35. Konstantin
35
KONSTANTIN
THE NEXT AFTERNOON
The Somewhere Bar is lit up by neon lights and, despite its proximity to Times Square, is surprisingly devoid of a big crowd on the inside. The bartender, a scowling bald man covered with tattoos, gives me a nod when he sees us and points to a table in the back.
Sitting there with his dark gaze fixed on me is Christian Genovesi. His face maintains a stoic expression, his jet-black hair is slicked back from his face, and his broad shoulders are squared back as I approach. He sits with several other men at the table.
Cocky bastard.
All of them have their hands folded on the white table clothes, and their jackets are opened to show that they’re unarmed.
I extend both my hands and open up my suit jacket to show him that I, too, am unarmed. Christian nods in response and gestures at the two empty seats on the other end of the table without a word.
One for me. One for Sima .
“Good evening, Mr. Siderov.” He rises and extends his hand.
I clasp his hand in mine, and each of us not-so-subtly try to crush the other in our grip before we let go.
“Why am I meeting with you and not your boss?” I ask. “Where’s your don?”
“Emilio Lanzzare has fallen into a coma,” he explains. “For some time now, actually. Until he passes, I have been empowered to speak on his behalf.”
“Is that right?” I force myself to smile, keeping my voice airy. “Should I call you Don Christian or Don Genovesi? I wouldn’t want to be rude, seeing as how I’m not in my territory.”
“Christian will suffice.” He smiles thinly. “And please, this territory still belongs to my don. I am but his loyal associate, which is more than what I can say about some of the men who used to work for the Ferratas.”
My eyes narrow. I know what he’s talking about. Or rather, who he’s talking about. But Zampa and his men are already on a flight to Taranto, where they’ll be received with open arms by my brigadiers for the impeccable work they’ve done for me.
I take care of my own.
He motions at the empty chair for me. “Please. Sit.”
When I do, he scrapes his eyes over each man at the table. “Gentlemen,” he says. “Introduce yourselves.”
One by one, the other men rattle off their names. Some do it with smiles, either fake or close to real. Most scowl, not bothering to hide their disdain for me.
I make note of their names in case I have to address them personally. But otherwise, I keep my face an unreadable mask. There’s still no promise that this meeting won’t turn out violently yet. I spare a quick glance at the empty seat where Sima would’ve sat.
They already think I’m disrespecting them.
When they’re finished, Christian takes his seat. “I wish it were under better circumstances that I am disclosing this information. But I hope that you accept my honesty about my don’s current conditions as a token of good faith.”
“I appreciate your token of good faith, Christian,” I tell him “Now that the formalities are out of the way, we need to talk about the future of this city.”
“You asked me where my don is.” Christian looks to the empty chair beside me. “And I’ve extended you that courtesy. So it would be appreciated if you extend your courtesy to me and tell me where your avtoritet is.”
“Much as your don empowered you to speak on his behalf, I’ve empowered Gerasim Petrovich with the power to speak on mine .”
“Why?” he asks.
“I’ve sent him to speak with Zhanna Nikolaeva.”
At the mention of her name, a flurry of glances is exchanged across the table. I remain still and calm until Christian speaks up again.
Christian flares his nostrils, pushing air out of his pressed lips. “The question again. Why?”
“Because if there’s one person who might get Gennady Starukhin and Vasily Barinov to back down, it’s her.” I look him square in the eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
There’s a noticeable shift in the air. The man next to Christian’s right bends to whisper in his ear. A few other men cast their looks toward him, then me, and then at their own hands.
Hands that are still above the table.
So far, so good .
“I would.” Christian nods. “Zhanna Nikolaeva understands the importance of talking. Of protocol. Of the need for rules and laws among the lawless. But do you?”
“I assure you that everything I did, I did as a measured response to something that the Ferrata had already done.” I incline my head. “Each one proportionate to the disrespect they showed me.”
“You killed four men in New York.” He points out. “You attacked a wedding. You killed Domenico in a city you are not allowed to be in. And you torched his home afterwards. Is that your definition of proportionate?”
“It is.” I nod. “Have you ever asked why I did these things?”
“Neither you nor your avtoritet has given us an explanation,” he answers. “I can only assume that it’s all part of your war with him. A war that you brought here to our shores while another war looms on the horizon.”
“Which is why I’m sitting here with you today,” I tell him. “Because I want to keep that war on the horizon where it will never arrive. Allow me to fill you in on some crucial details. The Ferrata went back on a peace deal that they were supposed to have signed with me. They lured me to Italy under the pretense that our war was over, only to kidnap my sister here in New York. Then, they tried to kill me after we had signed the agreement.”
Another look is exchanged around the table. Heads lean in close, words are whispered, and Christian holds his hand up to silence them all.
