41. Roman
CHAPTER 41
Roman
“You’re surrounded, Zver,” the pakhan says calmly. “Lay down your weapons.”
The crew I have with me tightens on all sides. We’ve pulled together into a compact formation, our weapons pointed in every direction.
We’re surrounded, but we’re making it clear this is no surrender. We’re sure as hell going to be putting up a fight.
“This shows how little you understand me,” I reply. “Being outnumbered has never discouraged me before. It says more than you realize, pakhan, that you believe the only way to defeat me is with an army.”
His jaw tics, though the rest of his exterior remains icy and composed. “You have created this war in your head with your paranoia. You have been disobedient and reckless. But I have never had an issue punishing a badly behaved child before. You will be just another.”
“What you call paranoia, I call a secret plot to sabotage and destroy me. Are you pretending that has not been going on? Or are you just saving face for the uptight society you’re trying to become a part of?” I ask, gesturing toward the rest of the ballroom with my free hand. My other hand clutches the handle of the assault rifle slung over my shoulder, trigger finger ready at any second. “Be honest, pakhan. These people have no clue about the man they’re about to elect as the new head of their society. They don’t know about the bratva.”
Murmurs break out around the room.
The dozens of guests in their finest threads start whispering to each other from behind their masks. Many of them seem scandalized by what’s happening. They weren’t expecting two different sets of armed men to crash their extravagant party.
But, unfortunately for them, they’re now stuck in the middle of a mob war. They’ll be lucky if they make it out alive tonight.
The pakhan rises from his chair behind the table. “You’re too late, Zver. This is already my club. The Midnight Society is mine. And I have already won this war you believe you’re fighting as well. Do you not realize how truly alone you are?”
His aloof expression shifts for a gloating one, where the corner of his lips spread into a slight smirk. His face gleams with triumph as someone else walks onto stage from the side entrance. An older man with a frail and thin build, his gold cane seemingly a lifeline for every slow step he takes…
“Moy otets? * ,” I mutter under my breath. My grin vanishes and fury clenches onto my face.
It’s not a surprise that my father is aligned with the pakhan.
It’s what I’ve assumed from the moment I began suspecting something was off in our organization. Not only was Leonid a piece of shit, but my father was for protecting him. He was after me too, willing to do whatever necessary to make sure I failed.
He and the pakhan must’ve been planning this for months.
My glare is dark and deadly watching the two men on stage.
The pakhan appears well put-together and commanding while my father, the sovietnik, hobbles, old and frail.
That’s how the pakhan wants it—he wants his second-in-command to be no true threat. How could I ever consider the two being at odds?
My father, while once a formidable man, is so far past his prime, he’s pitiful. Only his mind remains sharp, but he’s clearly been neutered if he’s choosing the pakhan over his own reign. Over his own fucking son, the real heir to this family.
I can sense the questions arising from the others. Kazan and Dmitri share looks. They’re getting nervous.
Not only are we surrounded five to one in the thick of this ballroom, but now it’s undeniable that the two leaders of our family are on the same page. If the sovietnik has brought his own men, then it’s over…
We’ll go down with a fight, but we will certainly lose.
I grit my teeth, hot with rage. “Two weak leaders joining forces. Am I supposed to be intimidated?”
“Eto tebya rasstraivayet. Pozhaluysta, ne pritvoryaysya? * ,” the pakhan says in Russian. “Your own father has turned against you. That is a wound that will never heal.”
The pakhan would be correct if my father and I ever had a solid relationship to begin with.
But I don’t give a fuck if he lives or dies. The feeling is mutual.
The entire ballroom falls silent as my father steps forward to speak for the first time.
His first words come out as a garbled rasp until he clears his throat and tries again.
“Etot raskol v nashey sem’ye nazreval uzhe davno,” he says, his vocal cords still weak. “Menya ne udivlyayut eti sobytiya. No drugiye mogut byt’ udivleny, uznav pravdu. Menya nedootsenili? * .”
The pakhan ’s brow creases, his eyes cutting to my father. He senses the betrayal before anyone else in the room does.
Even me.
My father unsheathes his gold cane, revealing its dual purpose as a weapon. At the opposite end is a sharp blade that he moves to run the pakhan through with.
But the pakhan ’s a split second faster. He dodges the blade and draws his gun to squeeze the trigger. The bang sounds louder than usual, echoing around the large room. I watch among the rest of the crowd as my father’s shot in the face.
Dead before the next blink I give.
Stunned silence fills the space the bang leaves behind. Everyone in the room is shocked at what’s played out in a matter of seconds.
I’m caught between shock and the rage that’s been driving me.
My father was going to kill the pakhan. Surely he knew what would happen the moment he ran the pakhan through with his blade.
He was doing so to help me.
This realization materializes in my head as the silence ends and I release a roar even louder than the bang heard around the room.
“KILL THEM ALL!” I bellow.
The gunfight kicks off. My men and the pakhan ’s exchange gunfire. The Midnight Society members scramble in every direction around us, making the scene even more chaotic and brutal.
But we’re no longer a crew of twenty fighting against the pakhan, his men, and the Midnight Society.
The hotel’s flooded with another group of armed men that I recognize immediately—the unlikely ally I’d been hoping would show up arrives just in time.
Salvatore Mancino and his men crash onto the scene spraying bullets at the pakhan ’s forces.
Everywhere you look, men on both sides are dropping like flies. Many of the Midnight Society members are casualties too, caught in the crossfire and shot dead with no means of defense.
I growl blasting my rifle at henchman after henchman. Anybody in my line of sight gets a fucking bullet.
But I’m most concerned with making my way through the crowd. I need to get to the front of the room where the pakhan ’s watching the firefight from the stage.
He’s going to die. He’s going to suffer unimaginable pain.
I’m going to kill him. Rip him apart limb from limb.
He knows this as our gazes meet from across the large room in a state of disarray. He sees the bloodlust gleaming in my eyes and backs away several steps.
I start toward him, never breaking our eye contact.
He’s fucking mine.
* ? Moy otets - my father
* ? Eto tebya rasstraivayet. Pozhaluysta, ne pritvoryaysya - This upsets you. Please don’t pretend.
* ? Etot raskol v nashey sem’ye nazreval uzhe davno. Menya ne udivlyayut eti sobytiya. No drugiye mogut byt’ udivleny, uznav pravdu. Menya nedootsenili - This split in our family has been brewing for a long time. I am not surprised by these events. But others may be surprised to learn the truth. I was underestimated