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6
Lyonya Antonov stood on one side of the closed door, eyes straight ahead as his boss took a seat in front of Viktor Baranov. The position hadn’t always been familiar to Lyon, but since being recruited by Yakov Vitsin two years earlier, he’d become accustomed to it.
He knew without looking that his counterpart, Boris Krupin, stood on the other side of the door, affecting an equally bored expression in keeping with their roles as bodyguards for Vitsin, although this always seemed difficult for Krupin, who wore his feelings on his face.
Looking bored wasn’t usually difficult for Lyon. Yakov was a base creature, enamored with women, cocaine, and most of all, himself. Being assigned as one of his body men was akin to babysitting a rambunctious but dangerous puppy: it required equal parts patience and vigilance.
One never knew what mess Yakov might get himself into. It might be a dead sex worker at three a.m., an unsanctioned theft that stepped on the toes of another brigadier, or a violent altercation with an untouchable in the Baranov organization.
It might even be Yakov’s own voice on tape talking about the murder of Bayard Owens, a real estate developer who’d refused to kick money to Yakov’s team for a new condo development in River North.
Whatever it was, Lyon and Boris were expected to maintain the same bored expression, as if each new affront, each new breach of protocol were perfectly acceptable when it was becoming apparent to everyone that Yakov was a ticking time bomb with enough explosive power to blow the entire Baranov organization to kingdom come.
That was as true when they followed Yakov around the city, leaving chaos in his wake, as it was here in the Baranov house, surrounded by expensive carved furniture, imported carpets, and art purchased at auction.
“What do you suggest we do?” The question came from Viktor Baranov, pakhan of the Chicago operation, his words round and heavy with his Russian accent.
Lyon let his eyes slide to Viktor while keeping the rest of his body still, hands crossed behind his back. Viktor was still trim in his old age, his hair still thick and dark. He pinned Yakov to his seat with dark eyes that said he saw everything Yakov was thinking.
Viktor was a good boss. Lyon was almost sorry his time was coming to an end.
“Kill the bitch.” Yakov’s voice was heated. “And her son too. See if she wants to go to court then.”
Lyon tightened his jaw, forced himself to remain still, hoped his face didn’t betray his desire to lunge for Yakov, snap his neck before he had time to rise out of the chair sitting on one side of Viktor’s elaborately carved desk.
Viktor’s eyes slid to him, then back to Yakov. It was so fast Lyon wondered if he’d imagined it. Lately, Lyon’s imagination had been limited to dreams of his future.
To control.
To the power that had been stolen from his father. From him.
“And then what?” Viktor asked mildly. “What kind of attention do you think such a move would bring upon the organization?”
They were questions for a shestyorka, one of the punks at the bottom of the ladder, not a brigadier in the Baranov organization. It was embarrassing, although Lyon reserved his embarrassment for himself and the bratva. They were the victims of Yakov’s recklessness.
“We’ll make sure there’s no proof,” Yakov said.
“As you did with our friend, the developer?” Viktor asked.
It was a deservedly low blow. The organization wouldn’t be under fire if Yakov hadn’t run his mouth. It was safe to speak openly here at the Baranov estate, which was swept for listening devices twice a day, morning and night.
If Yakov had been smart, he would have had his own residences and places of business swept. Had he done so, they wouldn’t be in crisis, the D.A. on their heels, a trial looming, the men whispering behind their boss’s backs about the viability of the Baranov organization.
But Yakov was not smart. He never had been. He’d simply inherited his rank the way most of the high-ranking members did.
The way Lyon should have done.
“There is no evidence,” Yakov said, a bitter whine running beneath his words. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. They can take me to court, but there is no physical evidence.”
“It is evidence enough that you are on tape, speaking about the dead man found in the lake.” Viktor’s voice was elevated now. Not a shout — Viktor was too composed for such a thing — but loud enough to make it clear to anyone with a brain that he’d reached the end of his patience with the conversation.
Silence filled the room, the only sound the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
“I apologize.” Yakov’s voice was strangled. He got the picture, the big dumb fuck. “How would you like me to proceed?”
“Why, however you like,” Viktor said, calm again. Lyon looked at the scene playing out, careful not to move a muscle. Viktor leaned forward, staring at Yakov with humorless eyes. “This is your problem, Yakov. Do you understand?”
“Yes, boss.”
