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“Artyom Gusev got 5k for collections this morning,” Pavel said.
Information from the lower ranks had been an unexpected bonus of having Pavel on Roman’s team. He was still connected to many of the men who’d started alongside him.
Roman rubbed his jaw, then looked around the table. “What are your thoughts?”
The men still seemed surprised when he asked this question. He didn’t ask it often, but he wanted them to know he valued their opinions, a stark contrast to his father, who didn’t solicit outside advice even when doing so would be wise.
“It’s time to storm the castle,” Vasily said, his pate — mostly exposed due to his severely thinning silver hair — shiny under the loft’s overhead lights. “Take Igor out. If the associates are becoming nervous, they’ll fall into line easily enough and the brigadiers will have no choice but to follow.”
Roman tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
Thinking.
Vasily was one of the older members of Roman’s new contingent and was prone to force as a weapon of choice. Roman didn’t necessarily disagree with him, but he was loathe to let his father off the hook.
His father had taken Ruby. Had starved her. Terrorized her.
And Roman was all too familiar with the terror his father could wreak.
No, his father deserved more than simple death. He deserved humiliation and dethronement. Deserved to know he’d lost everything before taking his final breath.
Plus there was the matter of the Two Spies.
Mikail Lavrov had pledged to back Roman, but that wasn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. An assassination of the pakhan — even by his son — wouldn’t be easily overlooked.
Roman needed to break his father first, make it clear — not just to Mikhail but to the other Spies on the council — that the bratva couldn’t afford to keep him.
“What about the money?” Roman asked.
“What money?” Tima asked.
“My father is broke,” Roman said. “How is he funding daily operations and giving out large bonuses?”
His father’s financial situation — a situation that mirrored the bratva’s — was why Roman had been promised to Valeriya Orlov before the shit had hit the fan.
Roman had no intention of marrying her, something that would be obvious to Valeriya’s father, Vladimir, by now. Vladimir was an oligarch with more money than god, but it was hard to imagine him fronting Roman’s father millions of dollars out of the kindness of his heart.
Unless…
He met Max’s gaze, unspoken words born out of their decades-long friendship moving between them.
“Hello.”
Roman turned to the sound of the voice and found Ruby standing at the front of the hall, watching the men around the table.
The men rumbled to life at the sight of her, murmuring greetings.
Pavel jumped to his feet. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea or… something?”
Roman stared at him. The youngest member of his team was animated and clearly nervous, his cheeks red.
“Coffee would be amazing,” Ruby said. “But I can get it.”
“No, no,” Pavel said, rushing toward her and guiding her to the sofa in the living room. “You sit.”
Roman sighed, trying for patience.
Ruby allowed Pavel to lead her to the sofa. She looked better already, the shadows under her eyes a shade lighter, her shoulders less defeated than they’d been when she’d gone to bed.