“And when I married, Domenico sent killers to my wedding.” I continue. “He tried to kill me. He tried to kill my wife. If there’s a man here who broke protocol first, it was him, not me.”
“Just because he committed the first sin, does not give you right to follow in his footsteps,” Christian reminds me. “Attacking a wedding and killing nearly every capo and distinguished guest present is deeply troubling. Whether he broke protocol first or not is inconsequential at this point. You have made a point of escalating things beyond anything that we dare imagine.”
“And I would do so again,” I tell him. “Make no mistake about that.”
Christian narrows his eyes. This time, he doesn’t say anything.
Remember what Emily said. You don’t have to win every fight. Just the fight that matters.
“Do you have children, Christian?” I ask. “Siblings?”
“No and no.”
“Cousins, then?”
“One.” He nods. “A girl named Mercy.”
“And if I were to steal Mercy from under your nose,” I say, and eye the men around him as their fists start tightening around the table. One man in particular—a man by the name of Vito— glares at me for even daring this suggestion, but I press on. “Force her into a marriage she did not want, you would hunt me to the corners of this earth and burn down every place that I touch, wouldn’t you?”
Christian puts his hand Vito’s forearm and gives him a nod. Slowly, the fists start unclenching.
“Naturally,” he says. “Why does this matter?
“Because that’s what Domenico intended to do with my sister,” I speak at Christian, but I’m looking at Vito.
The man’s glare does not lessen, but his fist unclenches ever so slightly.
“I see.” Christian nods. “I can understand why you might’ve reacted the way that you have. ”
“Like I said, Christian. Each act was a measured response proportional to the disrespect shown to me.”
“So, what are you asking us?”
The fact that he’s not trying to push for his own terms tells me that he’s interested in a deal. That interest is the only thing I need.
“I’m simply asking you to believe me when I tell you that I have no plans for New York,” I tell him. “I am here to attend a wedding, nothing more.”
“It’s unfortunate that weddings you attend these days often devolve into bloodbaths.”
“Which is why I’m hoping that with your help, this one remains a happy occasion. A happy one that my wife deserves after all the turmoil we’ve gone through. In exchange, I swear to you that the Siderov Bratva will make no attempt at seizing anything that once belonged to the Ferrata Mafia here in New York.”
“I have your word?” Christian taps the table with one finger, as loud as a judge’s gavel.
“You have my word.” I hold my hand to my chest. “I’m not here to rob you, Christian. I just want one thing. To attend this wedding with my wife in peace, and make her happy.”
There’s a stirring around the table as they grumble, some leaning together to speak so I can’t hear. Christian stares at me impassively. Does he think I’m insane, or is he impressed?
He reclines in his chair with his elbows hooking the arms. He looks at me, as if he’s trying to read my mind.
“And like I said,” I point out. “I’ve sent my avtoritet to speak with Zhanna Nikolaeva with the same message for the East Coast Bratvas.”
Christian narrows his eyes. “Then why did you meet with me and not them? Why not send your avtoritet to negotiate with me in your place? Especially since, as you say, he’s been empowered to speak on your behalf.”
“Because I don’t need to convince the East Coast Bratvas to abandon talks of a ceasefire,” I reply. “I needed to convince you. If I were to send my avtoritet, it would be a sign of disrespect for your organization. But more importantly, by coming here myself, it’s a guarantee that I’m not negotiating a secret alliance with them.”
“For now.” He steeples his fingers.
“For good.” I correct him. “I mean it. I have no interest in this city, apart from coming here every once in a while for my wife to spend my money.” I glance at some of the men’s hands and note several who wear wedding rings. “Something that I’m sure your loyal men are all too familiar with.”
A ring of chuckles arises around the table, and the tension in the air eases somewhat. This is the best-case scenario, and I mean every word I said. There are downsides, yes, but none of it is my concern.
I’ve carved out my corner of the world.
I’ve found the perfect woman for me. The mother of the child we made together. A stubborn, reckless, and fearless woman who I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with.
I’m content with that.
Rising from the chair with all eyes on me, I approach Christian. He stands to meet me halfway.
“So.” I extend my hand. “Do we have terms?”
“We do.” He claps his hand on mine, his grip iron hard. I return his gesture in kind. And to his credit, he doesn’t flinch and his eyes never pull away from mine. “I can agree to those terms.”
The men drum their fists on the table, sounding like a stampede of horses in the near empty bar. Christian continues to eye me as we both sit back down in our respective seats, not joining the celebration.
“What will you do now?” he asks when the men finish drumming.
“Weren’t you listening, Christian? I have a wedding to attend to.” I can’t stop the smile spreading on my face as I push back from the table. “My wife is probably about to start her matron of honor speech soon. And I promised I’ll be there in time to dance with her.”