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“Not the way you Americans do things?” Vadim asks as he walks towards me.
Christ, not him too. People in America think I’m Russian and Russians see me as American.
“No. The promise of making a lot of fucking money is usually enough,” I say.
“What about loyalty?” Vadim asks.
“The consequences I deal to those who betray me speak enough,” I say tensely. I’m done with Vadim questioning the way I lead my crew. “Besides, sometimes men are betrayed by their brothers,” I say in a frigid tone.
Vadim spikes his head in a nod to agree, training his blue eyes on mine. “That’s very true.” He waits a moment before continuing. “What brings you all the way from America?”
I cock an eyebrow at Vadim. “I’m sure your men gave you a thorough report of the events.”
“I want to hear your side,” Vadim says in a deep voice, oozing with suspicion. “Suddenly, after all these years. You’re here. Why?” Vadim asks harshly. “No one’s heard from you. Most assumed you were dead. But you’re here today, standing in front of me.” He swallows and tenses his jaw. “I’m curious to hear the reason.”
I raise my eyebrows and shake my head. “I didn’t come here with a motive. I was brought here.”
“Why?” he cuts in angrily.
“Your man Grigor captured my crew,” I motion to Grigor, the soldier with jet-black hair now sitting in a corner playing cards with other men who finished their part in Dima’s initiation. “It was the only way I could stop them from killing us on the spot.”
Vadim motions towards the men playing cards. “Grigor tells me you waited until you were on your knees with a rifle pointed at your head, a moment away from death before you told him your identity. Do you realize that’s the same way every man before you has made their claim, too? A desperate lie uttered to win a little more time.”
“It’s the truth this time,” I shoot back. Vadim’s eyes flash in a way that makes me think he knows it too.
“Why haven’t you come forward before?” he asks.
“Those men,” I say, tipping my head towards the Bratva. “They’re your family. They’re not my family. This place is your home, not mine. My family was taken from me. My home was destroyed.” I feel my heart begin to race when I say those words, remembering the circumstances in which I left Russia, but keep myself calm. “When I was smuggled into America, I vowed to leave my life here behind. To never look back. To never breathe the name Mikhailov again. The day my family was murdered that name lost all meaning to me.”
“Until now?” Vadim asks.
“Until now,” I repeat. “Now that it means sparing the life of my men your Bratva have marked for death. Isn’t that the code of the Bratva? If my identity is confirmed then my life is spared?”
“Technically, that’s not what the rule states,” Vadim says, amusing himself with the power he thinks he has over my life.
“Oh, I know exactly what the code states. Viktor Mikhailov will inherit his father’s seat over the Mikhailov Bratva.”
Vadim glares at me and pushes a hard breath out of his nostrils. The skin of his neck reddens as veins bulge to the surface.
He may think he has power over me, but I have the power to take everything he’s worked for.
I continue before Vadim responds. “But I don’t want it. None of it. I told you the Mikhailov name has lost all meaning to me, and so has anything associated with that name.”
Vadim’s breath slows and he swallows hard. His eyes drift down to the collar of my shirt.
“Show me,” he says.
I know exactly what he’s referring to. He wants to see the tattoo on my chest. The mark of my family and proof I’m the son of Konstantin Mikhailov.
Vadim’s skepticism is for good reason. Lots of men claim to be me. They’re dragged in front of the men who knew my father and now serve as a council of Bratva elders so they can do a pathetic job of convincing them, and it never works. Before the meeting is conculded, they’re eating a bullet or have a knife buried in their skull. The ordeal turns into nothing more than material for the Russian underworld to gossip about while on their next job.
I open my shirt, revealing the arc of stars and crown tattooed on my chest. Vadim’s body tenses as I go further, revealing a three-headed eagle, same as the tattoo on his chest except his eagle has only one head. Vadim’s tattoo is the official mark of the Mikhailov Bratva. My tattoo is the official mark of Konstantin Mikhailov’s son.
Vadim swallows hard and nods his head a little, but otherwise remains silent as he studies the faded ink on my chest.
The men initiating Dima into the Bratva pause, awaiting Vadim’s assessment. Some try to peer over to glimpse at my tattoo. It’s been on my skin since I was thirteen, put on my body the day my parents were murdered. It’s old, the lines are crooked, and in some areas the ink has disappeared, but the mark of Konstantin’s son is there. When I was younger, I hated it. Something I didn’t understand was staring back at me every time I looked in the mirror. It was put on me because my parents were murdered. None of it made sense, until one day it did.
Vadim doesn’t look convinced. His mouth pulls to one side of his face as he puts on a knowing look. “And you, Viktor Mikhailov, don’t want to replace me as Pakhan of the Mikhailov Bratva? Your rightful seat, according to our code.” He forces out a laugh in disbelief.
