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“It’s not a delay,” Roman said. “It’s a decision. I won’t be marrying Valeriya. Further, I’ve come as a courtesy to give you an opportunity to step down as pakhan before I remove you by force.”
His father blinked, a moment of surprise passing over his fleshy features before he covered it with the bland impassivity with which he had always surveyed Roman. “A courtesy? And do you expect me to extend the same courtesy in not having you killed for even speaking such words?”
“You make it sound as if it will be easy to have me killed, but you’ll find that once I leave this room, any threat against me will be met with significant resistance,” Roman said. “I can lay it out for you if you like.”
His father rose and crossed to the bar. “Would you like a drink?”
“No,” Roman said.
Igor poured himself another vodka and returned to his desk as if this were just another business conversation. “Please. Do enlighten me.”
“You’ve driven the bratva into the ground, through both your excessive spending and your ineffective leadership. We’re broke and everyone knows it, including Russia. It’s only a matter of time before they send someone to replace you. Certainly you know this, and yet you refuse to step down and appoint me as pakhan, even as we both know I’m the only suitable choice as your replacement,” Roman said.
“You don’t speak for me in this matter.” His father’s Russian accent had grown thicker, a sign of his inner agitation even as he tried to affect an air of calm.
“You can maintain your dignity and step down voluntarily,” Roman continued. “No one will fault you at your age and no pronouncements will be made about your dereliction of duty.”
“How generous,” Igor said sarcastically.
“Better than a pillow over your face,” Roman said. “An idea I have more than once entertained. Considering you’ve made my life a living hell for thirty-eight years, that you’ve been a shadow of a leader to the organization, bankrupting it while you live like a king — ”
“Whilewelive like kings,” his father said. “Don’t forget you have been the beneficiary of our privilege.”
“That was your doing,” Roman said. “I take no responsibility for the way you chose to run the bratva or this family. But Iwilltake control. I’ve secured capital enough to wage a war for it, but that will bleed us both, and I happen to know your reserves are already low. The Spies will align themselves with my leadership — a new leader is the only thing standing between them and Russian control — and I have already secured the loyalty of some of the men. Others are being contacted as we speak and will be in my pocket by the time I walk out the door of this house for the last time.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected. For his father to reach for a weapon? For him to call Konstantin as if Roman would wait for his executioner?
His father did none of those things. He simply studied Roman, his shrewd gaze boring into Roman eyes as if he expected Roman to squirm.
But he was not a child anymore. No longer a little boy who could be wounded by the man sitting behind his great desk in his great study, a cruel king hell-bent on making Roman pay for being his firstborn son.
“If I’d thought you were a good choice to run the bratva, I would have given it to you by now,” Igor said.
Once upon a time, the words would have stung. Now Roman didn’t care. Roman’s armor was thirty-eight years the making, and it had been hammered into existence by the man sitting across from him.
“The opinions of a failed leader are of no significance to me,” Roman said. “Shall we draft your resignation letter together? Contact the Spies for a meeting to transfer power?”
A ghost of a smile touched his father’s lips. “We both know that’s not how this will go.”
Roman nodded. “I’d hoped reason might prevail over ego.”
“And I would hope loyalty might prevail over greed,” his father said.
“No.” Roman stood. “You wish I would cower before you, that I was still a child who feared you. I don’t. Goodbye, Father.”
He started for the door.
“This is an act of war,” his father said behind him.
Roman turned. “You declared war on me every day of my life. This time, you’re on the losing side.”
“We’ll see,” Igor said.
Roman nodded.
Then he was out of the room and heading for the front door, alert for the sound of his father behind him, half expecting the old man to shoot him in the back.
It didn’t happen, and Roman stepped outside and inhaled deeply of the cold night air.
