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If Roman survived and Lev wasn’t found out.
“What’s in it for me?” he asked. “Right now, it looks like a lot of risk and not much else.”
“You’ll be paid on time, for one.” Roman had been stashing money for two years, preparing to wrest control from his father should it become necessary, should his father refuse to step aside. “And you’ll be a premium supplier to the bratva under my control, a premium supplier paid premium rates. Further, we’ll be increasing our orders as we phase out less desirable — and profitable — aspects of the business.”
Thanks to the sanctions imposed by the US government, gold was one of the cleaner and more profitable forms of business for the bratva. Quietly shipped in by men like Lev, usually in powdered form, the bratva sold it at a premium to jewelers and others who used it in their businesses.
“It sounds like a lot of change,” Lev said, his voice thick with concern.
“Change is the lifeblood of progress,” Roman said. “Evolve or die. Those are the choices, for all of us. My father would have the bratva wither on the vine. I’ll see it move into the twenty-first century with new revenue streams, many of them digital, requiring less risk and smaller operating expenses.”
“That doesn’t sound good for my business,” Lev said.
“With more revenue from other endeavors, we’ll have more to invest in the one commodity that will never be a bad investment.” In financial circles, gold was considered a safe-haven asset, one of very few that had consistently retained its value through history. “There’s no digital replacement for gold.”
“I think your education has gone to your head,” Lev said, referencing Roman’s degree from Yale. “Americans who go to fancy schools think they know everything.” He rose to his feet. “I need a cigarette.”
Presumably, Lev knew someone at the restaurant, because no one stopped them as they pushed through the metal door at the back.
Roman followed the man into the alley, Max and the other bodyguard on their heels. It was barely four o’clock in the evening and the February sky was already darkening, the warmer days of summer not even a promise.
Lev reached into his jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Roman, who shook his head.
Lev lit up and inhaled deeply, then leaned back to look at the little bit of sky visible between the buildings in the alley. “What kind of protection are you offering?”
Now they were getting down to business.
“First and foremost, no one will know you agreed to hand over the shipment,” Roman said. “It will look like a theft. My men will board your ship before you hit the port. You’ll contact my father and let him know the gold was pirated and we’ll take some other things off your hands to cover you. You’ll be paid in full for everything of course.”
Lev studied him through the smoke from his cigarette. “And the money?”
“It will be wired to you as soon as we have the shipment in hand.”
“If you have the money to pay me, why go to all this trouble?” Lev asked.
“You know the answer to that.” The raw gold had been stolen in Russia, which meant Lev’s investment in it was all in the transport to America. Roman would pay Lev five million dollars for the shipment that had a street value of over twenty million dollars, money Roman needed in order to fund the first phase of his takeover.
Lev would still be five million dollars richer, and he wouldn’t have to worry about moving it. Roman would move it within the bratva’s existing networks, jewelers mostly.
And that was the other part of the plan.
“So this is your opening move,” Lev said. “You will use the money to fund your takeover, but more than that, you will bring your father’s suppliers and customers to your side.”
“I’ll show him that he’s become a figurehead and nothing more.” Igor had grown complacent, holing up in the house in Brighton Beach or the brownstone in Brooklyn, letting the soldiers and brigadiers have all the face time with the shadowy network of suppliers and customers who kept the bratva running.
It was a mistake, one Roman had tried to warn his father about back before he gave up trying. Organizations like the bratva were run on two things — money and loyalty.
The bratva was out of the first, and Igor hadn’t given the men any reason to feel the second.
Roman, on the other hand, had been building relationships for years, dining with the other brigadiers, listening to their stories, shaking the hands of their soldiers. He’d paid special attention to his own team, gifting them excessively large bonuses for jobs well done, sending gifts when their wives had babies or their daughters were married.
They would follow him. He was almost sure of it.
He just had to tip the first domino.
“I must think about this,” Lev said, dropping his cigarette onto the stained asphalt and crushing it under his foot.
He started for the door to the restaurant.
