Chapter Eighteen
In which Nikandr and Caroline’s business dinners go from bad to worse.
Nikandr…
Rushing through the hotel - without my security - to stop Caroline from taking a run that night was a level of galactic stupidity on my part.
The tracker I'd put on her phone signaled an alarm as she headed for the exit and I was out of the bar in seconds.
It could not have been easier for Agapov's men to take us.
While Dmitri hasn't said anything, I know he must be disgusted that I was taken so easily. Fuck, I'm disgusted
So tonight, we have a car with four bodyguards in front of us, and a chase vehicle with another four men covering us from behind. Caroline came down to the lobby with Vasilisa, on time, looking beautiful in the red dress I'd ordered for her along with her "wedding dress."
"What's the business dinner tonight?" Caroline asks, looking out the window, fussing with her bracelet.
"We're meeting with Pakhan Balabonov and his wife tonight, so that they can 'congratulate us on our happy news'." I say dryly.
"Are they part of the Moscow Six?" she asks.
"Yes. It's better to get the congratulatory phase over with as soon as possible."
"Agreed," she nods firmly.
"Melor Balabonov wants to host us at his mansion," I explain. "It's in the outskirts of the city in the Rublyovka neighborhood." The tall iron gates of his estate open with a groan, and six guards step out to escort us inside.
"This is a congratulatory evening?" Caroline murmurs.
Melor Balabanov is one of the few Pakhans of the Moscow Six that I can tolerate. His Bratva is nearly as powerful as ours, and he's confident enough that we don't have to engage in the "Mine is bigger than yours" dance I have to tolerate from some of the others.
"Nikandr Morozov! How good to see you again." He shakes my hand firmly before turning to Caroline. "And this is the very recent Mrs. Morozova?"
"Yes, allow me to introduce my beautiful bride, Caroline Morozova." I slide my arm around her waist, squeezing tight as I feel her tense against me before she remembers we're supposed to be selling this.
"A pleasure to meet you, Melor Balabonov," she says, putting her hand on my chest and looking up at me adoringly. When Melor turns his head, she digs her nails in. I can feel the sting, sharp, and real.
Savage little thing.
He guides us through the two-story hall, lined with portraits of innumerable dead ancestors whose disapproving gazes follow us into the dining room.
The table is twelve feet long and designed to humble lesser men.
The scope of the entire mansion is meant to do that, pressing down with the heavy weight of carved wood and marble, vaguely suffocating.
Melor's wife Liliya is waiting for us there, looking tiny in a room of this size.
"In congratulations for the happy news," she says kindly, presenting Caroline with a velvet jewelry case.
"We were so happy to hear that Nikandr had met his match.
I do hope you two are planning a proper wedding here in Russia? "
Caroline murmurs, "You're so kind, thank you Darya Balabanova, this is beautiful."
The necklace is horrifically gaudy, weighted down with sapphires and rubies set in garish gold.
I'm fairly certain my new bride would rather throw it off the Brooklyn Bridge than be seen wearing it, but she accepts it gracefully and strikes up a conversation with Liliya, asking her about the jewelry she's wearing and the history behind each piece.
This goes on for most of the six-course dinner as she nods, seemingly fascinated by every detailed description.
While our wives are engaged, Melor glances at my wife and back to me. "There's some talk of unconventional business activity in the Six," he says.
I smile easily, taking another sip of my wine. "There always is, my friend. Are you thinking of anything in particular?"
"Like Volkov, we've also received an offer from the Novikov Bratva. They claim that they can deliver custom pharmaceuticals and party drugs for fifty percent off the first two shipments."
I can't help it. I laugh heartily, and it feels good. Cleansing. "I'm quite sure you know how seriously to take an offer that desperate," I say.
He shrugs. "I gave it the full two and a half seconds of consideration that it deserved.
Then, my man shot the messenger in his leg and sent the dog back to his master.
But a Bratva desperate enough to approach two of the Six Families with outlandish proposals signals desperation. Or deeper pockets than we realize."
I know that while he agrees with me about these offers, he's also warning me that if this mysterious new Novikov Bratva is able to back up their offer, I shouldn't expect him to behave with complete loyalty to the Morozov Bratva.
Because in the end, we're all treacherous pricks looking out for what's best for our organization, long-time relations be damned.
"Thank you for letting me know," I say.
“I know, Nikandr, that you are taking this Bratva seriously," he says, "even though this level of recklessness and stupidity does not signal a bright future for this… Novikov, whoever he is."
So, Melor knows even less than we do about Novikov.
"There you are!"
