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It’s a sweet picture, and it strikes me that not long ago, I might have created something just as vibrant and innocent, as harmonic and endearing. It makes me think of something John Lennon said—something about if given the opportunity to be anything other than he was, he would choose that. And suddenly, the thought hits me with stark clarity.
I would much prefer to create the adorable and entirely astonishing painting of my classmate—one I’m sure I’ve created countless times in my life—than my first actual piece of art that has come at such a high price.
I don’t care that this painting of Efrem is probably the best painting I’ll ever make. As soon as the semester is done and I’m allowed to take it home, I intend to burn it.
23
EFREM
The ravaged state of Pyotr’s Brooklyn nightclub, Lady Onyx, makes my blood boil. The light fixtures that have fallen from the ceiling, casting shards of glass across the black dance floor. The spilled cocktails that mingle with the crimson blood pooling on the floor.
It’s the visual aftermath from a horrible clash of inebriated revelry and sobering bloodthirst, and it grates like sandpaper against my flesh. Like the girls from Satine who were strung up from the ceiling, the message is loud and clear—we’re facing a monster here.
Moments before the gunman had opened fire on the crowd of dancers, he’d shot the DJ and stolen the mic to announce that his actions were because of Pyotr’s lack of cooperation. That he has to pay, and the crowd would suffer along with him.
And this time, the police had to get involved. Because we made the news. At least ten dead civilians join the numbers of every single one of our workers at the club—bouncers, bartenders, dancers, DJ, and of course, all the men in the back room who were in charge of distributing our product.
It was a massacre, and the sight of it as I look around now, hovering protectively at Pyotr’s shoulder, makes my vision grow red.
Though Pyotr chose not to retaliate after the dead girls were left suspended in Satine along with a threat to Silvia’s life, the Zhivoder aren’t backing down. They raided one of our nightclubs this time, taking all the product waiting for distribution and killing every one of Pyotr’s men.
It seems Mikhail is intent on strangling our business, making it so we can’t bring in money either legally or illegally—and in doing so, he’s deliberately attempting to provoke us into a war. The increasing violence all but guarantees it.
And the fact that he chose to hit up Lady Onyx just hours after Pyotr held a meeting with several of our partners, ensuring we will handle the situation, tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s taunting us, inviting us to make a mistake that will hamstring the Veles clan.
Whether it’s a blessing or a curse that the Zhivoder managed to lift every last bag of contraband from us, I’m not sure. But that definitely helps now as Pyotr speaks with several officers. Fortunately, two of them have worked with the Veles family for a long time, back when Pyotr’s father was pakhan even. And they’re still on good terms.
But even a bribe at the moment could prove risky. With the upcoming election, the police have been cracking down, and with our bad reputation around town, that means we need to be more careful than ever.
“Thank you, Officers,” Pyotr says, shaking both men’s hands as they give him curt nods that would indicate they’ve reached some understanding.
It’s a smooth transaction, and if I weren’t looking for it, I never would have seen the money transfer hands. I can only hope that it’s going to save our skins for one more night.
Pyotr sighs heavily as the police depart, having completed their investigation.
Brilliant camera flashes continue to flicker through the room, making me think of Dani as the forensic investigators take pictures of the disturbing scene. Though it’s only nine at night, the club is empty, the harsh overhead lights on as high as they’ll go so we can see the dead bodies scattered around the room and the overturned chairs as people made a mass exodus for the door.
I’ll admit, my clan is not above violence. We’ve built a reputation on it, in fact. But we’ve never once fired into an innocent crowd of civilians. We pick our targets intentionally and with a precision intended to make our enemies fear our wrath, not our sanity.
This is something else entirely.
“Call a meeting,” Pyotr commands as soon as we’re alone. “I want all of my captains there.”
“Sir.” Val pulls out his phone immediately, getting to work as I scope the club Pyotr’s been using as his place of business since Satine was shut down.
“Do you think it’s an inside job?” I pose just loud enough for Pyotr to hear. “We haven’t been working out of Lady Onyx for long.”
Pyotr shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think anymore. But I need to get a rein on things before they get further out of my control.”
* * *
In the conference room of Pyotr’s Brownstone mansion an hour later, Val and I scan the sea of faces that wait silently for their pakhan to speak. I can see the shades of emotion there, ranging from unquestioning loyalty to concern to suspicion. Gleb’s feline features are as enigmatic as ever, his green eyes sharp and analytical as they scan the room with silent questions.
The Matron, on the other hand, wears a stony expression that conveys only one message. Kill them all. She’s been demanding it for months now—long before even. Her main goal in marrying Pyotr to Silvia was to give our clan the firepower to annihilate Mikhail using Marchetti reinforcements. And I know she’s been kicking herself for how badly her plan has backfired.
Though she hasn’t said as much, I suspect she regrets handing our Bratva over to her son, though it’s his birthright—it was the moment he turned eighteen. I wonder now, as I scan the room of sullen faces, whether the men regret pressing so hard for her deposition. But working under a woman had left a bad taste in so many of their mouths.
