Chapter 2
Chapter Two
NIKO
I try to rub the memory of Emylyah’s face this morning out of my mind, but her expression keeps coming back to haunt me. Fuck, I’m a bastard. Not that she didn’t know that going in. Or did she?
Were there stars in her eyes when I proposed? Or the same quiet sadness I see in her eyes so much of the time these days?
I should have taken more time with her this morning.
Made sure she got off at least, but I was too focused on my own release.
The guilt gnaws at me as I straighten my tie, preparing for another day of meetings and negotiations.
I tell myself I'll make it up to her tonight, but deep down I know it's a lie.
There's always another deal to close, another rival to outmaneuver.
The car pulls up and I slide into the cool leather interior, my mind already shifting to business mode.
As we weave through traffic, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted window.
For a moment, I barely recognize the hard-eyed man staring back at me.
When did I become this person? Nah - I’ve been this way since I was a fucking teenager.
This is exactly why I keep Emylyah at arm’s length, even going as far as using her full name instead of Lyah, the shortened version she prefers.
She softens me, and in the world of the Bratva, that’s never a good thing.
Far better for both my allies and my enemies to believe she’s simply an arranged marriage of convenience - which she was - and not anyone I care about. Safer for both of us.
My phone buzzes with a message from her.
I hesitate before opening it, bracing myself for accusations or cold indifference after the way I treated her this morning.
Instead, it's a simple ‘Have a good day.’ The unexpected kindness twists something inside me. I start to type a response, then delete it. What could I possibly say? It’s best not to entertain such nonsense.
Too many pitfalls. Instead, I switch to a message from Maximillian Smith, or Million as he prefers to be known, requesting a meeting to discuss additional shipping privileges from the Brooklyn ports we control.
Since he asked us for an introduction to Ciaran and Callum Maguire of the Irish mob, who control the docks in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen area, I know he must be expanding, but since the billionaire mogul who moved here from the West Coast is dealing in counterfeit luxury goods - mainly women's wear and accessories, and isn’t affiliated to any of the competing syndicates here in the East, we’ve all quietly decided he’s better as an ally, even if he is a little pushy when it comes to matchmaking his socialite daughter, Catriona.
Especially since his attempts to pair her off with Ciaran Maguire have failed now Ciaran’s officially with Maricela.
I once again thank my lucky stars I’m married, since Million has switched his focus to Darian.
He hasn’t come right out and said it, but the man’s really just looking for a more ‘personal’ arrangement to cement his shipping alliances.
Unfortunately for him, his daughter’s a spoiled princess and therefore a first-class bitch.
The car comes to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Brooklyn. I exit, nodding to my security detail as they fan out around the perimeter. The acrid smell of motor oil and rust assaults my nostrils as I push open the heavy metal door.
Inside, a man is strapped to a chair, his face already bruised and bloodied.
It seems my brother, and avtoritet , or second in command, has made a start.
Eastern European Bratva structure is more fluid than a lot of the organized crime circles, making our organization more adaptable.
For us, influence is earned through loyalty, reputation, and connections, rather than hereditary titles.
A lot of our syndicates splintered after the fall of the USSR, reforming into more regional territories, like our own Ukrainian organization here in the new world, and we operate a little less traditionally and more like the other crime families in New York.
But while I still see advantages in the old ways, I like having my brother by my side.
I know I can trust him unequivocally. Either way, the secret of staying on top is being able to adapt and not staying mired in the past. Many of the old-world bratvas don’t see that, to their own detriment.
Not us, though. We made the decision to expand from the Ukraine here to America where the trade in weapons is prolific.
It’s a decision that has stood us in good stead since this is another way we can support our brothers back in the motherland in their fight against tyranny.
By supplying money and weapons, and sourcing whatever else our comrades need.
That’s why discovering who’s behind the disappearance of these particular arms shipments is so crucial, because they were bound for Ukraine.
If there was a Russian syndicate here in the city, that’s where my suspicion would lie… but there’s not.
Darian stands with his sleeves rolled up and his knuckles already raw. Looks like he’s been enjoying himself. Between the two of us, he’s definitely the more bloodthirsty. It works for our dynamic. He grins when he sees me, a predatory glint in his eyes.
"Ah, Pakhan, You’re just in time for the fun part.
" He’s always careful to address me formally, even though we’re siblings.
No point in advertising how close we are, though.
There’s always someone who will use anything they can find against you.
And in this world, family doesn’t always mean loyalty, even though I trust my brother with my life.
I approach slowly, studying our captive and his eyes widen in recognition and fear as I draw closer.
He's one of Petrov's men, part of the Mutri. In the past, they haven’t stepped outside their homeland of Bulgaria, though they’ve expanded into Europe in recent years.
Petrov’s been trying, unsuccessfully, to gain a foothold in the US, but his organization lacks manpower and cohesion.
But this one was caught snooping around our latest arms shipment destined for Ukraine, so it’s put him on our shit list.
However, one of the things that consistently throws me off track, is that the recent troubles have not been limited to just us.
Other organizations like ours - Irish, Italian, Albanian, and even the Latin crews up in the Bronx - have felt the interference of some unseen hand, a ripple coursing through the underbelly of the city.
Everyone’s on edge. Arms deals collapse at the last minute, shipments go missing from supposedly secure docks, and lieutenants speak in lower voices, always afraid there’s another rat in the ranks.
No one knows who’s pulling the strings, but everyone’s guessing, and the guessing is getting people killed.
Sometimes the wrong people. It’s pitting organizations against each other.
Making everybody suspicious of one another where we’ve previously existed in a careful kind of harmony.
Unfortunately, the svolota everyone suspected, Vito, the Viper, Rossi, is dead. I’d think that a lie, a ruse to cover his tracks, if I didn’t know it from an absolutely reputable source who witnessed his death firsthand.
My own organization has been hit twice in as many weeks.
Petrov’s men are too clumsy for the kind of precision we’ve been seeing, and the Colombians are stretched thin after the last bloodbath on Coney.
The Italians have bigger problems since the Viper was one of theirs, operating on his own agenda without authorization.
Now they’re having to clean house, which leaves me to suspect that either there’s a new player none of us are aware of yet, or someone has decided to take up where Vito Rossi left off.
Maybe a combination of the two; someone using the unexpected chaos and disruption to mask their own intervention amid the confusion.
You cut off one head, there’s always another ready to grow in its place.
I glance at my brother, who wipes his knuckles on a rag without taking his eyes off the captive.
He’s humming something under his breath, a lullaby our mother used to sing, but twisted now, warped by the violence of the moment.
I wonder if he feels the heat closing in as much as I do, or if he’s too in love with the bloodletting to notice.
The man squirms, the zip ties cutting deeper into his wrists as sweat slides down his temple.
His mouth works at the gag, but he doesn’t dare make a sound.
I step in closer and crouch, letting him get a good look at me.
Up close, he reeks of fear and something else—maybe gunpowder or piss.
Ugh, yeah, it’s piss, I decide as I see the dark stain on his pants.
"You know who I am?" I ask, my voice low and dangerous as I take a step back from his stench.
He nods frantically, words muffled by the gag in his mouth.
I smile, but there's no warmth in it. "Good. Then you know what happens to those who cross Nikolai Radaeva.”
Reaching into my jacket, I pull out a gleaming knife. The blade catches the dim light as I bring it closer to his face. His eyes widen, darting between the knife and my cold stare.
"Now, we're going to have a little chat," I say, sliding the flat of the blade along his face.