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It was a request Lyon was more than happy to honor. He had no interest in the dog and pony show of his wedding to Kira and the subsequent reception. He cared only about the legality of their marriage, about the fact that it tied her to him, the seal on his agreement with Viktor more permanent than any contract negotiated by lawyers.
Still, the reception had been fitting for someone of Kira’s stature, a stature Lyon would have shared on his own merit if not for his father’s imprisonment. As it was, he was more than happy to reclaim it through his marriage to Kira. She was an Antonov now. Soon enough, the bratva would be reorganized around his name as well.
He scanned the crowd and found her standing in a small group of women, her hand outstretched as she showed them her engagement and wedding rings. She’d picked those out too, although Lyon had insisted on paying for them.
Contrary to how many in the bratva viewed him — as damaged goods, poor and set adrift by his father’s imprisonment and death, his mother’s flight back to Russia — Lyon had money.
A lot of money.
It had started with a serviceable sum hidden by his father, but Lyon had multiplied it many times over the past fifteen years.
Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned to find Ivan Demenok approaching. He was stooped, his gait slow, which was perhaps to be expected. He was well into his seventies, the same age Lyon’s father would have been if he’d lived, but Lyon always saw them both as they’d been in his youth, young and virile, plotting to rule the world, or at least the bratva.
That was before. Before Lyon’s father went to prison. Before he died there. Before Ivan became one of the leaders in the Two Spies.
The Spies were tasked with keeping on eye on the brigadiers, making sure none of them got ideas about taking over, that none of them stole from the organization or committed other acts which upset its power structure or financial viability.
As a younger man, Lyon had appreciated Ivan’s support and mentorship, but in more recent years, his advice had become invaluable, especially as it related to Lyon’s takeover.
“Having second thoughts?” Ivan said when he was close enough that only Lyon could hear. His hair was mostly gone, his bald pate gleaming in the faint light.
Lyon shook his head. “Nothing’s changed.”
Ivan followed Lyon’s gaze to a large man sitting at one of the tables, leaning in as he spoke fervently to several other men, all of them listening with bowed heads.
Musa Shapiev. Otherwise known as the Chechen.
“You’ll have to watch that one,” Ivan murmured.
“Yes,” Lyon said, watching as Musa spoke to his men. “But then, we always knew he would be a problem.”
Decades before, when Russia had been behind the iron curtain, Chechens and Russian gangsters had engaged in a fierce battle for the criminal underworld. The war had grown a veneer of civility in America, rival factions working together to compete with the Italians and the Irish, but deep down the battle lines were still drawn.
Musa glanced up, as if he felt Lyon’s gaze, and for a brief moment they locked eyes, challenge burning like a flame on the other man’s face. He was short and meaty, but he had the feverish eyes of a true believer, and Lyon had heard talk for years that he wanted to see the bratva under the control of a Chechen leader. It was a foolish cause — in America, they were all Russian, it was as simple as that — but a cause nonetheless.
And nothing rallied rebellion like a cause.
“Be the player, not the piece,” Ivan murmured next to him.
It was a quote about chess — Ivan was a chess master — but as with all of Ivan’s favorite sayings, it applied to life as well. He was counseling Lyon not to be manipulated by Musa’s actions, to continue to act instead of react.
Lyon bowed his head at Ivan in recognition of the advice. “Of course.”
“This is just the beginning, Lyonya. Your father would be proud,” Ivan said.
Lyon swallowed the lump of emotion that rose in his throat. “Thank you.”
His father had been a good man, strict and hard at times, but loving. He’d been bratva royalty before his incarceration, would likely have risen to Ivan’s level — and maybe higher — had he remained a free man.
Instead he’d died sick and alone in an American prison.
He’d never complained. They all knew the risks involved in their work. But Lyon was glad his father hadn’t lived to see Lyon assume the role of lowly brigadier, and later, the even more insulting role of bodyguard to Yakov Vitsin (may his body rot at the bottom of Lake Michigan).
He hoped Ivan was right, that somewhere his father could see him fight for the position that should have been theirs, that he was proud.
Ivan scanned the crowd and patted Lyon on the back. “Today is a good day.” His gaze stopped, a suggestive smile touching his lips. “And tonight will be even better, yes?”
Lyon followed his gaze to Kira, dancing with a young boy of about ten years old. His cock hardened at the sight of her: the proud tilt of her chin, high cheekbones that might have been chiseled from granite, the slender nose over pillowy lips. Her eyes were lit like an emerald fire, and when she threw back her head to laugh at something the boy had said, Lyon had to push aside the urge to go to her, to press his lips on her neck like a brand.
Mine.
Whatever strange circumstances had brought them together, however much she might despise him, that part was now true.
He would make sure she knew it.
