17. Anton
ANTON
By the time I walk into the Brotherhood house that evening, half of those present already know enough to look irritated and the other half know enough to look smug.
The meeting room sits on the older side of the building behind thick doors, dark paneling, and enough layered security to make lesser men feel important on the way in.
I go in alone, which is the first of the two things I intended to do.
The second is that I’m late by exactly four minutes, which is just enough to be noticed and not enough to be disrespectful unless somebody already wants a fight. Today, somebody definitely does.
Sergei Malenkov is already seated to the right of the head chair in a dark suit, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression so reigned in it’s almost theatrical.
Across from him sits Viktor Belov, older, broad through the chest, silver hair cut close, eyes that never stopped looking like they belong to a man who once broke bones for a living and only later learned to do it with signatures.
Mikhail Sidorov is nearer the far end, older than both, pricey watch, heavy shoulders, and a face that suggests his patience ran out around 1998 and never fully returned.
The boss sits at the head of the table and watches me come in without changing his face. I take my seat.
Nobody offers me a drink—that’s the third message.
Sergei is the one who opens. He likes being the first voice in a room, says it helps him pretend he owns its rhythm. “We understand,” he says, “that you brought a Leonidov woman into your home.”
Straight to the chase, then. I lean back in the chair and look at him. “You understand correctly.”
Mikhail snorts. “That answer alone tells me we’re in for a tiresome hour.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I reply. “You could all decide early not to waste my time.”
Viktor’s mouth shifts with something close to amusement. Sergei doesn’t share it.
“A Leonidov woman,” Sergei repeats, “in a Reznikov penthouse, under guard, with staff aware, movement adjusted, and men redirected around her. Are you being stupid, Anton, or do you have good reason?”
I don’t lose character. “Reason.”
The boss lets everyone look at me first. Mikhail taps two fingers on the table. “Then let’s begin where the room already is. Get rid of her.”
“No.”
His eyes lift fully now. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“I didn’t need to.”
Sergei folds his hands more tightly. “The practical version is simple. If she’s carrying your child, that can be dealt with later.
Blood can be acknowledged and protection can be extended later.
She doesn’t need to remain in your home while we sort the freight problem, the Leonidov instability, and the fact that Maks has his heart set on causing a ruckus. ”
“She stays with me,” I reply, keeping my voice calm and grounded.
Viktor leans back. “That sounded less like argument and more like instruction.”
“It was both.”
Mikhail’s patience thins visibly. “You are not the only man in this organization, Anton.”
“No,” I say. “I’m just one of the few you still trust when things get ugly.”
A few of them shift in their chairs, and Sergei’s eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“I am being careful. That’s why she’s alive.”
The boss still says nothing, which is a good sign. If he were going to cut me off early, he’d already have done it.
I put both forearms on the table and look at the room properly.
“You want me to hand her off, hide behind process, and pretend time will improve the situation. It won’t.
Maks is already moving too fast, and he’s already building story cover for whatever comes next.
If she leaves my control now, she becomes vulnerable to every man in the chain who wants to earn points cheaply. ”
“Control,” Sergei says. “Interesting choice of word.”
I don’t flinch. “It’s the right word.”
Mikhail laughs once without warmth. “This is a woman, not a shipment.”
I round on him. “Then stop talking about her like she can be warehoused and claimed later without consequence.”
That earns me a hard look from three sides of the table, but I keep going.
I’ve broken collection deadlocks in Prague and Riga, pulled tribute out of men who thought distance protected them, cleaned up two internal leaks without dragging police onto our routes, and put down three crew disputes that were one bad night away from becoming funerals.
Men like these remember results longer than tone.
I look at each of them in turn, then lace my fingers together on the table. “I’m not moving Sofiya from where I have my eyes on her.”
Viktor’s gaze narrows while Sergei’s mouth goes flat. Mikhail looks at the boss exasperatedly. “He’s in love with the problem.”
The boss finally speaks. “Enough dancing. Tell us why she remains with you.”
I hold his gaze and speak plainly. “She is carrying my child.”
No one moves right away, though most likely knew some version of it was coming. Sergei is the first to recover. “Confirmed?”
“Yes.”
Mikhail rubs a hand over his mouth and Viktor just watches me more closely now. The boss nods once. “Then blood is involved.”
“Yes.”
That settles one argument. Sergei says, “Blood explains why you moved quickly. It doesn’t explain why she stays under your direct roof instead of being placed somewhere quieter.”
“Yes, it does,” I say. “A quieter place is exactly where men disappear. I’m not giving Maks or anyone adjacent to him the chance to buy one weak guard, one compromised driver, or one house manager with a gambling problem. In my home, under my men, nobody touches her.”
