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CHAPTERONE
Ivan
The parents of Katrina Mikhailov and Nikolai Zaitsev are thrilled to invite you to the union of their children. The joyous occasion will take place on June 2ndat Saint Nicholas Cathedral. Please RSVP by May 1stto ensure your spot. Gifts are highly recommended for the happy couple.
The stone steps of the Saint Nicholas church are ancient. Timeless, one would say. As are these Bratva family gatherings. I sigh heavily as I drag my feet up the endless stairs. No part of me wants to be attending the wedding of two mere children. The bride is just twenty years old. But my presence is expected, and my absence would be noticed.
We can’t have that.
Not when the bride is a Mikhailov. Her father, Dimitri, and my father were friends. Well, as much as two Russian mobsters can be friends. When my father came over from Moscow, Dimitri was kind to him. He took my father in. That was long ago, though.
These days, our relationship is a bit more tentative. Our families aren’t exactly pals any longer. He keeps to his business, and we keep to ours. It’s the way we prefer it. Our interactions are solely kept to our Bratva functions, otherwise, we stay in our own Burroughs.
Dimitri is a son of a bitch, if you ask me. I wouldn’t say that to his face, of course, but this whole day is a charade to prove that business is good. The church is grand, grander than two young twenty-somethings deserve for their big day. I take in the stone arches of the ceiling and wonder how much old Dimitri spent on this day.
The flowers alone cost him twenty grand. I hate knowing that, but he’d been bragging around the family functions.
“Can you believe what flowers cost these days?” he’d say in front of a different group of men every time. Each time I heard it, he sounded more scandalized than the last. He wanted to brag in front of the men while sounding humble. “Back in the old country, we just went out and picked flowers for our weddings. The flowers cost more than the down payment on my first house!”
????´?.Asshole.
The chapel is packed with scary-looking men and their scarier wives. Most of the women are gathered in different groups, gossiping away about the poor couple being carried off into shackles. Marriage is a prison. Perhaps it’s good that they’re giving away their lives before they know what it is to live.
I sigh again as I shake hands with a few prominent members of other Bratva branches. Those of us who aren’t Mikhailovs are fully aware of our obligation. It was show up at the wedding or expect bad blood on our doorsteps. As a rule, we keep things cordial. No one in New York is looking for a war. We all want to run our businesses without interference from the other branches.
It wasn’t always like this. In the old days, all the branches were connected like family. They were humble immigrants, far from Mother Russia. They’d all escaped for their own reasons. Some were wanted by the Russian government, others were seeking more freedom, while others still were seeking financial opportunities.
The Bratva didn’t care who these men were or why they left home. They were strangers in a foreign land, connected by a need to escape the cold, harsh winters of Russia. But New York is a big place with lots of money to be made. Greed and power seeped into the organization, the way it always does. To keep the peace, branches were formed with strict rules.
We all have our own territory and our punishments for troublemakers. If one of my men breaks a Bratva rule in Brooklyn, it’s up to me to take care of him. If the Mikhailov family puts a hand on one of my men, I’m within my right to come after one of theirs. But we all know better. Especially Dimitri.
The short, bald man stands at the front of the church, beaming at every man who comes to congratulate him. It’s not like he’s the one getting married, but he’s orchestrated all of this. His only daughter is to marry a Zaitsev—a powerful Russian family. It’s a brilliant political move on his part. He’ll have stronger ties to the motherland and more power on the stateside. He’ll be untouchable.
And even more of an insufferable asshole than he already is. He drips with wealth in his designer suit, probably custom-made for the day. It’s, no doubt, worth double the price of the flowers, but he isn’t going to go around bragging about it. Financial sacrifice is only celebrated when it’s for a family member. No one would pity him for a forty-thousand-dollar suit, or his five-thousand-dollar shoes.
Grandiosity is only rewarded to a certain point in the organization. The men will say, “Oh, poor Dimitri. He’s spent a small fortune for his daughter to marry an Oligarch.”
No one will say,
“Poor Dimitri, his entire wardrobe costs enough to buy Mother Russia.”
Then again, we all have to drop a pretty penny to look the part. We didn’t come to America to be paupers, we came to be kings. At least, that’s what my father would always tell me. As long as we’re part of the organization, we are kings among men. We have the power and the money to back our own dreams. We don’t stand in line for bread or pray we have enough firewood to last through the winter.
I’ve worked hard to become a king, while Dimitri inherited it. He is a small man, not just in stature, but in character, and we all know it. But, in an effort to keep the peace, we zip our lips and attend these events. Because kingdoms are easily toppled, and none of us will see that happen.
I make my way to the front of the church to shake the small man’s hand. He’s in rare form, going on and on about the opulent reception we’ll all enjoy later. I have no intention of attending, and being seen at the wedding is enough to keep the peace for a while. Besides, by the time the bride and groom arrive at the reception, every man in the place will be so blitzed on vodka, they won’t remember which sour-looking woman they’re married to.
Bratva weddings are fun that way.
I have too much work to do tonight. I’ll let the other kings drink while I strategize how to expand my empire. I didn’t become the head of my branch by sitting on my ass drinking. That was for other men, not me. I had to work and sacrifice and suffer to get to where I am today. Those lazy bastards will never understand. Dimitri will never understand.
“Good to see you, Ivan,” he says jovially as he shakes my hand quickly before moving on to the next man.
From the smell of him, he’s already started the celebrations. I murmur my congratulations, not that he’s paying any attention to me anymore. He’s seen me now. I could sneak out the back and end the charade that I care about any of this. I’ve been to enough weddings to get the gist. This is just another stuffy affair for a father to show off his wealth and for us to pretend we care.
I’ve got us seats in the back, Antonov texts me.
He stayed back while I greeted Dimitri, knowing his place. Bodyguards don’t shake the hands of kings. They remain distanced and make sure no one tries to assassinate the king. Antonov is a good soldier, always respectful of the rules. It was why I’d promoted him to my bodyguard in the first place. I never had to worry about him.
