35. Ruslan
35
RUSLAN
I wait at the entrance of the mansion, watching the black sedans arrive one after another. My coronation as pakhan of pakhans is hours away, yet I'm already tired of the pageant.
Bratva politics have always been a game of bloodied chess pieces.
A necessary evil, but still evil.
Korsakov's car pulls up first, his driver hurrying to open the door. He emerges with his harsh face set in determination, straightening his cufflinks as if preparing for battle rather than ceremony.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich," he calls, climbing the steps with surprising agility for a man his age. "First to arrive, as promised."
"Pavel Yanovich." I clasp his outstretched hand. "Your loyalty won't be forgotten."
His laugh is like gravel. "I'm a man smart enough to recognize power when I see it."
At least he's honest. I'd rather have men who admit their self-interest than pretend at brotherhood.
My eyes drift back to the driveway as Svarikov's Bentley rolls in, followed closely by Voronin's Mercedes. Those two have synchronized their appearances. It's a subtle reminder that while they support me, they remain their own unified force.
Balakirev appears minutes later, and his trademark frown softens slightly when he sees me. And why wouldn't he? His banking empire needs my guns to remain secure.
"Dmitri Rodionovich," I acknowledge. "Welcome."
"Where's Potyomkin?" Balakirev asks, his eyes narrowing. "I would've expected the lord of Las Vegas to attend such a momentous occasion."
By all means, Potyomkin should be here, but Vera had insisted that they return home to Las Vegas. With her so close to her due date, it is an understandable request.
And for all his faults, I cannot fault Potyomkin for giving his wife what she wants.
"Vyacheslav Petrovich has returned to Vegas with his wife," I explain, smoothing down my tie. "She's in the final weeks of her pregnancy and needed to be home. He's already cast his vote in my favor."
Balakirev snorts, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a smile. "A new world where pakhans are ruled by their women. In the old days, we didn't let our cocks lead our decisions."
The words are heavy with meaning. And the three other men on the steps tense, waiting to see how I'll respond.
This is Balakirev's test.
He wants to know which way the new pakhan of pakhans will tip.
Family or the Vori ?
I step closer, not enough to crowd him but enough that he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
"Remind me again, Dmitri Rodionovich," I say. "What is the meaning of the word bratva? "
To his credit, Balakirev doesn't hesitate to answer. "Brotherhood."
I give him a cold smile. "And what is the source of brotherhood, Dmitri Rodionovich?"
"The bonds between men, forged in blood and loyalty."
"No." I shake my head. "No brother exists without a family. And no family exists without a mother."
My thoughts turn to Aurora as I speak. I think about her fierce intelligence, her unbreakable resilience, and the infinite depths of her love.
I think about Andrei and Nadia taking shape inside her.
But above all, I think about the family I'm building while salvaging the broken pieces of my brother's family.
"It is family that builds bonds, gives purpose, and imbues men with the courage and strength necessary to do great things." I continue. "The first pakhans of America knew this when they arrived while the old country burned. They understood this in their bones. But under Gregor, the Vori has forgotten that strength."
And that's the truth.
Over the years, the Vori saw power only in brutality, political maneuvering, and self-interest. But true power comes from something much more powerful.
"Our power has never come from how many men we kill or how many territories we hold," I continue. "It comes from love. Both the love of a woman who refused to be broken, and the love it takes to defend and protect the family you build with her. You would never fight to death for money or power. But you would fight God himself to keep your family whole and your children safe."
Balakirev studies me. Seconds stretch between us. Decades of bratva beliefs now conflicting against something simultaneously new yet impossibly old.
Then his face changes.
The hardness doesn't disappear. Not completely. I doubt it ever will.
"A good answer, Ruslan Vitalyevich," he says finally, "And I find myself more at ease with my decision now having heard it."
He extends his hand, and when I grasp it, his grip is firm. Decisive.
"To family," he says, loud enough for all to hear.
After the four of them comes the undecided pakhans arrive, each with eager smiles that barely mask their calculation. They bow their heads just low enough to show respect without submission.
They'll wait until the crown is firmly on my head before deciding how deep their loyalty runs.
