33. Lev
Chapter 33
Lev
I needed more time. That’s what I keep thinking as the days pass. I needed more time to get my shit together and lay the groundwork for when I’d step into my father’s role.
Now he’s gone, and nothing’s the way it should be.
I stand outside of an old rundown retail space up in North Philly. It’s one of those neighborhoods that looks like it went through a war recently. The houses around here are either boarded up, burned out, or crumbling. Half of them are still occupied though.
The guy that answers when I rap my knuckles on an old plywood door grunts at me. “The fuck you doing here?” he asks, eyes widening slightly when he spots me. He leans forward, keeping the door open only a crack.
“You’ve been ducking my calls.”
“I know, but, you know, shit gets busy this time of year. Hey, why don’t you come back later? In a few months maybe?”
“Jovan. What’s your problem?”
The old Serbian grimaces when I lean against the door. I’m not forcing it open—not yet, anyway—but I am letting him know that I could. He’s wearing rumpled sweats and his dark hair is graying around the edges, but Jovan’s one of my father’s oldest and most trusted connections back to Eastern Europe and all the fancy fake watch makers still lurking around the Balkans.
“Problem? No problem here, old friend, just saying I am very busy. I have many orders, you know? I need to pack them up myself. Can’t trust anyone anymore, right?”
“Let me inside. I want to discuss some things with you.”
“I can’t, really, maybe?—”
I lose my patience. Jovan yelps when I lean my shoulder into the door and force him back. He stumbles into the dirty downstairs room and I follow him in, one hand on the gun in my waistband, looking around me for attackers.
But the place is mostly empty. There are milk crates stacked with an old TV playing cartoons in the corner and more crates forming a makeshift table. A low couch is ripped in multiple spots.
And there are boxes. So many fucking cardboard boxes. All of them marked in various different languages.
“Come on, Lev,” he says, holding up his hands, looking down at my gun. “We’re friends. I’m just a businessman, you know? I’m a nobody, really.”
“You’re a middleman. You’re an importer. You should be loyal. Instead, you’ve been ignoring me and acting strange. What’s going on?”
He groans. “Don’t make me say it.”
“This can be hard or it can be easy. Your choice.”
“It’s Zeitsev,” he says like someone’s dragging it from his throat. “He’s got a silence order out on you.”
I stare at Jovan for a moment as the words slowly register.
Then I slump sideways and lean against the wall.
A silence order. Fucking shit.
That sounds worse than it is, honestly. If Zeitsev wanted me actually dead, there wouldn’t be an order. I’d have a dozen hitmen hunting me down. Instead, a silence order means I’m basically persona non grata to the city. Anyone caught dealing with me will be punished and shunned by the Bratva. For some legitimate folks that don’t know anything about the underworld, that’s not really a big deal. But for a guy like Jovan?
I knew things were bad. When Valentin didn’t show up at my father’s funeral and didn’t send a Bratva representative, it was clear that I’d miscalculated how he’d respond. The pakhan of the Zeitsev is a clever and ruthless man, and I had assumed he’d reluctantly accept me, maybe after some displays of loyalty and good faith.
I didn’t think he’d straight-up blacklist me like this.
“They could shoot me for talking to you,” Jovan complains, waving his hands in the air. “I had nothing to do with it, you know that.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Good, good, then why don’t you take that hand from your gun, please?”
I ignore him and leave my hand right there.
“Tell me everything you know, Jovan.”
“Just rumors. You know how things are. Everyone talks.”
“Then tell me the fucking rumors.”
Jovan groans and flops down on the dirty couch. For a man that moves millions' worth of product every year, he still insists on living like a scumbag.
“They’re saying your old man, God rest his soul, died under suspicious circumstances.” He glances back at me, eyes wide. “This is just what I hear.”
“Keep talking.”
Jovan digs a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights up. “They say you potentially had something to do with it.” Then quickly adds: “But obviously not, that’s just stupid talk.”
“Keep going.”
