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Lyon got out of his Audi and paused before walking away from the hulking warehouse that was his destination. He crossed the cracked pavement instead, stopping at the edge of the concrete and shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his wool coat.
He breathed in the peaty smell of the river that flowed through the city and concentrated on clearing his head, on banishing Kira to the far corners of his mind. It was a task that was never easy and one that was made harder still by the knowledge of her presence in the city.
Alek had brought her to the house in Lake Forest late the previous night. Lyon had watched Alek carry her — unconscious — up the stairs. Had watched as Alek lay Kira on the mattress Lyon had had set up in the bedroom on the third floor of the house he’d bought her.
Watching her sleeping face on the video feed, he’d regretted the need to drug her. Then he’d reminded himself of the letter she’d left him, had let the words play in his mind.
The Baranov name means nothing without my father, and frankly, neither does our sham of a marriage.
He’d burned the letter in the house’s fireplace, but the words were seared into his mind. They’d helped him remember what she’d done to him, the way she’d made him believe she loved him.
The way she’d made him love her.
Then he’d stopped being sorry.
He sighed, his breath exiting his mouth in a cloud of fog in the frigid air. Barges laden with shipping containers glided through the water, buffeting the chunks of ice that bobbed in the current.
He’d procured the warehouse in large part because of its location. Back then he’d been a lowly bodyguard to the loathsome Yakov Vitsin, a demotion from his former position as brigadier. He’d met the insult with private rage, but publicly, he’d maintained a facade of calm acceptance, of loyalty to the organization.
And all the while he’d continued to plan.
The warehouse would eventually be another instrument of his control of the bratva. Of his control of the city. Waterfront access meant the easy import of petroleum from Russia, plus other goods from all over the world, goods which were often illegal. He would be able to bring in the cargo without oversight of the dockmaster at the Port, without the payoffs that were required to keep their goods moving into the city, without fear of someone turning against them with the feds.
As an added benefit, the warehouse sat on the other side of the city from West Town, the unofficial headquarters of the bratva, and he’d purchased it through several shell companies that would be next to impossible to trace. Unlike Samara, which had been a pleasing front for his men, the warehouse was off the radar of the rest of the organization, a fact that had proved helpful in his war with Musa.
He looked out over the water and prepared himself for the meeting that was to take place in the warehouse. It would be the first time he would lead his men as pakhan of the bratva, but it was not the way he’d envisioned it.
There would be no easy transfer of power, no unchallenged coronation. Not until Musa was dead. Not until the rest of the organization knew the fate that awaited them if they challenged his authority.
He turned away from the water and headed across the pavement to the warehouse. He keyed in the security code, waited for the electronic click of the door unlocking, then stepped through the doorway.
The ground floor of the warehouse was a wide expanse of concrete, old machinery lurking in the shadows. His shoes clicked on the floor as he headed for the suspended staircase leading to the old factory building’s second floor.
He climbed the stairs, voices drifting to him from the offices above, the voices of his men. He’d timed his arrival so that they would be waiting, eliminating the need to greet them one at a time as they arrived. They’d spent the last month in limbo, waiting for the Spies to issue their edict, waiting to see if Musa would reappear.
It was time to get to work.
He stopped in at his office, removed his coat, and paused to straighten his jacket and tie. One of his many orders of business as pakhan was to remake the image of the bratva. No longer would the brigadiers wear jeans and leather jackets. No longer would they present themselves as criminals.
They were criminals of course, but street criminals couldn’t expect to garner respect. They would have to present like the criminals that did — the ones in Washington DC and on Wall Street, the ones who struck back room deals to favor themselves at the expense of everyone else.
It was time for their organization to play in the big leagues, and that required a new way of looking at their business.
Like Nico Vitale and the Syndicate. Vitale had taken the bratva’s Italian counterpart and remade its image. Lyon might not go so far as to eliminate the weapons trade — Nico was a visionary who suffered from the affliction of altruism — but there were other aspects of their trade that deserved a fresh look.
Lyon considered the appearance of their leadership like the broken window theory of real estate: clean up the outside, and everyone suddenly had enough pride to clean up the big stuff.
He left his office and walked down the hall toward the voices making their way to him from the conference room.
Pausing in the doorway, he looked around the table, making note of the men who were there, making sure everyone was accounted for.
Alek Evanoff sat to the right of the head of the table. He looked tired, and Lyon was grateful all over again for his friend and first lieutenant. Other than Ivan, Alek was the first person Lyon had learned to trust. He’d become more than a loyal right-hand man — he’d become a friend.
Alek nodded a greeting and Lyon turned his head to the other men: David Chaban, Rupert Orlov, Stefan Hale, and Oleg Sokolov had all joined Lyon at the start of his bid for control of the bratva. The others — Michael Gurin, Luka Polotov, and Borya Kamenev — had pledged their loyalty more recently, all a product of Kira’s intervention with the women in their lives.
“Good morning,” Lyon said.
Their collective greeting rumbled through the room.
