Chapter 33
DMITRI
Ipush open the oak doors of the council chamber, not caring that they slam against the walls with an obnoxious thud.
The heads of the major families are gathered around the long mahogany table.
At the far end, next to my empty seat, sits Andrey.
The meeting stops the second I enter. My heart doesn't just beat, it thumps a savage rhythm against my ribs, a dull echo of the explosion that almost killed Clara and me less than four hours ago.
“The council is in session, Dmitri,” Oleg growls, his voice heavy with his displeasure. “You are late.”
I ignore him. My focus locks on Andrey, who meets my gaze with that familiar, revolting casual smile—the kind a sociopath wears when admiring his own handiwork.
“Attempted murder,” I bark, slamming my palms on the table hard enough to rattle the crystal glasses. “I am publicly accusing Andrey Mikhailov of the attempted murder of Clara Benson.”
Andrey lifts an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, before leaning back in his chair and draping one leg over the other.
“Attempted murder,” he repeats with mock surprise and confusion. “Dmitri, I understand your personal life is volatile, but to come late and interrupt this important meeting of the pakhan of New York with such baseless hysteria? You insult the families and the brotherhood.”
“Baseless?” I take a threatening step toward him, one that should have shaken the floor for all the rage burning inside of me.
“You sent a bomb, Andrey. A device planted in a package addressed and delivered directly to me.
Don't insult my intelligence. Only one person has the motive, the reach, and the utter lack of conscience to pull such a stunt on an innocent person who has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Motive?” Andrey asks, tilting his head. “What motive would that be? And if the woman has nothing to do with you, why was she there when the bomb went off?”
There is a cold, joyful glimmer in Andrey’s gaze as he waits for me to answer, all eyes in the room turning to me.
He knows he has me, damn it. If I only tell half the story, then it looks as though Clara's near murder has nothing to do with this convocation.
If I tell them the whole story, everyone will know how important Clara is to me, making myself—and Clara—more vulnerable.
“Is this the new lawyer working for you, Dmitri?” Ivan asks, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
I grind my teeth, wishing a simple look could kill the man who is sitting across the table from me, smirking.
“Clara Benson is mine,” I growl through clenched teeth. “She is pregnant with my child.”
The expressions around the table vary, but none are as expressive as Andrey's bright smile and single clap of delight.
“I'm so thrilled for you, Dmitri. I wish you both longevity and happiness.” He pauses, appearing thoughtful.
“Perhaps you should look closer to home for the culprit, Dmitri. Your circle is filled with enemies, enemies you made when you inherited the syndicate from your father, enemies you made when your first wife perished in that unfortunate accident.”
All the air leaves the room in a rush, as if it's been sucked out by an inferno, except, instead of blazing heat, the temperature drops to a chill so frigid, I'm surprised that frost isn't crawling across the windows.
I can spot the knowing looks on the faces around the table.
They know Andrey knows how to needle me, to drive me to that breaking point, where the raw, unpredictable violence takes over.
The violence that makes the council fear me and consider placing replacing me, putting Andrey in charge, the violence that has them watching me very closely now.
“You speak of my wife,” I hiss, leaning over the table, my voice dangerously low.
“You put her in the ground, just as you tried to put Clara there tonight.
You think I don't know? You think I don't see the pattern? You slay the mothers of my heirs, you create chaos, you try to destroy my foundation to destabilize my line and the Smirnov Bratva, so you can take all we have.”
Oleg clears his throat, loud and authoritative, though I see an edge of uncertainty as his eyes flick toward me. “Enough. We are not here for personal grief or wild speculation. This is business, Dmitri. Bring us to the business. Do you have proof?”
“Proof?” I straighten, forcing myself to breathe, to switch from the wounded husband to the cold strategist. “Have the mighty bratva fallen so far that they are relying on proof to make a move against those who have betrayed the brotherhood?
Let's talk about the no-confidence vote, Oleg.
Let's talk about the way Andrey has conveniently compiled evidence to submit to the council against me.”
I pin each man around the table with a glare, and I know they are already acquainted with the evidence of which I speak.
“Andrey has a mole inside Smirnov Corporation. Someone with C-Suite access, who has been leaking data to the police, and you know that when the police and Feds get involved with one of us, it puts all of us in danger.”
Vasily shifts nervously. “The data is concerning, Dmitri.”
“The data is a manufactured concern,” I snap.
“It is engineered sabotage, part of Andrey's long-term plan to take what he wants. And yes, he might have his eyes on me now, but what happens if he succeeds? What happens if you help him succeed? Do you think you will be safe, all of you and your bratva? Do you think Andrey will stop at just me? You are fools, if you do.”
I can see that I've gotten to the men around the table.
Sabotage and wars between bratva may not be as common anymore, but they are not entirely unheard of.
One may try to take advantage of another's weakness to extend fortunes, without incurring too much censure from the other bratva.
It is our way. But this? Andrey has always wanted to take me down, that much is clear.
My hope is that everyone around this table understands Andrey well enough to know that he will not stop at just me.
Andrey shrugs, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes.
“You can throw around accusations all you want, Dmitri.
But didn't we warn you when you wanted to add a legitimate business to your portfolio that you would attract unwanted attention? What Fed, what officer, could avoid looking into a mobster who seems to have gone clean and straight? Doing so put all of us at risk, just as we warned you it would. The police will make the connection. And as you said, once they come for you, they will come for us.”
He hits the keyword: connection.
“The connection,” I say, standing tall, letting the power of the Smirnov name fill the space.
