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“As much as I would like to put Mikhail Sidorov in an early grave, I have to agree with Yuri on this one.” That from Gleb, Pyotr’sbratokand mypakhan’s most trusted captain.
Though a few years younger than me, Gleb has proven a capable captain since his appointment, with astute observations and an instinct for leadership. The pretty boy might not be the most experienced, but I’ve quickly come to respect his opinion. And it seems the Matron has too. Because she actually turns to listen as soon as he speaks, her polished nails pausing in their rhythm she was tapping on the table.
“An act of violence could easily put a target on our backs,” Gleb continues, “and with it being an election year, law enforcement has been cracking down on any weapon-heavy criminal activity. We could attract too much unwanted attention. But I also agree with Matron Veles that we need to make a statement. No more defending our product and our shipments with minor scuffles and brawls. While we’ve held our own, the Zhivoder isn’t backing down. At this point, our best defense is going to be a good offense.”
“What do you suggest?” Pytor asks, his tone cutting as he interlaces his fingers and rests his elbows on the table.
His piercing Veles gaze—much like his mother’s—commands respect. Gleb inclines his head instinctually as soon as their eyes meet, demonstrating his deference.
“He’s been trafficking his own assets right across our borders for months now. He’s trying to make a statement, and it’s recklessly brazen, which gives us an advantage. Let’s strike while they’re on the move, show that anything of his that crosses into our territory is as good as ours.”
Pyotr and the Matron share a look, silently conferring, as Yuri’s shoulders relax ever so slightly. I’m sure a win is a win in his eyes. It doesn’t matter if Gleb is the one who convinced them or if he did.
“Track these shipments that are crossing our borders. I want information on when is the best time to strike and why,” Pyotr says, turning back to Gleb. “But don’t make a move until I give the order.”
Gleb gives a curt nod, never one to waste words. Then he rises to depart, excused from the meeting with a mission to perform. He and I share brief eye contact as he approaches the office door with lythe, catlike steps. The intelligence in his green eyes keeps me on high alert, even if he’s proven himself a loyal captain. It’s my job to remain suspicious of anyone around mypakhan—no matter how worthy they might seem.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind Gleb, Pyotr sighs. Letting his guard down for a moment, he closes his eyes and rubs his temples, revealing his stress. The Zhivoder Bratva has been a thorn in his side for too long now. It’s taking a toll.
The Matron studies him carefully, her gaze always assessing. She’s a brilliant woman, if brutal, and I owe her my life for bringing me to America and giving me a fresh start when I was just a teenager. But as a parent, she seems to lack the tender compassion I experienced from my own mother as a child.
“Itcouldwork,” she states, demanding Pyotr’s attention.
He raises his eyes to her once more, waiting for her to finish her thought.
“Disrupting any Zhivoder business that crosses into our territory—it could work. But if it doesn’t, we’ll be in a far weaker spot than before. You didn’t marry Silvia Marchetti for love, Pyotr. You did it because we’re running low on options here. If you don’t use the hammer while it’s still within reach, it could be too late by the time you decide to.”
Pyotr’s jaw clenches visibly, his face turning troubled. I have no doubt he’s offended as much by her comment about his marriage as he is by the thought of appearing weak. Perhaps Pyotr didn’t go to Chicago out of love for Silvia. But I’ve never seen a more devoted couple than mypakhanand his Italian bride.
“I haven’t made my decision yet,” he hedges. “But I won’t make any brash moves that will cost the company more business. My dealings with the Marchetti family have taught me that, sometimes, a hammer isn’t the only answer. Nor always the best option.”
The Matron stiffens, her rigid back expressing shock at her son contradicting her advice. He may bepakhannow, but his mother ran our clan for years until he came of age, and I sense that turning over the reins has been more than a little challenging for her.
Before she can say more, Pyotr turns back to Yuri.
“Do we have more financial matters to discuss?” he asks, effectively ending the discussion.
Yuri swallows nervously and shakes his head. His eyes flick quickly toward the Matron before finding the table in front of him. “No,gospodin. Business is holding considerable profit despite the Zhivoder’s attempts to disrupt our deliveries.”
“Good.” Pyotr nods and rises from his chair.
Yuri and the Matron do the same, each offering a polite bend at the hips before departing from the room.
Val and I remain silent, standing on either side of the office door as Pyotr turns toward the window. I know him well enough to see the stress tightening his shoulders. I only met Pyotr’s father briefly before he was murdered, when Pyotr was a boy. But I know his shoes have been tough to fill. And I respect my youngpakhanfor filling them so well—despite his self-doubt.
After a long moment, Pyotr turns to face me and Val. “What are your thoughts on the matter?” he asks, his sharp eyes searching.
Val simply shakes his head, a silent indication that he has no thoughts.
“I’m not educated on the nuances of tactical warfare,gospodin. That is above my pay grade,” I joke, trying to lighten the moment, if only a little.
But it’s true. My purpose in life is to protect Pyotr, to defend ourpakhanwith my life. When it comes to combat and security, I know everything there is to know. But I can’t help win this game of chess he’s playing with Mikhail Sidorov. I don’t know the first thing about strategy.
Pyotr releases another heavy sigh and nods.
Quiet footsteps down the hall alert me to someone’s approach, and I redirect my attention. It sounds like Silvia Veles’s soft tread. But it never hurts to be on guard.
A moment later, a soft knock captures Pyotr’s attention. “Come in,” he commands.
