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The politician tightens his lips in anger, reddening his face.
“I attest to his identity,” Adrik says. “There’s nothing to discuss. Get the word out so other men will at least stop getting themselves fucking killed pretending to be Viktor Mikhailov,” he adds.
“You attest?” the politician spits at Adrik. “The man who has done nothing to contribute to the progress of the Bratva. You refused a seat as an elder, and yet we should trust you!”
“I know my place,” Adrik says.
“Do you?” the politician hisses.
“It’s not with you,” Adrik says, swinging his hand in the general direction of the elders, “Sitting here, melting your testicles on benches. My place is on the ground, with the men who fight,” he says, jabbing a pointed finger at the floor.
“I’ve had enough of you. All of you… insulting us with your presence,” the politician shouts, getting up from his bench and storming out towards the changing rooms.
The room falls silent for a moment until Boris speaks up.
“You have no interest in taking your father’s seat?” he asks. He tips his head at the rest of the men on the bench. “All of us swore we’d support the son of Konstantin Mikhailov returning to his father’s seat of power, should he ever return.”
“No interest,” I say through a tense jaw.
“Vadim has built quite the empire in your absence,” Boris says in a tempting voice. “The largest Bratva organization known in Russia. And trust me… I know all the ones worth knowing,” Boris says with a shine in his eyes, investigating me for any sign of taking the bait. “Most men in our business would jump at the chance to take over his power.”
Vadim shoots a glare at me, waiting for my response.
“I have no interest or need for it,” I confirm.
Boris rises from the bench again with his face taking on a darker expression. He stops in front of me and looks me over with a glare so cold it could freeze the steam wafting through the room.
“And you’ll leave this country immediately?” he growls.
“The only person who wants me out of this country more than you… is me,” I say. “I will leave immediately.”
Boris’s posture relaxes. “Then it’s sorted,” he announces. He puts on a grin, shaking my hand and slapping my shoulder in apparent agreement.
Adrik looks away, shaking his head. Whatever vengeful master plan he’s been cooking up all these years is his problem.
Adrik’s war is notmywar.
I leave the steam room and head towards the changing rooms, passing by the politician soaking in the cooling tub. He scoffs and turns his face away, recoiling at the sight of me.
I feel the same way towards all of them, the oligarchs who amassed their wealth with my father’s blood still fresh on their hands. I was in America, but as soon as I plugged myself into the Russian underground, I heard the stories of what happened after my father’s murder. The remaining Bratva carved up my father’s empire and claimed pieces of it as their own, piling up their earnings once my father was out of the way.
Any of them could have been behind his death. Or all of them.
But I’ve had enough digging up old history. I have my crew to get back to. My own problems in America.
I hear steps behind me, and I know who it is. Adrik. I blow out a sigh of frustration and turn to face him. “I don’t know what you want fixed, but I can’t fix it for you,” I say to him before I pull a white t-shirt over my head.
He’s leaning against a tower of cabinets with his arms crossed over his chest, running a hand through his long beard.
I know I’m disappointing him in some way. I don’t care.
He nods his head in acceptance and lifts himself away from the cabinets. Before he opens the one with his clothes, he turns to me.
“After the attack,” he says with his eyes pointed at the floor, “I went back to your home and packed some things. Pictures, your mother’s jewelry…” he trails off for a moment, then looks up at me. “Things you might want to remember your parents.”
I turn an ear to him, considering whether it’s worth making the trip.
“It’s in your old bedroom… whatever’s left of it. A yellow suitcase under your bed.”