A very old woman sweeps majestically into the dining room, draped in an enormous mink coat that hangs from her skeletal frame.
She's got a yapping little dog wedged under one arm, and the room is suddenly flooded with bodyguards.
I know her, Miroslava Balabonova, the near-immortal matriarch of the Balabanov Bratva.
"Mat', Mother!" Liliya stands up, a tight little smile trying to hide the stress behind it. "You made it, that is lovely."
Miroslava raises her hand and a bodyguard hastens to pull out the chair next to Caroline's. "So, you're the one," she says, seating herself and looking Caroline up and down like she's inventorying merchandise. "We have heard of your sudden marriage. Are you pregnant?"
Caroline bursts into laughter. "I assure you, I am not. But thank you for your concern for my health."
"Oh, it is not concern," Miroslava says. Her vile, balding little rat-dog bares its three remaining teeth at me.
"I know." Caroline refuses to take offense and that seems to please Miroslava and they launch into conversation.
"I saw you when you arrived at the Hotel Tsaritsa the other night," Caroline said.
"You were quite magnificent. The entire lobby stopped to admire you as you came in with your entourage, all those bellmen and bodyguards, and…
" The rat-dog on Miroslava's lap growls at Caroline. "...Your pets."
"Oh, isn't she lovely?" Miroslava says fondly, stroking the dog's balding head. Liliya does not look like she finds the animal lovely. At all. "My precious Printsessa, she's been with me forever."
"It's said the love of a dog can sometimes be more profound than that of a human," Caroline says, casting a sly glance at me. "Their devotion is so pure, don't you think?"
The dowager leans forward, "Exactly!" She slaps her hand on the table for emphasis and the crystal goblets rattle. "My precious Printsessa would die for me. She would throw her tiny body in front of an intruder to protect me and has done so before."
It seems more likely that the rat-dog would wait it out and then, when she was nothing but a corpse, would decide what to eat first, the eyes or the tongue.
They continue their animated conversation as an exhausted Liliya chimes in every now and then. Caroline and I both rise gratefully at the end of the night, and she receives a warm farewell from Miroslava, who is known as the Dragon, most cultured lunatic in all of Russia.
Melor shakes my hand. "I like her," he says. "She managed to charm the Dragon, so you know that you have found yourself the most charming and patient of women." Caroline is laughing at something the Dragon is telling her.
"I know," I agree with a smile. "Caroline is charming in every way. Good night, my friend. I look forward to speaking with you again soon."
The drive back to the hotel is quiet. Heading back through downtown, the winding road between the skyrises feels like we're trekking through a massive canyon, looming over us.
"That was fun," she says, breaking the silence. "Surprisingly so, the Dragon has some fascinating stories about the early 1900s Russia, almost as if she was alive then."
I shrug, "It's entirely possible that she was. She's had enough plastic surgery to preserve the entire cast of… what are those shows called? The Real Housewives?"
"Yes!" Caroline lets out something close to a cackle.
"That is hilarious." She turns slightly to look at me.
The privacy screen is up and it's quiet here in the back, soft leather seats, and the armored car making it soundproof, closed off from the rest of the world.
"What about you? How did your talks go? I caught something about Novikov and the shipping routes.
Is that the one that the Morozov Bratva controls between Moscow and St. Petersburg? "
I lean back, eyeing her thoughtfully. "And how did you hear about that?"
She doesn't quite roll her eyes. "Because you and Alexsey were talking about it while I was getting ready in the suite. You weren't speaking quietly, so I assumed it was okay to listen."
"It's a fucking upstart from Slovakia, we believe. We've never heard of them before they came up on everyone's radar about six months ago, trying to negotiate for a piece of Moscow, which is the stupidest possible place to begin. Such illusions of grandeur."
"So, you don't know who it is?" She leans against the arm rest, propping her head on her elbow.
"Very little," I admit. "They're not established, but they're aggressive. They have funding, someone is backing their expansion. It's hard to know how much yet."
She frowns thoughtfully, a little furrow between her brows and it's oddly endearing. "When you say this new group is trying to get a seat here, are they trying to knock you out of your position with the Six?"
I nod unwillingly. "Yes. Their audacity for going after the biggest fish shows a level of desperation."
She shrugs slightly, "Or, to the other families, this Novikov group could appear bold and daring."
I frown. She's correct. "As much as these families love their status, they love a bargain and if this new supplier can give it to them, they would have no hesitation in betraying us," I run my hands through my hair.
"Well, what if you –" Caroline's question is cut off by the thunderous shriek of metal.