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Chapter Eighteen
Pavel
My brigadiers wait for me to sit down before joining me at the table. Several of them fixate on the folder in front of me. As Kostya settles into the chair next to mine, Stepan pushes a page toward me.
Reports. Plenty of them. We’re teeming with information—a few hits already under our belts. It’s promising. But only the numbers will tell me if this is a success.
And that dictates whether my brigadiers get their treasure.
I glance over the list Stepan handed me. “Who had Hunts Point?”
Kostya raises his hand next to me. His hulking mass takes up most of the chair as his black hair hangs to his chin, resting over his left eye. “I scraped a few hundred from the nightclub.”
I frown while writing the amount on the list. “Only a few hundred?”
“That place was a damn shithole. It’s just a front.”
“Still a nightclub. How the hell do they only have a couple of hundred lying around?”
He frowns, a memory twisting his features into concentration. “I checked high and low. Nothing more than what I got.”
I nod. Recent events have made me suspicious of everyone, Kostya included.Keep your friends close, enemies closer. I’m taking everything into consideration: the dilation of his pupils, the amount of sweat on his brow, the way he’s holding himself up. Everything I learned from my father springs forth as if I just learned it yesterday.
I must do this. I don’t have the luxury of playing around like Cardona.
Other than concern, I don’t see the tell-tale signs of panic.
He’s clean.
The next line on the list makes me bristle—a bar in the East Village close to Blaczak’s Horseman. Liya told me more about her scumbag ex-boss the other morning. And the thought of her wearing skimpy outfits in front of anyone else makes my anger flare.
“And Lo Scoglio?” I ask, shoving the irritation aside temporarily. “Give me good news.”
Volodya perks up. “Got a couple hundred there, too.”
I shake my head. “These numbers are shit. What did you find?”
My brigadier scratches the day-old stubble on his cheeks. I observe him like Kostya—but he’s clean, too.
“Same as Kostya,” he replies. “Not as shitty, maybe, but not hiding much.” His eyes cloud over with consideration as he smirks. “Nice ass in there though.”
A round of chuckles circles the table.
I wave away the joke with an amused grin. “Do I need to send a babysitter with you, Volodya? I can’t afford to have you distracted.”
“I can multitask. Grab money, grab ass, get the fuck out of Dodge.”
“Not in that order, I hope.”
Kostya snorts. “Volodya can’t juggle shit to save his life. Not even tits.”
Laughter barks around me. It’s less tense than the other day, more casual. Like the times my father led the Bratva.
I smile while waving for them to settle down.
“Focus, boys,” I tell them. I turn to my retired soldier. “Stepan? You had that building near Soho.” I clear my throat and add, “Don’t disappoint me.”
My right-hand man scrubs his brow. Seems he’s joined the ranks of shitty hits like the other two. At this rate, I won’t have the means to shower my brigadiers as promised.
