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“Ah, Pyotr, you’re already here. Good.”
“You take the liberty of bringing a torch bearer?” Pyotr drawls, jutting his chin at the man who remains behind Mikhail.
His face is distorted by the light of the lamp shining up against the bottom of his jaw, nose, and cheekbones—like he’s about to tell us a campfire ghost story.
Mikhail chuckles, waving a hand casually over his shoulder. “Vova is harmless. Just here as an impartial party. But if his presence distresses you, I can make him wait in the car.”
A power play, something to undermine Pyotr and test his nerve. This already isn’t going well. Mikhail can’t even seem to play by his own rules.
“Thanks, but I’d rather have you all in plain sight,” my pakhan states flatly, his indifferent tone seeming to brush off Mikhail’s attempt to unsettle him as if it must be a simple misunderstanding.
“Well then, shall we get down to business?” Mikhail suggests, straightening his suit jacket and leveling a smug grin in Pyotr’s direction.
“Your business cannot be thriving at this rate of conflict,” Pyotr states, cutting right to the chase.
Mikhail gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Perhaps, but you’ve lost a good number of men as well recently,” he observes.
“It won’t do either of us good if this war bleeds us both dry—and though you might have the numbers, you can’t keep replacing veterans with recruits and expect to win,” my pakhan states.
“And what do you propose to stop this… exsanguination then?” Mikhail asks, dry humor in his tone.
“Peace.”
The word echoes through the empty space, hanging in the air with electric tension.
“Peace?” Mikhail repeats with mild surprise.
“When my father was pakhan to the Veles, our clans managed to live amicably within the city of New York without issue. I propose we set our differences aside and make that possible once again.”
It’s a bold suggestion, and I’m mildly surprised when Mikhail doesn’t simply laugh in Pyotr’s face.
“You think that’s possible after so many years of bloodshed? You’ve done considerable damage to my business, Young Veles.”
I bristle at the diminutive, my fists clenching and my teeth groaning as I grind them mercilessly.
Though I don’t say a word, Pyotr silently signals me to stand down.
Glaring daggers at Mikhail, I wait with anticipation for my pakhan’s change of heart. Because I’m ready to kill this prick right here and now.
Mikhail’s eyes shift from Pyotr’s face to mine, and his eyebrow quirks, as if daring me to try something.
“And you’ve all but closed two of my best clubs,” Pyotr counters. “Not to mention, made it nearly impossible to find new dancers.”
“Yes, I heard your last set made quite a mess of things,” Mikhail jokes sadistically, his leer demonstrating he intended for the double meaning.
“I suppose you expect some recognition for the creative attempt to kill me,” Pyotr observes flatly. “But it seems your best efforts to get rid of me are falling rather flat.”
“It only takes one success,” Mikhail points out. “However, I have to admit that I’m growing rather tired of this conflict. It’s drawn out long enough that I’m getting bored.”
He could almost have me convinced, but the slight tic of his eye tells me his Bratva is suffering more than he would like to let on. He might be going after our numbers, but our raids have done far more damage to his bank account and reputation—and in his industry, those are both critical.
“Good. Then it sounds like the perfect time to let the past stay where it belongs. In the past,” Pyotr states.
Beside Mikhail, his more senior Zhivoder man snorts, and my hand twitches toward my gun.
The younger one shifts uncomfortably, his eyes noting my change in stance. He seems a bit more worried about what I might be able to do with a gun. After I broke one of his buddies’ noses and put another under my shoe, even while I was outnumbered, he should be scared.
And I’d more than love the opportunity to show him why.
