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Ippolit nods, his quiet voice commanding attention. “One of your more brilliant ideas that your father was foolish to oppose. He would be proud.”
“Being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art,” I quoted Warhol. “Making money is art, working is art, and good business is the best art.”
“Well said!” Gunsyn nods, looking at me with an odd expression I can’t decipher. “You’ve got a good eye for talent, Kolya.”
There it is again. The subtle jab of disrespect. As my father used to say: once is an accident. Twice a habit.
“Are we all so familiar already?” I ask them sharply. “Am I Kolya, the boy at your pakhan’s side, or am I Nikolai Gennadyevich, your pakhan?”
They exchange a rude look as if I can’t see them.
“Apologies, Nikolai Gennadyevich,” Gunsyn replies, the sound of his voice grating on my nerves. “We meant no disrespect. As you know, your father considered us family. We just thought that you should enjoy the evening.”
“I am not my father,” I retort sharply. “And it’s not time to enjoy the evening, as you say, Gunsyn. The Lanzzare won’t be resting during this time, and neither should we.”
The Lanzzare Mafia have been our enemies for as long as the Starukhin Bratva has existed. Our blood feud runs deep and was made deeper still eighteen years ago when their don, Emilio Lanzzare, put a bullet in my brother Matvei’s head. The mere mention of their name sends a surge of anger coursing through my head that culminates in a rush at my nose. The same haunting words from my father’s ghost return.
You should’ve died, and not Matvei.
“Weapons shipment is coming in tomorrow night,” Gunsyn said. “We’ve got it covered, Kol—Nikolai Gennadyevich.”
“Make sure everything goes smoothly,” I tell him, my tone firm and commanding. “No mistakes. No noises. And no sneaking off to strip clubs looking for girls to fuck, Gunsyn.”
“Of course not, my pakhan.” He smiles, revealing a mouthful of pristine veneers. “As you command, so we shall execute.”
“See that it happens.” My gaze holds his until he nods in acknowledgment.
A dark cloud lingers over my thoughts. Andrei Barinov’s war has put unnecessary scrutiny over all of the Bratvas of the East Coast. A web of violence and deceit is slowly unfurling, and the threat of outside interference has only grown in the months since. To prepare, Father and I had begun a massive recruitment and armament drive. But his untimely death threatens to throw the entire thing off balance.
And with the Lanzzare circling like sharks around us, looking for any and all moments of weakness, there is not a moment of rest to be had.
Our conversation continues, and the brigadiers each rattle off information about our manpower, reserves, and operations. Each bit of news is accompanied by praise for my father and flattery for me, but I see through their attempts. They’re probing me to gauge my reaction. But they played their hand already when Gunsyn disrespected me the moment I walked into my own home.
And when it is time for them to leave, I gaze at the eastern horizon, painted in a panoply of pink and gold that heralds the morning sun.
Ippolit quickly approachesme as he drains his glass. “My pakhan, I have something you might find interesting,” His voice is lower than usual, as if he’s sharing a secret.
My curiosity is piqued and I stop, waiting for him to continue.
“We’ve identified someone of interest.” Ippolit hands me his phone. “In one of the nightclubs that we own.”
The image flashes across my screen and my breath halts when I see a familiar face. Auburn hair like spun fire cascading down her shoulders and innocent hazel eyes wide with surprise. Her lips are slightly parted, as if she wants to say something. She’s standing before a painting of bold strokes and vibrant colors.
Eden Clark …I recall our chance encounter just outside of the Port Authority.
I look closer and notice a thread of fear under her surprise. The look in her eyes leaves my chest tightening, and I feel my mouth going dry as I hand the phone back to Ippolit.
“What do you have there, Ippo?” Gunsyn intrudes upon us and snatches the phone out of Ippolit’s hand with the manner of a pig rolling in mud. “Oho, she’s a looker. Wouldn’t mind those pretty little lips wrapped around me. Although … she looks familiar.”
Ippolit snatches his phone back, displeasure etched across his face.
“Of course she looks familiar, Gunsyn,” he scoffs in his whispery tone. “That’s Zakhar Budanov’s child. I’m sure of it.”
“Budanov? The traitor?” Gunsyn chuckles darkly. “He’s still alive?”
“Every killer we sent his way has never returned,” Ippolit says. “Unsurprising, of course, given the man’s skills. But this girl will be our way to get him out of hiding.”
The threat and implications are unmistakable in his voice.
