Chapter 19
MATVEI
The room has no windows. That's the way we designed it.
I sit at the head of the long, cherry-wood table, polished to a high finish. Instead of heading the proceedings today, I am the focus of them.
Evgeny and I trailed Samson around the city, my rage simmering, my desire to simply kill the bastard and return home to Sonya instead of watching, waiting, and collecting information consuming me.
This inquiry pushes my anger to another level entirely. I could have failed to show up, my absence standing as my simple answer to the other syndicates. I could have threatened reprisal if they dared question me.
But the fact that they're calling this tribunal means my power is in danger of slipping. Which makes me angry, and I’m already in a foul mood from the constant ache in my shoulder and being called here at all.
Somehow, the other syndicates have learned of my recent business deals. They can’t know too much because no one besides Evgeny knows the whole of it. I created a web too complicated, even key people knowing only what they need to.
My gut is telling me this has to do with the torching of my warehouse. No way the two aren't connected. I'm almost positive I know who's behind it. But I need proof first.
If I had refused to join instead of clearing things up now, there's a good chance suspicion would land on my relationship with Sonya. She is carrying my child, the heir to my empire.
I can't let Sonya and the baby become targets.
The other heads of the Chicago Bratva watch me, their expressions ranging from anger to disturbance to anxiety, especially among the heads of the smaller families—those who owe quite a lot to me.
In fact, everyone in this room owes quite a lot to me.
Finally, Vasily, his scarred face frightening, clears his throat. "Matvei, I think you know why we called you here."
I lean back in my chair, cross one leg over the other, and study each face, especially those who won't look me in the eye. "Do I?"
"We're here because of the disturbing rumors that have been circulating. Rumors claiming that you’re trying to make your businesses legitimate, betraying the vory v zakone."
My laugh is derisive. "Is that really all you have, Vasiliy? Rumors?"
"They're not just rumors," Grigoriy snaps. He's tall, thin, and gaunt, his cheeks and eyes sunken in, making him look like an animated corpse.
"I've managed to substantiate the fact that several of your dealings lately have been moving into other markets. Legitimate markets."
I stare him down. "And why does that bother you, Grigoriy? Because it's legitimate? Or because I've discovered yet another revenue stream that you're too dense to come up with yourself?"
Finally, some color appears on his face, his cheeks turning a pale pink.
"You know you won the vote for pakhan of the Volkov’s by very slim margins, Matvei.
There are those of us who wanted your brother instead, even though he was young, because he would have deepened the Bratva's hold on the city.
He would have shown the Italians and the Irish where they belong in the hierarchy. "
"My brother? You mean the bastard who comes from a disgraced Italian mob family?"
"No matter where he comes from and despite the fact that Piotr barely acknowledged him, Samson has still been able to build strong alliances on his own." A nasty sneer appears on Grigoriy’s face as he finishes the sentence.
"Samson has illegal dealings and a slippery tongue. Don't tell me his fast-talking nonsense has won you over. Have you really fallen for his bullshit?" I taunt. "My father chose me for a reason. Did you truly respect my father, as you say? Or were you merely cozying up to his power and influence?"
"Your father earned our respect," he sputters.
"And Matvei hasn't?" One of the younger pakhan stands and plants both hands on the tabletop.
He looks to the walking corpse, his eyes lit with anger.
"I cannot fathom that you believed that asshole enough to have convened a tribunal.
We all know this is ridiculous, a farce.
It's nothing more than a show because you’re betting on a horse that has promised you everything and will give you nothing.
Have you forgotten Samson has always been a part of the Italian mob?
You do realize he's just married into the Mancini family, right?
And he's made no secret of the fact that not only does he want to take his mother's family back to their golden years on our backs, but he also wants to destroy Matvei. "
"What would you know about any of this?" Grigoriy hisses.
Arms crossed over his chest, the younger pakhan glares across the table. "Enough not to fall for Samson's bullshit and some random whispers."
"They're not random," another voice speaks up. "They're very specific."
"Oh, yes, that makes it all better," says another of my staunch allies, this one older and with more clout. "And that doesn't make you suspicious? We all have legitimate businesses in one way or another."
The young pakhan pushes to his feet to back up the older man. "Perhaps you're getting senile, Grigoriy, and it's time for you to step down."
His comment fires up the table, and for a moment, shouts and threats get tossed around the room.
"Enough!" My order cuts through the commotion, and the men fall silent.
I take in each face around the table. Evgeny looms behind me, the brawn to my might, the threat to my words.
His presence is a silent warning to anyone considering open defiance, and I know even those who appear steadfast may be weighing their options.
Trust runs thin in this room, and every word spoken feels like a test of loyalty.
Many of these men wish to take my place, to make my power and fortune their own.
I keep my posture relaxed, but my mind races through possible alliances and betrayals, knowing that tonight could tip the balance of command.
"It seems as though there are some of you who think I should be removed from my position. Should we take a vote?"
"Are you ready to lose your place tonight?" Vasiliy speaks up, the scar above his eyebrow twisting with his glare.
"I suppose that's one option. Is that your vote, Vasiliy?"
His dark eyes narrow into a hostile glare as he grunts out, "yes," but he looks away, unable to hold my gaze.
There are, as I expected, several more "yesses" around the table. But there are also several "no’s" from my supporters.
When Evgeny and I are in the car, I let out a string of curses. "That was far too close for comfort."
"Vasiliy has always coveted what you have, and Grigoriy hated your father and the fact that he had to bow to him." Evgeny slows the car to a stop at a red light, the windshield wipers swabbing away the rain that started while we were inside. "And Denis is just a weasel."
"Grigoriy looks more and more like a corpse every year. When the hell is he actually going to die?" I take a deep breath in an attempt to tamp down my simmering anger.
"Most of the syndicates still support you." The light turns green, the color reflecting off the wet concrete, ice forming on the puddles as the temperature drops.
"Fewer than before," I reply. "The sharks are beginning to circle; they smell blood in the water."
"There's no blood in the water. Samson's just poured a bunch of chum in to stir things up like he always does. Nothing will come of it."
Evgeny is usually right, though this time, I'm not so sure. Several pakhan dislike me so much that they're willing to ally themselves with the known Italian mafia dons.
Never mind the attack on my warehouse and the slowly healing bullet hole in my shoulder, which is currently aching due to the damp cold. Just like all my other wounds and breaks, it’s a reminder of the life I've led and the dangers I face every day I'm alive.
The dangers I don't want my child or Sonya to have to deal with.
"Whether or not we think Samson can succeed, we need to shut him down. Quickly."
My thoughts once again turn to Sonya and the baby we have yet to meet.
I have to keep them safe, no matter what it takes—there is no other option. Even if it means I have to restrict her movements even more. Even if I have to pull away from her so nothing will cloud my head and judgment.
She won’t like it, but in the end, it might just save her life.