Mikhail scoffs. “You sound territorial.”
I look at him. “I am.” That gets Viktor to grunt out a laugh.
Sergei isn’t enjoying any part of this. “The older Leonidov-Reznikov problem doesn’t care whose child she carries.
Their name is still tied to ours through freight damage, old blood, and a truce neither side ever respected fully.
If Maks tightens now and learns you’re sheltering her openly, he will use it. ”
“He’s already tightening,” I say. “That’s exactly why this matters.”
The boss folds his hands. “Talk.”
I do.
“Maks is tightening around old Baltic routes, Finnish transfers, buried broker lines, and family subsidiaries that were supposed to stay out of things. He’s isolating some men, pulling others closer, and laying story groundwork in case something surfaces through Sofiya’s name later.
That means he’s preparing to survive her. ”
Mikhail grunts. “Ambitious men do that.”
“Stupid men do it early,” I say.
Sergei glances at me. “And your reading is that he’s both.”
“My reading is that men like him keep turning the dial until they hear something break, then they call the damage proof that everyone else lacked nerve.”
Viktor nods once. “That sounds like him.”
I continue before anyone gets too comfortable.
“The old Leonidov-Reznikov wound is useful to him and he wants to stand on it. If he can tie his private freight structure to old grievance, he gets cover, chaos, and a reason for both families to start making expensive mistakes. That gives him room to move money and power at the same time.”
Sergei taps the table once. “And what is the solution?”
“That depends how much appetite this room has.”
Mikhail leans back. “We don’t start a war for one man’s instincts and one woman’s panic.”
I smile without humor. “Then don’t call it war. Call it cleanup.”
The boss watches me. “Specifics.”
“Maks has to lose the freight structure, the narrative, or both. Preferably all three. You strip his broker relays, pressure the subsidiaries quietly, and expose just enough irregularity that his own side starts doubting what he controls. Then you make the Leonidovs solve him before he turns their family problem into ours again.”
Viktor asks, “And if the Leonidovs close ranks instead?”
“Then we force the issue wider. Customs pressure. Broker losses. Frozen side channels. He’s built this thing to stay hidden inside respectable movement. Dragging light over parts of it costs him.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “You’re speaking like you know more than you’re saying.”
I hold his gaze. “Yes.”
The room pauses on that.
Sergei says, “From her.”
“From a useful source.”
“And you’re withholding it.”
“I’m controlling it.”
I don’t add that I had Varga found three nights ago and brought in quietly from a town outside Szekesfehervar, where he’d been living under a different surname and keeping his head down.
He confirmed the secondary transit codes, the hidden vendor lines, the side accounts, and the fact that one intermediary payment trail tied to the old killing was never actually closed. It was buried deeper in the books under renamed entities and older authorizations.
More importantly, he confirmed that Maks used existing family freight structures and hid his own shipments and money inside them. For us, that means if this comes out badly, the Leonidovs won’t be the only ones hit.
Reznikov routes could get stopped, payments could get frozen, customs could start looking harder at our freight, and old blood between the families could flare up again. If that happens, we lose money first, then movement, and then men.
Mikhail laughs harshly. “That woman has you by the throat.”
I lean back and look at him. “If she did, I’d still be more useful to you than half the men who’ve ever sat at this table.”
That gets him half out of his chair before Viktor says, “Sit down, Mikhail. You’re too old to posture at him.”
The boss looks at me. “How solid is her intelligence?”
“Solid enough that Maks is scared.”
The boss finally shifts in his chair and nods.
“Then here is how this goes,” he says. “You keep the woman and find out what she knows in full. You identify what Maks has built, where it touches our lines, and whether it is worth surgical pressure or removal.”
Mikhail mutters, “Removal would be cleaner.”
The boss ignores him. “If this turns into open Leonidov-Reznikov damage again,” he says to me, “you do not get to hide behind sentiment.”
I almost laugh at the word. “Sentiment isn’t the issue.”
“No,” he says. “But attachment might become one.”
I keep my face still. “I’m attached to useful outcomes.”
Sergei says dryly, “And to the mother of your child.”
I look at him. “Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Viktor actually laughs at that, though the boss doesn’t.
“You’ve bought yourself a narrow window, Anton.
Use it well. If Maks is what you say he is, then he will keep tightening.
If the Leonidovs decide your sheltering her is provocation, then the old truce rots faster.
If your woman’s information is weak, then you have dragged blood into your house for nothing. ”
He pauses.
“If her information is strong and you still fail to turn it into something usable, then you become the loose end.”
The room goes very still after that. I stand, button my jacket, and say, “Then I won’t fail.”