Chapter 4 #2
I stand, leave cash on the table. Tomorrow I’ll meet Padraig, start making moves. No coalitions that put me second. No compromises that weaken the bloodline.
The pakhan is awake now. And the city better fucking watch out.
* * *
Later that evening, I find myself at the bar of the Meridian Hotel, the kind of place my brothers used to drag me to when they wanted to impress suppliers or intimidate rivals.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the high ceiling, casting warm golden light over dark wood and velvet upholstery. A pianist in the corner plays something soft and classical, each note floating through the air like it’s trying to soothe the savage beasts in the room.
And it’s doing nothing for my mood.
I swirl the vodka in my glass, the ice clinking softly. Another double. The burn down my throat is familiar, almost comforting, but it doesn’t touch the restlessness gnawing at my chest. I’ve been here almost an hour, nursing drinks and staring into the amber liquid like it holds answers.
Around me, the bar is full of happy couples.
A man in a tailored suit leans close to his date, murmuring something that makes the boy laugh and touch his arm.
Another pair at a high-top table shares a dessert, feeding each other bites with that sickeningly sweet intimacy.
They look relaxed. Content. Like the weight of the world isn’t balanced on a knife’s edge.
How the fuck do they do it?
I watch a man rest his head on his partner’s shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy circles on his guy’s thigh.
No tension in his body. No constant scan of the exits.
No wondering if the man beside him is about to get a bullet in the back of the head.
They have jobs—normal ones, probably. Mortgages.
Weekend plans that don’t involve body counts or territory disputes.
How do people build something real when every day could be their last? When trust is a luxury most of us in this life can’t afford?
I’ll be damned if I know.
I finish the vodka in one sharp swallow and slam the glass down harder than I intend. The bartender glances over but says nothing. Smart man.
Enough of this.
I toss cash on the bar and push through the heavy revolving door onto the sidewalk. The night air hits me… cool, sharp, carrying the distant rumble of traffic and the faint scent of rain on asphalt.
The sky above is a deep indigo, stars faint against the city glow.
No plans. No soldiers waiting for orders. Just me and the streets I’ve bled on for years.
I start walking. No destination. My dress shoes click against the pavement, suit jacket open, hands in my pockets.
The city pulses around me: neon signs flickering, late-night food carts steaming, groups of young people laughing too loud. I move through it like a shadow, unseen but seeing everything.
My mind churns with the day’s events: Viktor’s slick offer, the phony diner, the way my finger had itched for the trigger. The pakhan title still feels like borrowed clothes. Too big. Too heavy.
Blocks blur together. I cross into an older part of the city, where the buildings stand taller and older, their stone facades carved with gargoyles and forgotten saints.
Thankfully, the crowds thin out. Streetlights cast long shadows.
My pace slows when I spot it ahead… an old gothic library, the kind you see in movies about haunted academics.
Massive arched windows glowing with warm interior light.
Stone steps leading up to heavy oak doors etched with intricate patterns.
People are still coming and going even at this hour: students with backpacks, older types in coats clutching books, a few couples whispering as they exit.
I stop across the street and watch for a minute. The building looks out of place in this concrete jungle—elegant, timeless, almost defiant. Light spills out onto the sidewalk like an invitation.
“Huh,” I mutter to myself, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “Maybe I should find a book to read.”
Half joke. Half serious. When was the last time I picked up anything that wasn’t a ledger, a report, or a weapon schematic?
My brothers used to tease me about it, calling me the brute who only reads bloodstains.
But tonight, with the weight of leadership pressing down and Viktor’s words still echoing, the idea doesn’t sound half bad. Something to quiet the noise in my head. Even if it’s just for an hour.
I cross the street and climb the steps. The doors swing open with a low creak that feels almost welcoming.
Inside, the air is cooler, scented with old paper, polished wood, and that indefinable library hush.
High vaulted ceilings, rows of dark shelves stretching into shadowed aisles, green banker’s lamps glowing on long reading tables.
A few heads turn my way, curious glances at the man in the black suit who clearly doesn’t belong, but most people return to their books.
I wander deeper without purpose, shoes quiet on the marble floor.
My fingers trail along spines as I pass: history, philosophy, literature.
Names I vaguely recognize from school but never cared about.
Bronte. Twist. Gothic tales. The irony isn’t lost on me.
A pakhan in a house of stories. I could certainly tell a few stories based on my life.
I pick up a thick volume on Russian history—something about the old empires—and flip through it idly. The words blur, it’s not holding my attention.
I shelve the history book and keep moving, deeper into the stacks. The lighting grows softer, the aisles narrower. My shoulders loosen fractionally. For the first time all day, the constant vigilance eases just a notch.
No one here wants my territory. No one here is plotting against the Kamedov name.
I round a corner and pause near a tall window overlooking the dark street. The city lights twinkle below. Somewhere out there, Viktor is probably already moving pieces on his chessboard. Padraig’s waiting for direction. My soldiers need a strong hand.
But right now, in this quiet gothic sanctuary, I let myself breathe.
I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough for the restlessness to settle into something like resolve. I’ll honor my brothers by building something unbreakable. No coalitions. No compromises that taste like surrender.
And just as I turn to leave, I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
Over by the ornate window, crossed legged and with a look of adorable focus as he reads a big dusty book.
Surely not.
It can’t be…