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8
Lyon fumed all the way across town, torn between anger at Kira’s demands and anger at himself for the way he’d responded to her body. Luckily, Alek was a man of few words. He drove without speaking, pulling up outside of Samara, a restaurant in West Town that had been part of Yakov Vitsin’s portfolio before his untimely demise.
It had been one of more than fifty holdings Lyonya had demanded in his negotiations with Viktor, all of which Lyon had carefully researched and chosen for their cachet and long-term earning potential. There were other restaurants — and also nightclubs, retail stores, bars, several waste management routes, six petroleum routes from Russia, and nine multimillion dollar construction contracts with hidden revenue earmarked for the bratva — but Samara was his favorite.
The parking lot was dingy, something Lyon planned to correct with time, but once inside the double doors, he was transported to the elegance of Russia, or what he imagined the elegance of Russia must have been at one time. His parents had brought him to America when he was just two years old, but the photos his father had shown him had been filled with luxurious interiors, glittering chandeliers, and colorful architecture.
Of course, not everyone in Russia lived that way. His father had been a high-ranking member of the street gangs that had crystallized into the bratva, but the pictures had sparked Lyon’s imagination, and Samara was the closest thing to them in West Town.
He stepped inside, Alek at his back, and nodded at Whitney, the dark-haired hostess.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Antonov,” she said.
“Good afternoon.” He moved past her and surveyed the restaurant as he moved to the back room where he conducted business.
It was lunch time, and the place was full, the red leather booths all occupied. Candles flickered on the tables even though it was midday, and the dim lighting reflected off the ceiling, painted a high-gloss red. Fine Russian art lined one wall, painted a deep gold and reflected in the opposite wall of mirrors.
Lyon noted it all with satisfaction. Being inside Samara was like being inside a Russian jewelry box, something that would become even more true as Lyon made improvements.
He took note of the guests: about half people he didn’t recognize, the other half various members of the bratva, mostly brigadiers courting new business interests or trying to impress a woman.
He opened a door at the back of the restaurant and the music from the dining room receded as he stepped inside a large room.
Alek closed the door behind them. The other men were already there, clearly one step ahead of him on their post-meeting celebration.
“There he is,” Oleg said, rising to his feet, a glass of vodka in his hand. “King of the jungle.”
Rupert and Stefan, playing pool at one end of the room, stopped what they were doing and picked up their glasses, followed by David at the unmanned bar.
“Za vashe zdarovje,” David said.
The other joined in the Russian chorus of “to your health.”
Lyon smiled. “I see you’ve all gotten a head start. Good. We have a lot to celebrate, a lot to look forward to.” He turned to Alek. “Order some food, will you?”
Alek nodded. “You got it, boss.”
It should have felt good to finally be called boss, even if it wasn’t yet official, but it was still strange to wear the mantle of such authority, and there was a part of him, the part that had been raised alongside his mother’s superstition, that didn’t want to jinx it before it was official.
He forced himself to ignore it. The men who’d pledged their loyalty to him needed to feel that his victory was inevitable, that it was already done.
He took off his suit jacket and took a proffered glass of vodka from David. “Za vashe zdarovje," he said, touching his glass to David’s and drinking.
This would be good for him. A chance to get away from Kira, to clear his head about what had happened between them in the kitchen.
It was good for the men too. They needed to see their loyalty paying dividends immediately. They’d already been given new holdings, part of his negotiation with Viktor. Lyon needed chips to play his game, and in the bratva, the most important chips were the business interests that led to more money, the one thing virtually every member wanted.
Allowing them access to the back room at Samara was another chip: membership in an exclusive club made up of those who bent their knees to Lyon.
“I always liked this place,” Stefan said from the pool table. His brown hair was a bit long, making him look even younger than he was, but he was a nice kid, more eager to please than most, probably because his father was American. His mother was Russian, but most of the men in the bratva came to it through their fathers. Stefan had risen quickly through the ranks. Lyon thought he had a promising future in the organization. “It’s nice.”
“Thank you.” Lyon said. He had plans for the place, plans to renovate it into a flagship holding, but Stefan didn’t need to know that.
Oleg came toward him and patted him on the back, a gleam in his rheumy eyes. He was already sweating alcohol. “I have a little surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” Lyon didn’t like surprises. In his experience, they were rarely advantageous.
“Let’s call it a thank you for your trust,” Oleg said.
