Chapter 38
GAbrIEL
Ichose The Grill at the Seagram Building for the location of my meeting with Max Federov. As I approach the building, the sheer glass of the facade catching the gray slate of the sky above, I know I’ve made the right choice.
It’s public—very public. Too public for Kolya to take a chance doing anything stupid. And that’s assuming he even knows where I am or what I’m doing.
I enter The Grill, the waitstaff flicking their eyes in my direction, then looking away just as quickly. They know who I am. The staff knows to give me space, to not make a show about my entrance. Another reason why I chose this place.
Max Federov is already seated when I arrive.
He’s in a back corner booth against the wall, the preferred location of men like us.
He looks older than I remember. He’s sixty-three now, if memory serves.
He has thinning silver hair and marionette lines bracketing his mouth.
He’s dressed in a nondescript navy suit.
“Gabriel.” He stands and extends a hand. Max might be getting up there in years, but he’s still a formidable figure. He spent years as an operative in the KGB and was an amateur boxer before that. He’s still solid, the kind of man who knows how to handle himself.
“You look well,” he says as we shake.
“Max.” I take the seat across from him. “You look semiretired.”
He chuckles. “I’ll take that to mean you think I look old.” He fixes his ice-blue eyes on me, giving me a true assessment. “And you look like your father.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Your father was a smart man. Sharp. But he could also be reckless. I’m curious which of those traits were handed down to you.”
“I suppose you’ll have to be the judge of that. But I can tell you this—I’m a very patient man.”
A ghost of a smile forms on his lips. “A necessary skill when dealing with men like Kolya.”
A waiter appears. I order a Barolo. Max asks for vodka, neat. Then he changes his mind, asking for sparkling water instead. Interesting. I stick with the wine. The waiter nods before walking away.
“Do you know why I asked for this meeting?”
“I know what Alexei told me.” He leans back, with one arm draped across the booth.
He’s casual. Sovereign. It’s the easy posture for a man who’s held court in rooms far more dangerous than this.
“He told me that you found something, someone, to be specific. And that this someone changes the posture between me and Kolya Sokolov.”
“That a basic synopsis of it.”
The waiter returns, bringing our drinks. A quick toast, and we’re back to business.
“Let’s not dance around the issue,” he says. “I didn’t fly 6,000 miles to play coy.” He tilts his head. “Is it true?”
I nod. “The youngest. Teodora. She’s alive.”
Max goes still, but it isn’t the stillness of surprise—men like him don’t wear surprise so obviously. It’s more the stillness of a mind at work, one shifting pieces on a chessboard in reaction to a very important piece of information.
His expression doesn’t change, but for a moment, the pakhan disappears and the man behind is revealed.
“Teodora.” He says her name quietly, almost to himself.
Then the hardness returns.
“You knew her,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Indeed I did. As I’m sure you know, I was her father’s godfather.
” He places just enough emphasis on the word to make it clear it’s sacred to him.
“I stood before God and swore an oath. We were blood brothers. His children were my children, in a sense.” He pauses.
“Teodora would sit on my knee during dinners and play with my tie. Masha would scold her; Lev would laugh. He always had a soft spot for her. And so did I.”
Something tightens in my chest. I’ve never known this version of Thea, the version of her before her family was massacred.
“She’s alive and she’s safe,” I confirm. “She’s with me.”
“She’s with you? How long have you had her?”
I give him the rundown. Liza, the new identity, the funded arrangement. Max listens without interruption, his expression unreadable. But I notice his hand has curled into a fist where it rests on the table.
When I finish, he’s quiet for a long time.
“Twenty years,” he finally says. “And Kolya never found her.”
“He didn’t even know she was alive. Until six months ago, he didn’t even suspect anything. One of his men recognized her at her place of work.”
“Her work? And where was that?”
“As a maid, at The Belvedere.”
He lets out a quick, sudden laugh. It’s more a laugh of disbelief than of amusement.
“Teodora Fetisova, working as a maid. The directions life can take you.”