But it's not these men who concern me. My eyes keep returning to the gates, watching for Gregor's arrival. The old bastard knows exactly what he's doing by making me wait. If he doesn't show, the formal coronation becomes impossible—the transition of power incomplete.
Minutes stretch into an hour. The pakhans grow restless, checking their watches, making calls.
"Belov's absence speaks volumes," Voronin mutters, too close to my ear.
I don't respond. Let him wonder if I'm worried. The truth is, I'm not. Gregor's absence doesn't weaken my position.
It only confirms what I already knew.
The old order was already dead. The jungle had already torn itself down.
It simply hadn’t acknowledged it until now.
Finally, a sleek black Maybach drives through the gates.
Gregor has arrived.
The old bastard takes his time climbing out. His driver rushes forward with an umbrella, even though there's not a cloud in the sky. Just another symbol of status, another reminder of his position.
No , I remind myself, what used to be his position .
The crowd parts for him without prompting.
Even now, these men can't help but show deference to the architect of the Zapadniye Vori .
But me?
I feel anger surge through me like a physical wave. This man negotiated with Semyon behind all our backs. This man sanctioned the death of my brother and nephew.
He lied to my face and implied that Tamara would've been fine with the death of her own daughters.
And now he has the audacity to pretend that he still deserves respect.
His eyes, sharp despite his age, lock with mine. There's no fear there, not even concern.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich," Gregor greets me, his voice carrying across the entrance. "What an impressive gathering. One might almost think you were attempting some sort of coup."
"A strange choice of words from a man who secretly negotiated with Semyon against my own brother," I reply, my voice level. "Welcome, Gregor Iosifovich. I'm glad you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."
Gregor climbs the steps, the end of his cane clicking with each deliberate slow motion. The other pakhans become statues, watching, waiting.
"I understand what this is about," he says when he reaches me and eyes the four pakhans standing behind me. "I've known the moment you sent those four to rally the rest for your foolish war. But a war won't crown you pakhan of pakhans, boy."
Boy. He uses that word as if it's an insult. But I'm not much older than he was when he brought the warring pakhans under his heel thirty years ago.
I hold his gaze, and keep my face still.
"Then why not ask the rest of the Vori? We're all here now."
Around us, the gathered pakhans shift uneasily. They can feel it.
The transfer of power is happening before their eyes.
"Now?" Gregor's eyebrows rise slightly. "On your doorstep?"
"Why not?" I gesture to the men around us. "Everyone who matters is already here."
"And where is Vyacheslav Petrovich?" Gregor asks, his voice dripping with feigned concern.
I almost smile.
He thinks he's found his escape hatch.
I reach into my jacket pocket, pulling out my phone. "Shall we ask him right now?"
The gathered pakhans exchange looks as I dial Potyomkin's number. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the electronic ring coming from my phone.
Potyomkin answers on the fourth ring. "Ruslan."
His voice fills the entranceway, clear and strong through the speaker. Gregor's eyes narrow.
"Vyacheslav Petrovich," I say, keeping my voice formal. "I have Gregor Iosifovich and the rest of the Vori here with me. We're discussing some important matters."
There's a brief pause, then Potyomkin chuckles. "Let me guess. The old man is making things difficult."
Gregor's face tightens, his jaw clenching at the disrespect.
I move to the point swiftly. "Vyacheslav Petrovich, would you like to put forth a motion to remove Gregor Iosifovich as pakhan of pakhans?"
"With pleasure," Potyomkin answers without hesitation. "I move to strip Gregor Belov of his title for betrayal of the Vori through his secret negotiations with Semyon Mikonov. For his part in the deaths of Lev and Mikhail Dragunov."
I turn to look at my allies, feeling the weight of the moment. "Do I have a second?"
Korsakov steps forward immediately, his voice cutting through the tension. "I second the motion."
Gregor stares at us, his face an unreadable mask. But I can see the slight tremor in his hands as his fingers tighten around his cane.
"The motion has been made and seconded," I announce, looking around the gathered men. "We will now vote. Those in favor?"
Voronin's hand rises first. " Da ."
Balakirev follows without hesitation. " Da ."
Svarikov joins them. " Da ."
"Slava?" I ask into the phone.
" Da. " Potyomkin answers with laughter in his voice.
