trying to take out a shot caller by the name of Holloway up in the Bronx. The guy had ties to the Devils but basically ran everything south of a hundred and fifth. One night, after Holloway was coming home from the club, somebody popped him. Cops arrested Kiselev even though nobody actually saw him do it. Kostya says that his guy told him the cops found the real guy and just let him go, but Kiselev has been going around saying that it was manslaughter.”

I shake my head. The guy whose nose I broke couldn’t have killed a forty-ounce of beer if he tried, let alone somebody as hardcore as Holloway was. I should have shot him and put him out of his misery. “So, what? Now he’s trying to prove himself to his big brother?”

“Something like that. Right now, he’s just a Six, but… You know how ambition looks on some people.”

“Hmm. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Right. We got enough problems with Stefan at the helm now.”

I take that for what it is. A part of me had been hoping this whole time that once Slavik was dead, we’d finally get a breather. If only for a little while. I don’t know why I thought that.

The ballroom is in Midtown, which is, more or less, neutral territory. I’m vaguely familiar with this ballroom, but I don’t think I’ve ever been. It looks fancy. A little like the front steps of the Met, but with not as many stairs and twice as many pillars.

As the car pulls up to the front, we can see that the big double doors are open. A golden light shines through them, casting its glow down the center of the stairs all the way to the sidewalk. People are dressed in their finest clothes as they make their way up and suddenly, it occurs to me that this isn’t exactly a closed event.

There’s no press here, but not everyone has a ‘criminal’ air about them. In fact, a lot of these people just look like upper-crust, high society types.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask Alex. “I thought this was a Blue Devils sanctioned thing.”

“It is,” Alex says. He’s scowling slightly as we’re both leaning forward, watching it all go down. “I didn’t know the Blue Devils had this kind of paper.”

“You might want to renegotiate with them at the next supply.”

“Noted. Come on.”

We leave the car and walk in. The first hallway leading into the ballroom looks like it’s been completely dipped in gold and amber. The lighting from bronze sconces are brighter than what’s reasonable and light up the entire hall with only a few of them placed on the gold-patterned walls.

Nona and Yeva are standing at the entrance of the ballroom waiting for us. They both look lovely tonight. Nona, who is very pregnant, has on a burgundy dress made from shiny material that sweeps around her midsection and up one shoulder in several well-pressed folds. And our sister is wearing a long black dress with a slit going all the way up one leg to her hip.

As we greet them, Nona says, “Can you believe this place? I thought the Blue Devils were a motorcycle gang.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Alex says. He looks over at Yeva and says, “Nice dress.”

She smiles brightly. “Why, thank you. Want to see it from the back?”

“Hard pass,” he says.

“You certainly look like you’re asking for it,” I say, and Yeva snorts.

“Shows what you know. I’m actually begging for it.” She winks at me, and I shudder.

“Can we go inside?” I ask Alex. Both he and Nona laugh.

“Let’s go.”

We walk into the ballroom, which is alive with activity. A live band plays on a stage on one end of the room and right before it, a dance floor is filled with couples swaying to the music. Beyond the dance floor are dozens of tables with linen tablecloths, flower centerpieces, and fine China. The rich sit and eat and conversate… and among them, I start to recognize some of our guys and some of the Devils. Every one of them is dressed to the nines in fancy suits and ties and their dates are all dressed the same.

This feels like we’ve stepped into an alternate universe where we never became Bratva and built some boring business instead and now we’re at the yearly charity function to prove to the world that we’re not greedy billionaires.

“Wow,” Nona says, her eyes large as she looks around.

Yeva steps forward and says, “I’m going to the bar.”

“Right behind you,” I say and separate myself from Alex and Nona. We walk to the bar on the other side of the room. The bartender looks almost mechanical, standing there in his tuxedo with his hand behind his back, face shiny and plastic-looking.

We order our drinks and he walks away to serve the next customer. Yeva leans into me. “The Devils really stepped up, huh?”