“It worked until it didn’t,” I say. “After one of Kolya’s men recognized her, he moved quickly. He had her drugged and put up for auction. I intervened before his people could close the deal.”
“And now he knows who she is and that she lives.”
“Correct. She and I attended the last council meeting.”
“I can only imagine how that went over.”
“It was not as bad as expected, if you can believe it. Kolya had an excuse ready to go when he was accused of the Fetisov massacre. But no doubt, he has plans in motion.”
Max picks up his water glass and drinks before slowly setting it back down.
“And that’s where I come into the story.”
“Indeed.”
He looks off to the side for a long moment, as if letting all the information run through his mind.
“I’ve been waiting,” he says. “You understand this. Fifteen years in Moscow, building and consolidating, keeping one hand in New York through business interests and old connections. When the Fetisovs were murdered, it affected my standing. I wanted revenge, but the loss of my most powerful ally put me on the back burner.”
I say nothing, letting him go on.
“I hated to flee. It made me feel like a coward, like I had abandoned my vows. But throwing myself at Kolya in some foolish attempt to get revenge would’ve been suicide.
He would’ve crushed me, taken control of my territories, and become even stronger.
So I left. Built. Positioned. Waited for the right moment. ”
“And?”
The faintest hint of a smile curls the corners of his mouth.
“A living Fetisov heir. That’s the right moment.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But I need to see her for myself.”
“I figured you might. It’s too dangerous to bring her out in the open now, under the circumstances.”
“Understood.” The wistful expression returns. “I held that little girl when she was three days old. I stood next to Lev at her christening and swore to protect his family. And I’ve spent twenty years knowing I failed that oath. But I won’t go to war until I see her with my own two eyes.”
“And see her, you shall. Until then, I can provide DNA tests that—”
He waves his hand. “Not necessary. I will look into her eyes and know who she is.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time. Today, after this lunch.”
“Very well.”
“My estate is private, secure. No one outside of my inner circle will know you’re there.”
“That will do.” He snorts and shakes his head. “She likely won’t remember me. Funny to think that so much happened in her life that she has no memory of and had no say in. And now history is returning in a way that will sweep her up into it.”
“It was only a matter of time.”
“You are correct. A man like Kolya will take and take until there is nothing left. All men like us can do is stop him. I’ve been preparing for this war for a long time, Gabriel. All I can do now is hope that I’m ready—that we’re ready. And we’re not alone.”
“Alexei mentioned something.”
He nods. “Fetisov loyalists who fled to Moscow are waiting for the word to return. These are men who have been waiting twenty years for the time to strike. Kolya thought the Fetisovs were broken. He’s about to be disappointed.”
He leans forward. “And that reminds me of another matter.”
“Which is?”
“If, rather, when, we are successful in taking out Kolya, that will leave his remnants, much of which are old Fetisov holdings, which means—”
“She’ll be in line to inherit them.”
“That’s right. You think this young woman has what it takes to be a pakhan? She has the blood, but what about the stomach?”
It’s a question that needs to be answered, one I’d been putting off asking.
“We can discuss this with her when you meet. She’ll need to know what’s at stake.”
He claps his hands together.
“Very good. All is settled then. I’ll meet this girl and we’ll decide from there. Now let me order properly. If we’re planning the end of that bastard Kolya Sokolov, I’d like to do it over a decent meal.”
We eat. We talk. But not about Kolya. We mostly discuss Lev. Max tells me stories about him that I’d never heard. One of them being that Lev arm wrestled a Sicilian underboss at a summit in Brighton Beach and lost on purpose, so the man would sign a trade agreement.
We talk about Masha’s legendary pirozhki, which she refused to tell anyone else how to make. He tells me about how Lev would end every meeting by standing, straightening his cuffs, and saying, “Gentlemen, try not to fuck anything up until we meet again.”
I find myself laughing at every one of them.
It’s been a while.
“Alright,” he says, pushing his plate away, “let us return to business.”
“Much to do,” I reply. “We could go straight to my estate from here. I’m just ten minutes away.”