Then, Korsakov adds his vote as well. My eyes scan the rest of the gathered pakhans before turning back to Gregor, whose face is starting to pale.
"And what about the rest of you?" I ask. "Raise your hand now if you wish to vote with us."
One by one, the remaining pakhans raise their hands in affirmation. Some eagerly, some reluctantly, but they all recognize which way the wind is blowing. Some still choose to keep their hands down, but it doesn't matter.
There are more than enough votes to carry me through.
I meet Gregor's eyes as the final hands go up. "Two votes left."
And then I raising my own hand.
Gregor doesn't move. His eyes scan the faces of the men he once commanded, searching for any sign of loyalty and finding none.
The realization dawns on him slowly, like ice melting in the sun. Thirty years of power slipping away before his eyes.
He stares at me for what feels like forever, and then finally raises his voice to the gathered crowd.
"I vote no," he proclaims.
A final act of defiance that changes nothing.
Scattered murmurs ripple through the gathered pakhans. Some smirk, some shift uncomfortably.
But none interfere.
Not that they could.
"It seems the Vori no longer belongs to you, Gregor Iosifovich," I say, keeping my voice level. "The vote has passed."
Gregor's shoulders drop just slightly. A momentary lapse in his rigid composure that speaks volumes about the weight of what he's lost.
"And what happens to him now?" Korsakov's gruff voice cuts through the moment, his meaning unmistakable.
I know what he's asking.
The old ways would demand Gregor's death.
It's what the gathered men expect: a blood sacrifice to christen the new tsar.
But as I look at the old man, I think of Aurora. Her voice whispers in my mind, reminding me that mercy may be the harder path, but it is ultimately the better one.
I think about what happens if I order Gregor's death today. The men who still have interests tied to him—and there are many—will not forget.
They'll bide their time, nurture their resentment, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. For every drop of Gregor's blood that is spilled today, a river will flow in the future.
The Vori has seen enough civil war.
"Gregor Iosifovich will be allowed to retire from his duties," I announce, watching confusion spread across the faces of the gathered men. "He will be my Sovyetnik ."
A sovyetnik is an advisor. A man with status but no power, only the trappings of power.
Voronin leans toward Svarikov, whispering something I can't hear. Balakirev watches me with narrowed eyes, recalculating his assessment of me.
My eyes find Gregor's.
"Consider it a courtesy for your decades of service and a reminder that I'm not Vitaly." Then I lean in close and whisper in his ear. "But if you so much as dare to plot against me, Gregor Iosifovich, I will retract my mercy."
I thrust my hand forward, extending it toward Gregor where the ring on my finger gleams in the sunlight.
Gregor stares at it, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching beneath his weathered skin.
For a moment, I think he might refuse.
But power recognizes power.
With excruciating slowness, he bends forward. His lips press against the metal, cold and formal. When he straightens, something in his eyes has changed. The fight hasn't left him. I'm not fool enough to believe that
But acceptance has settled in.
One by one, the other pakhans step forward. Voronin first, then Balakirev, then Svarikov. Each man bends to kiss the ring, sealing their loyalty, or at least their temporary allegiance, to me as pakhan of pakhans.
The transfer of power is complete, and now they all look to me expectantly.
"What now, Ruslan Vitalyevich?" Gregor asks, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent gathering. "You've claimed the crown. You've declared your war. What will be the first action you take as our leader?"
I sweep my gaze across the assembled men.
"We kill Semyon," I say, my voice steady and certain. "He will die publicly and brutally. A message not just to the Triads but to anyone who thinks they can challenge the power of the Vori ."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the gathering.
"And how do you intend to accomplish this?" Gregor asks, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Semyon has been very careful to hide himself."
The corner of my mouth lifts in a cold smile.
"I have a plan," I tell him, meeting his gaze directly. "Semyon has been relying on his alliance with the Triads and a police chief from Kansas City to shield him. But the chief's usefulness is about to end."
I think of Aurora, of the documentary that will expose Kristofer for what he is. Of how we'll strip Semyon of his protection one ally at a time until he stands alone.
"As for the specifics," I continue. "Those will remain known only to those who need to know. But rest assured, Semyon Mikonov's days are numbered. So are his allies. In one week, we will make our move."