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Lyon kneed him in the stomach, then shoved Vas to the floor. He delivered a couple of vicious kicks to Vas’s stomach and solar plexus, then another to his throat.
Pleasure rolled through his body, the first pleasure he’d felt in weeks, and he remembered why he’d always preferred violence over dialogue. There was no room for thought when he had another man’s face under his fists, when he was focused on making his opponent hurt.
There was no room for regret, no room for sorrow.
It was an active meditation, and when Lyon was inflicting pain on his enemies, he felt like the fucking Buddha himself.
He heard the wind leave the other man’s body as he struggled for breath, and Vas opened his palms in surrender.
Lyon climbed on top of him, straddling Vas’s chest. The poker chips and cards from the game that had been in progress when Lyon entered the room were scattered across the floor, along with a couple of pencils.
Lyon grabbed one of the pencils and drove the tip through Vas’s palm.
Vas screamed, his eyes wide as he tried to breathe through the pain.
Lyon reached into his jacket and removed his weapon, then forced Vas’s mouth open. He shoved the weapon between Vas’s lips and released the safety.
Vas whimpered, and Lyon thought he could make out the words “no” and “please” around the cold steel in his mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about my reputation for violence,” Lyon said, his tone conversational. “At first, I didn’t enjoy it. Despite what you may believe, I’m an educated man, a man who appreciates the finer things. But I’ve dropped more men into the lake with cement around their ankles than you’ve fucked women, and you’ve reminded me that I quite enjoy it.”
Vas had gone still, his gaze homed in on Lyon’s eyes.
“Still, I recognize the weight of my new title.” Lyon couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. For all the things he would gain in his new role, he would have to be more discerning about how and when to use violence. “I recognize the need for diplomacy first. Which is why I’m going to let you live this time. But I hope I’ve made myself clear. I am pakhan of the bratva now. You will kneel to me, obey me, serve me. If you don’t, you will join others like you at the bottom of the lake, but not before I cut off your cock and stuff it in your mouth. Nod if you agree to these terms.”
Vas nodded frantically.
“Good.” Lyon climbed off the other man’s body and looked around the room at the other men, the three who had been playing cards with Vas at the dining table and the one Lyon had knocked back on his way in. “Any questions?”
They shook their heads and Lyon holstered his weapon. “Good. I look forward to working together in service to our organizational goals.”
He’d just stepped onto the porch when he heard a voice behind him.
“Mr. Antonov.” He turned to find the man who’d opened the door standing in the doorway. He was young — not quite as young as Stefan, but young nonetheless — and obviously terrified.
“Yes?”
“I…” He looked nervously around before returning his eyes to Lyon. “You should look to Moscow,” the kid said.
Lyon’s blood ran cold. “Moscow?”
The kid swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “He’s been getting help, instructions, from someone in Moscow.”
Lyon’s gaze cut to the house. “Vas?”
The kid nodded.
“Who?” Lyon demanded.
The kid held up his hands. “I don’t know, I swear. I just… I thought you should know. I was assigned to his crew. I… I didn’t choose it.”
Lyon nodded, remembering his disgust when he’d been assigned to Yakov Vitsin’s crew, the humiliation of protecting am unhinged coke-addled hothead who had no business being a brigadier. “What’s your name?”
“Serge Ostapyuk.”
“Contact Alek Evanoff. He’ll give you an address to report for duty,” Lyon said. “Tell Vas you don’t work for him anymore. You work for me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Antonov.”