Max shakes his head. “Not yet. I need to go to the hotel, make some phone calls, and update people back in Moscow. Many are waiting to hear how this little meeting of ours went.”
I lean forward. “Did you imagine it might go poorly?”
“No. But you know how you Italians can be—a little impulsive and unpredictable.”
“Perhaps. But I also know how you Russians can be—a little too stoic for your own good. Not to mention glacial in their decision-making.”
“I prefer to think of it as being prudent.” He stands. “Come. And don’t you even think about taking out a card.”
By the time we settle up the bill, there’s a recognition, an understanding, that two men who’ve been circling the same target from opposite sides of the world are finally in one another’s orbit.
And that we’re both within striking distance of getting revenge.
We walk out into the late spring chill. East 52nd Street is quiet after the lunch rush, and traffic is thinning. My car is already at the curb, my driver behind the wheel. Max nods toward a black sedan three spots back.
“There is my ride,” he says.
He steps over to me and extends his hand. I take it.
“This evening,” he says. “Six o’clock. I will be in touch. I am looking forward to working with you, Gabriel.”
“Likewise, Max.”
He releases my grip. “Never thought I would say such a thing about a Camorra boss, but I suppose these are strange times.”
“Strange times, indeed. And likely momentous ones.”
He considers that for a moment, then nods, as if agreeing. With that, he turns toward his car.
I hear the roar of the engine before I see the vehicle.
It’s a specific pitch accelerating hard. I turn to see a black SUV barreling down the street in the wrong direction.
My hand is in my jacket before the thought catches up.
The SUV tears toward us, coming from Park Avenue. No plates, tinted windows. The passenger-side window is down. And in the half second it takes my brain to register the muzzle flash, I’m already diving, my arms slamming into the pavement hard enough to tear my jacket.
“Max!” I shout.
The first shot catches him in the back. Three more follow, the sound of gunfire swallowed by the city noise. Max is spun around from the momentum, and he staggers forward. I can see the confusion on his face—not pain, just incomprehension.
He takes one more unstable step forward before his knees buckle.
I draw.
I level my gun and take aim, just as the SUV comes to a stop thirty feet away.
Everything slows down. I can see the driver, a man with a shaved head and long beard, wearing sunglasses. And I can make out the gunman—young, dark curly hair, with steady, gloved hands.
Two professionals.
One of them with his gun raised and pointing in my direction.
I fire twice. Bang, bang.
The first round punches through the open window and catches the shooter in the chest. The second gets him in the throat. He jerks back, then slumps sidesways, the rifle falling out of his hands and landing in the street.
I can’t see the driver’s eyes. But I can make out his brow crinkling in surprise as he realizes what just happened. Surprise shifts to panic, and he floors the accelerator.
I fire one more shot. That’s all I need. The windshield breaks into a spiderweb of cracks, and the SUV swerves hard left, jumps the curb and plows into a delivery van. The impact makes a metallic, wrenching sound that cuts through the air like the atmosphere is being split open.
Steam erupts from the hood. The driver’s head, smeared with blood, slumps against the wheel.
There’s a long silence before the screaming starts.
Pedestrians who’d been standing around slack-jawed as the chaos began are now realizing how close they came to true danger. One of them drops a coffee cup and runs off, another pulls her child into the nearest building. The rest run in the opposite direction.
I catch sight of the delivery truck driver stepping out of his vehicle unharmed, surveying the damage with a look of total surprise.
I rush to Max, who’s lying on his stomach, and drop to my knees next to him. The exit wounds are bad—there’s too much blood, spreading too fast, a dark red puddle growing underneath him. His breathing sounds wet as his lungs fill with fluid.
“Max.” I roll him over gently. “Stay with me.”
His gray eyes find mine. He’s fading fast.
“Teodora,” he manages. “Take care of her.”
“I will.”
A weak nod. “Tell her… her father was…” He coughs up blood. “The best man I ever knew.”
His grip loosens.
His eyes go still.
Then he’s gone.
In that moment, I realize that the war on the horizon is no longer a distant threat.
It’s here.