Chapter 25
GAbrIEL
No weapons past the door. House rule. Non-negotiable.
We approach the security team standing outside the doors—six men, former Mossad, paid for by each Bratva equally to ensure that they have no allegiance other than to the security of each attendant of the meeting. They run military-grade scanners over every person who enters.
Last year, they found a ceramic blade tucked into Alexei Volkov’s boot and confiscated it without a word. A punishment was doled out behind the scenes after the meeting.
I’m guessing he’s not armed this year.
The security staff can find anything.
Well, almost anything.
We pass the team, and just as I’d anticipated, the micro-transmitter in my cuff link goes undetected. It’s a simple device—three presses in succession will send a message to my men waiting in a van two blocks down. Just a little extra security in the event Kolya doesn’t take the news well.
We walk through the scanner clean and enter the meeting room.
The ceiling is vaulted, with dim lighting that casts amber pools over the long rectangular table. The walls are dark oak. No windows. The only door is the one we came through, guarded on both sides.
There are carafes of water and glasses set out on the table, but no alcohol, another house rule. Men make better decisions sober. Or, at least, they make decisions that they can’t later blame on vodka.
I pause in the doorway. Thea is at my side, poised and composed. She is every bit her father’s daughter.
The room immediately registers us, and so does Kolya. He rises from his seat as we enter, his eyes flashing. His first lieutenant, Sasha, is at his side. He remains seated.
“What are they doing here?” he asks, pointing an accusing finger in our direction.
I don’t speak for myself—that would break decorum. Instead, I turn my attention to Ivan Nevsky, head of the Nevsky Bratva. He nods at me before speaking.
“Gabriel asked that he be allowed to join us for part of the council. He says he has important information that we will want to hear.” He nods once more in my direction.
“I do. When you are ready, of course.”
“This is madness!” Kolya exclaims. “This is a Bratva council! I’ll not sit here as a Camorra speaks.”
Ivan remains calm. “It’s not unheard of to have non-Bratva members speak, if they have information pertinent to our affairs. Calm yourself, Kolya.”
Kolya’s hands clench into fists. Clearly, he’s not happy. But he doesn’t say another word as he returns to his seat, his eyes locked onto Thea.
I guide Thea to a seat, taking the one beside her. She sets the folder on the table before us. Kolya’s eyes immediately go to it. His jaw works, his gaze narrows. I can sense that he knows his future depends on whatever’s inside.
The attention of everyone at the table is on me. Whatever matters the council intended to discuss first seem to have taken a back seat.
Ivan clears his throat. “As always, I would like to thank the members of the families for attending. But before we focus on more exclusive matters, let’s hear from our esteemed guest. It’s a bit of an irregularity, but Mr. Moretti has assured me that it will be worth our attention.”
Ivan nods in my direction. I rise.
“Gentlemen.” I look around the table, meeting the eyes of everyone there. “Thank you for doing me the great honor of allowing me to speak at your council.” They’re necessary niceties, though each man to the last wears the same stony expression.
“Speaking of irregularities,” one of the men, Vlad Sharapova, says, “our guest has a guest of his own.”
He gestures toward Thea.
“He brought a date.” Then, he leans closer. “Wait, that’s the girl from the auction. I remember her.”
Murmuring fills the room.
“Who is she?” asks Petr, the head of the Popov Bratva. “What is all of this?”
“With all due respect,” I say, “We’ll get to that.”
Petr leans forward. “I’d prefer we get to it now.”
Kolya says nothing, his eyes shifting from me to Thea and back again.
“I’m sure you would,” I reply. “But I’d like to begin with the matter of territorial encroachment. Specifically, the Sokolov's systematic erosion of Camorra-held distribution routes over the past three years. I have documentation—"
"This is a waste of the council's time," Vlad interrupts, shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively.
"Let him speak," Ivan replies. "That's what we're here for."
“Thank you.”
I lay out the documents. Routes. Dates. Financial discrepancies. Three years of quiet aggression dressed as market fluctuation. Kolya watches me as I speak, waiting.
But I want him to think this is the play—territorial grievances, financial disputes, typical business.
I speak until I see his shoulders relax, until I’m sure he’s confident that this is it. Now and then, his eyes flick to Thea. He licks his lips, as if she’s a snack for later, and I want to pull his tongue out.
I let the territorial discussion breathe for a bit, going over some dry details and figures. Kolya relaxes more and more as the meeting begins to conform to his expectations.
Then I close the folder. Silence falls.
“Kolya?” Ivan asks. “These are some weighty accusations. Anything to say in your defense?”
Kolya shrugs. “I suppose I can talk to some of my lieutenants, see what’s going on.
These are all petty concerns. When you’re in my position, the head of an organization like mine, you can’t be—how do the Americans say—in the weeds.
But I can look into Mr. Moretti’s complaints when I have the time. ”
He’s confident, cocky. Thinks he dodged a bullet.
But here it comes.
“There’s another matter,” I say.
The table perks back up, especially Kolya.
“Almost one month ago, an auction took place at a private venue in Lower Manhattan. I needn’t explain the sort of merchandise that was being bid upon, as most of you were in attendance.” I gesture to Thea. “This is the woman I acquired.”
“The woman you paid one million dollars for,” Kolya says. “You’ve come to show her off?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’ve come to tell you who she is.”
Silence.
“The identity of this woman is of great interest to you all.” I let my words hang in the air.
“But before I reveal that, I’d like to remind you all of one thing: I may be Camorra, but the Camorra codes and the Bratva codes are not so different, especially on the subject of assassination and the targeting of families. They’re quite explicit, really.”
Kolya narrows his eyes. He knows where this is going.
“The unauthorized elimination of a sitting pakhan, not to mention the murder of his wife and children, constitutes the highest order of betrayal. It voids all claims, all territories, all authority obtained through that action—retroactively and absolutely.”
“That code has never been invoked,” one of the pakhans says.
“It’s never needed to be, until now.”
I look at Thea.
Kolya’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
“Gentlemen, allow me to present to you Teodora Fetisova, the last surviving member of the Fetisov family, and the true heir to the Fetisova Bratva.”