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“You should be Pakhan. You know it, I know it...” He hesitated briefly. “And everyone in the Koval Bratva Group knows it.”
“So, that’s why you’re here? To stir up some shit?” Havel shook his head. “I thought better of you, Michal.”
“And I thought you had more courage than a sewer rat,” Michal spat. “Look at you! You’ve become nothing more than the slut’s lapdog, and yet you’re here. You’re the one who is ruling the Koval Bratva on a day-to-day basis. You’re the one making the decisions, taking all the risks, while she plays whore to that bastard of a Guzun.”
“Enough! Since Sabira married Vadim, the Guzuns have added a lot of value to our organization. We’re thriving like never before. I’ve always been loyal to the Koval Family. So has everyone in this group.”
“Are they?” A sly look crossed Michal’s face. “How sure are you about that, my dear friend?”
Havel’s eyes narrowed. A sudden sense of doom filled the large chamber.
“Just how did you get in here, Michal? For that matter, what the hell are you looking to achieve?”
“Change, Havel. Change that would benefit both of us as well as every member of the Koval Group,” Michal said cryptically.
“You’re not Koval Bratva anymore, remember? You have no power here,” Havel countered. An acute sense of being caught out raised the hair on the back of his neck. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“In the world of crime, murder, and mayhem, those leading the less abled should always be open to change… and be prepared for the unexpected.”
Havel’s body tensed as a low, gravelly voice sounded from the shadows behind him. A chill raced down his spine. A Cheshire cat grin stretched wide the corners of Michal’s mouth. The conversation had served as a distraction. Another body materialized out of the shadows. Havel refused to be manipulated and kept his focus on Michal.
“Well, I see you not only betray the trust we placed in you, but you also invite strangers into our midst,” he snorted disdainfully.
“Now, now, Underboss Novák, don’t vent your anger on Michal. He merely followed my instructions,” the voice droned nasally.
“So, you swapped playing the lackey from one to the other,” Havel sneered at Michal and reveled in the crimson flush on his cheeks. As a fiercely loyal member of the Koval Bratva, betrayal was the ultimate violation in his eyes, and bringing a stranger into their stronghold was the worst of all.
Havel snorted as the figure moved into vision.
“A mask? You expect me to trust a phantom cowering behind a wig, sunglasses, and a hat? How gullible do you believe me to be?” Havel’s skepticism flared as he glowered at Michal. “I suggest you take your friend and leave. Neither of you are welcome here.”
“You have one of two options, my dear Underboss Novák,” the tall man interjected. The long overcoat drew taut against the muscularity of his arms. The confidence in his stance warned Havel that he was used to issuing orders.
“Who do you think you’re threatening here?” Havel refused to be cowed. His patience began to unravel. “Do not forget that you’re the guest, and I’m the one who holds the power within these walls.”
Unperturbed by Havel’s aggression, the stranger stated his name, “Gareth Sanders, at your service.”
Havel’s brows drew together as he wracked his memory, but the name failed to register. No doubt it was an alias. His impatience grew, and he leaned forward with narrowed eyes.
“Never heard of you,” he said bluntly, sending the message that Sanders had failed to make an impression. “Enough of this cat-and-mouse game. Cut to the chase. Who are you, and what in the hell do you want?”
“There’s a war brewing on the horizon. One that’s set to ignite between the Bratva and the Sicilian Mafia.” Sanders stated the inevitable chaos about to be unleashed. “In the end, only one can emerge as the supreme ruler. It’s high time, Havel, that you make your decision about where you want to stake your claim.”
“The Sicilian Mafia holds no allure for any of the Bratva factions, Sanders,” Havel said with contempt. He had no intention of involving the Koval Bratva in any kind of alliance. “We have no interest in your territory, nor do we covet any kind of business deal with the likes of you.” His gaze shifted to Michal, whose unease was becoming evident.
“Have you been living in a bubble the past year, Underboss Novák?” Sanders responded sarcastically. “Or is it that you’ve become so enchanted with the female Pakhan that you have failed to look beyond your own little world of power to see the war brewing?”
The blatantly unfiltered inference of being so self-absorbed as to be incompetent succeeded only in further escalating an already dangerous confrontation. Complacency, ineffectualness, and the inability to lead in tumultuous times were viewed the same regardless of what one’s business was. The usually prescribed antidote was to make a change at the top by whatever means necessary.
Gareth Sanders was a nom de guerre for a man who had come from a long lineage born four generations ago that had been forged in the crucible of the dark arts of organized crime.
From the very moment of his birth, his life was irrevocably intertwined with the global network of the Mafia. He took his first breath in an environment where secrets were the common currency and loyalty the highest virtue. For him, the celebratory clinking of glasses heralded the successful culmination of clandestine deals or the beginning of new ones.
As a child growing up in the cruel and unforgiving criminal world, Gareth’s life was one of paradoxes. While the legal world condemned their way of life, within the insular ranks of his family, it was considered a badge of honor. He learned early on that the code of silence was the law of the land and that transgressions were met with swift and brutal consequences. Loyalty to the family was paramount, and betraying that trust was a sin beyond redemption.
“No one and nothing matter more than family, my boy. Don’t you ever forget that.”
The voice of his grandfather echoed through his mind. How he missed him. Grimly, he forced the sadness from his mind.