“The connection is the motive—control and power. You want to cripple the Smirnov Bratva so that you can take everything that is mine and make it yours, strip the corporation for cash, feed off the spoils of my fall, and make yourself king.”
Andrey scoffs, but there is a tick at the corner of his mouth, and I know that I have finally hit a nerve.
I point at him, my finger trembling not with fear, but with the immense effort it takes to restrain myself from leaping over the table, breaking one of the crystal glasses, and plunging a shard through his eye.
“I built this empire. I tripled the syndicate's wealth in five years, not with brute force, but with intelligence and foresight.
And all of you have benefited from it. Now, Andrey seeks to destroy what I've built, make it his own, and bring you all down with it until everything is his. And he began with a bomb intended to kill my family.”
“It is a good story, Dmitri. But it is just that—a story. You found out about the vote against you, that we feel you are a danger to all our operations, and now you are lashing out,” Andrey counters smoothly, then turns his attention to the table.
“While Dimitri is distracted by his pregnant girlfriend, his temper, and his delusions, I am securing the future. Which of us, my brothers, is the true leader? Me, or the man who let a woman and her death destroy his grip on reality, his bratva, and this council?”
Andrey meets my eyes, and a slow, diabolical smile spreads over his mouth. It is the final straw, and I lunge.
Oleg and Ivan barely manage to intercept me before I can plunge my knife into Andrey's neck, the knife I grabbed from the sheath I wear strapped to my ankle, the one the guards outside didn’t check for when I came in.
They restrain me, the strength of two family heads necessary to hold back the beast I've become.
“Stop this madness!” Oleg's grip is like iron on my arm. “How dare you bring a weapon into this room!”
Andrey, now safe behind a wall of bodies, regards me serenely, even though the weapon had been within inches of ending his life.
“See, gentlemen? The volatility. The lack of control.
Dmitri lost himself when his wife died, and he's never fully regained his composure. This is not the leadership we need.”
Oleg pushes me back, breathing heavily. Ivan still holds the arm that’s holding the knife in a death grip. He fixes Andrey with a glare that is slightly less hostile than mine.
“Andrey, Dmitri's accusations are grave. And while unproven, your conduct is noted. I am giving you a formal warning: Pressing this no-confidence motion now will be seen as an act of bad faith against the Smirnovs.”
Andrey bows his head slightly, a mocking gesture of respect.
But his eyes remain on me as his lips curl into slow, silent triumph, a smile of pure, contemptuous victory.
He has succeeded. He has provoked the fight and gotten the reaction he wanted.
No one will forget what they've heard or seen, no matter what they're told to do.
I tear myself away from Oleg and Ivan, straightening my jacket and fighting the impulse to go after everyone in the room until only blood and bodies remain.
“You have no spines,” I tell the collective council, my voice dripping with disdain.
“You let a viper sit at your table because you fear the fight. The old blood has weakened. You will all regret this.” I turn on my heel and stride out, the sound of the doors closing behind me a quiet promise that the fight has only just begun.
The air outside is cold. Two of my men, silent, hulking enforcers who are armed to the teeth underneath their wool coats, slip up beside me, guarding me as I walk several blocks to a place that smells like stale tobacco and cheap liquor.
It should be Pavel beside me, but he’s yet to reappear. I don’t know whether to be concerned that he’s lying dead somewhere or angry at his silence. Regardless, he would tell me to concentrate on the fight right now, and not on him.
I make my way to the back, where a man waits at a table bathed in low light and deep shadows.
“Dmitri.” The voice rumbles from a heavyset man who grips a glass of clear liquid.
The man has known me since I was a prodigal son, a disappointment to his father.
An angry teenager with a fast car and access to too many weapons before the suits, quarterly reports, troubles, and responsibilities of a pakhan took over.
“How did the meeting go?” The man sounds like a growling bear when he speaks. He fights and kills like one too, ruthless and brutal.
I order a vodka.
The man chuckles and throws back the rest of his drink before gesturing to the bartender that he wants the same. On my dime, of course.
“About as well as I expected then,” he says. “You never could hold your temper. You’ve always been volatile, letting your emotions run your actions, instead of your head.”
“My father is dead and buried, Nikolai. Let's keep him there.” It's a warning to the old enforcer, one that his chuckle doesn't tell me whether he will heed or not.
The man is still loyal to my father, even after all these years.
He does not think much of me and what I have done with the bratva, but he is loyal to the Smirnov name.
So are most of the men in here, all frightening and tattooed, with murder in their eyes and madness at their fingertips.
“Are our men ready?” Nikolai asks.
“On my end, they are. Armed, ready, and waiting for the signal to take out the Mikhailov targets. Are yours ready?” I jerk my head in the general direction of the room, to the gazes trained our way, watching, waiting, ready to be called into action they have not seen in far too long.
“We go to war then?”
“We do.”
A frightening smile breaks out on Nikolai's face. He holds up his glass of vodka, thrusting it into the air so that liquid spills over the rim, leaving small puddles on the tabletop. It’s the signal that all have been waiting for.
“We go to war!” It is said with joy and a sadistic hunger echoed in the shouts across the room. Then Nikolai holds out the glass to me. “To the old days and the old ways, moy pakhan.”
I hold up my own glass to receive the toast and throw back the vodka, just like Nikolai. It is cheap and burns all the way down.
But I welcome the burning, just as I welcome the inferno that is my anger and my desire for revenge, my desperate need to protect Clara and our child. It burns away everything in me, until all that is left is the devil my father created to rule the Smirnov Bratva.