“Valentin Zeitsev is angry, apparently. Your father was working some important job for him, and now that he’s dead, everything’s fucked for him. Your father was an important cog in the machine, so it seems. He made things tick, and now he’s dead, and it’s a mess.” Jovan blows out smoke and groans. “That’s all I know, okay? I don’t have more details.”
I glance away from the old Serbian and look out the filthy window. It’s worse than I feared. I knew my father was working on the Canadian job for Valentin, but I had no idea he’d been an important part of the whole operation.
Now I’ve got a silence order on my head. Which means, as far as the underworld is concerned, I’m already dead. Anyone caught dealing with me will be shunned and potentially killed themselves. It’s supposed to be a fate worse than death—a fate reserved for men too powerful and connected to kill but who need to suffer.
“I need a shipment.” I turn back as Jovan stubs out his cigarette and lights another one.
“Can’t do that.”
“Cash deal.”
“Everyone recognizes my goods. Please, Lev, you know that.”
My jaw grinds. I’ve been losing good business associates for weeks now because of this shit. I’m only just beginning to understand the scope of how bad things have gotten.
“Two boxes. Right now. I’ll pay double.”
Jovan groans and his eyes roll. “Double. Lev. You kill me. Please?—”
“Now,” I say. The charming Lev Federov is gone. I’m a skeleton of that man, all the fat charred away and melted into rivers. “Get moving.”
Jovan finishes his cigarette and obeys, grumbling the whole time. I count out the cash and leave it on his milk crates as he bangs around the cardboard boxes.
The place smells like mold and mildew. I’m impatient and want to get out of here. I have a dozen other people to meet with, and this little excursion has been much more frustrating than I ever could’ve imagined already.
I’m on the brink. My family name and my whole reputation are dangling over the precipice. Valentin hasn’t formally crushed me yet, but he’s trying to starve me out, all because I finally decided to take on my father. I’m bleeding support, and if I can’t do something fast, this is all finished.
Then there’s a curse, and a box tumbles down from the stacks. Suddenly, Jovan’s screaming like a dying cat as he charges me with a box cutter.
The old bastard almost gets me. I’m distracted by my thoughts and taken off guard when the box clatters to the floor, and Jovan’s a lot faster than I thought he’d be. If he had a gun, I might be dead right now.
Instead, I twist out of the way at the last minute. He snarls, stabbing forward, and I feel myself dropping into a fucking fencing stance like I’m having a basement training session with Carmie. Jovan flicks his wrist at me, the blade slicing in the air between us, and I lunge forward as his arm goes across his body. I catch his elbow, shoving forward, putting his forearm to his own chest, and kicking out his ankles.
He hits the floor hard. I bring my knee into his gut and grab onto his wrist, dropping back into an arm bar. I flex my back, hyperextending his elbow, and he screams in pain as he releases the knife. It clatters to the floor.
“I submit!” he shouts, writhing and tapping like we’re in some fucking MMA fight. “Oh, fuck, please, Lev, I submit, I submit, I submit!”
I wrench hard, and his elbow pops.
He moans with agony. I release him and get slowly to my feet. Jovan stares up at me with fear in his eyes as I get my gun and aim it down at his head. His wrecked arm hangs limp by his side. He’s sweating and breathing hard.
“I was dead already,” he whispers, pleading in his eyes. “You get that, don’t you? You gotta know, Lev, I would never?—”
“But you did.”
I pull the trigger and splatter Jovan’s brains across the room.
What a fucking mess. I stand there breathing hard. Replacing Jovan is going to be a pain in the goddamn ass. He had good connections back to quality fake watches, and it’ll take a while to figure out how I’m going to rebuild that network without him.
In the meantime, I have whatever stock he’s got left in this dingy, ratty place. And if I don’t take it, some other asshole from around here will break in the second I’m gone and load it all up.
Fucking Jovan. He should’ve been smarter than this. He could’ve given me what I asked and just kept his head down for a while. It would’ve been okay. Except everyone’s so afraid of the Zeitsev Bratva.
To the point of insanity.
That didn’t need to happen, but Jovan made his choice. The second he came at me, I had to send a message.
I’m not to be fucked with. Even as a dead man walking.