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“You care for no one but the Bratva,” he drones. “And you shall love none other than the Bratva.”
This was never supposed to be my burden, I think bitterly as I repeat the words.It was always supposed to be yours, Matvei.
Father lost the son he loved—the son he alwayswantedto pass the Bratva to.
And now, his legacy rests on my shoulders. The son he despised. The spare, instead of his heir. God has a cruel sense of humor, it seems.
Grigori gestures at the gun and I pick it up, feeling the weight of my father’s legacy bearing down on me like a heavy iron crown. I rise, a prince no longer but the pakhan of the Starukhin Bratva.
A sea of faces greets me when I turn around, some familiar, others not so much. Dmitry Chuikov stands beside his wife, Natasha. In front of the two of them is Andrei Barinov. His wife Paige isn’t present, but Bratva royalty Zhanna Nikolaeva is. I try hard not to stare at any one of them for particularly long, lest I accidentally insult the honor of anyone else before me.
Anatoli Popov beams at me while Radomil Sorokin holds a solemn expression on his sour face. This crowd will expect champagne, and not the usual cheap white wine. But they all have one thing in common: they are here to acknowledge my position, respect my title, and show their support to me as one of their own.
But they’re also here to remind me that they can crush me beneath the heel of their boot if they so wish.
The Barinov and Morozova Bratvas are more powerful along the East Coast, but it is the Starukhin Bratva that holds Manhattan and the rest of the five boroughs. New York City is the gem in the hilt of the Bratva sword, and my father wielded it for decades with ruthless violence.
I lift my chin higher and gaze at no one in particular among the crowd, but all I can feel is my father’s ghost—resentful and angry—staring back at me as he whispers the refrain he told me for eighteen years.
You should’ve died, and not Matvei.
The limousine is dimly litas it enters FDR Drive, and my shoulders relax when I’m back in the city again. Something about the air of this city sets me alive with excitement. My eyes drift to the darkened window and take in the boisterous night filled with people, lights, and noise.
The limo comes to a stop, and I step out onto 59th Street. The sticky, humid air hits me in the face. I take a deep breath, feeding off it. The energy of the city hooks into me like an IV of adrenaline.
Thisis where I belong. Not out among Twin Rivers with the likes of Sorokin, Popov, or Barinov. Here, where the very atmosphere itself is electric and alive.
The Bratva expects me to take my place in my father’s mansion, with its hateful spires that overlook the immense grounds, but I have no desire to be back in that place.
Instead, I have chosen to make the seat of my power the place that still holds a shred of when I knew the word happiness. Even though that happiness died more than a decade ago.
The Gardner building is not in the most fashionable part of Manhattan, but Ony Sokolo opened his first gallery here when he fled Russia. The lower half of the building still functions as commercial property, and I am the building’s sole resident in the penthouse.
The elevator ride up is slow in an old building like this. But such is the trade-off for owning a piece of history, both the beautiful and the grotesque.
When I enter the penthouse adorned with endless art on its walls, I find my father’s three most powerful brigadiers waiting for me, all of them drinking my best scotch and looking comfortable sitting in the living room. My finger brushes my father’s gun in my holster. Briefly, I wonder if it has any bullets left.
Shadows play across the faces of the three brigadiers—Alexander Vorobyov, Gunsyn Bolotov, and Ippolit Tsarnaev—as they raise their glasses at me in a celebratory toast.
When my father ruled New York with an iron fist, the three of them hovered near him like remoras around a shark, picking at whatever crumbs they could get their greedy hands on. Over the decades, they became the most powerful men under my father’s command.
Will they toast my successor with equal enthusiasm?I briefly muse.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them when I join them, schooling my features into an inscrutable mask to hide my displeasure at their intrusion. Other than my green eyes and commanding height, it’s not hard to imitate my father.
“A toast.” Gunsyn passes me a glass of scotch as he raises his own. “To your father and to you, Kolya.”
I clench my teeth at Gunsyn’s usage of my diminutive name, feeling a surge of anger at his subtle disrespect. They still see me as nothing more than a boy, playing at being a pakhan in my father’s chair.
The three of them sip from the glass, but I set mine aside. I don’t feel particularly celebratory tonight.
For no particular reason, my mind turns to something else. Auburn hair like spun fire, and hazel eyes so innocent they almost bordered on naïve. A chance encounter, nothing more. But somehow, this otherwise unremarkable girl has planted a seed in my mind that I cannot dislodge.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up the glass and turn toward Alexander. “Tell me about the finances. I haven’t had a chance to go over all of my father’s books just yet.”
“Our finances are secure.” Alexander grins. “Your art galleries have been doing surprisingly well lately. They’re actually making a profit. Smart idea to add a wine bar. The Upper East wives are lapping it up.” He grins. “Among other things.”
The art galleries started as a personal passion project, a way to hold onto a memory of something good in this world. But they are also a convenient way to launder the illegal money of the Bratva. Art and business are my double passions when I have the time, as evidenced by my MBA from Harvard and my stack of art books.
