Chapter 20 Anton
ANTON
This time of day at this point in the week, there’s almost no one here.
I walk into the church and the familiar scent of incense greets me, the smell of parts of my childhood when my mother was still alive and my father still believed.
There’s a short vestibule between the front doors and the sanctuary.
I walk through, stepping into the full glory of the church.
I don’t think I’ve ever been to this church before, but I imagine all churches in the Russian Orthodox faith are built the same, more or less.
Impossibly high ceilings round off near three distinct peaks, rows and rows of hyper clean pews with red upholstery and wooden bases, carved with curled corners at the end of each row.
The stained glass displays saints depicted in scenes that represent them, and behind the altar, the walls continue the saint artwork, little alcoves depicting each one, all underneath a large alcove hovering overhead with Jesus looking down on it all.
“Timely. I like that in a Pakhan.”
I glance to my right and see him sitting in the first pew.
Distinct in his graying hair and nearly white beard, he’s wearing a suit that covers tattoos that everyone knows cover his entire chest, back, and arms. Right now, only a bit of it all peaks out on the backs of his hands and a little bit over his collar.
He’s looking back at me with a curious smile on his face.
Nikolai Novikoff in the flesh.
“Sit. Please,” he says, patting the space next to him.
I’m reluctant to sit next to him. If there were a way we could sit facing one another, I would have preferred that.
I have to have faith that he wouldn’t dare do me any harm inside this church.
I know that a lot of the older Pakhan have attachments to sacred spaces like this, so it’s probably unlikely.
However, it’s not unheard for a ‘neutral conversation’ that ends up with one of us bleeding to death out on the front steps.
I sit next to him and we look forward at the display of religious glory before us.
“Nikolai,” I say.
“Anton.”
“Why am I here right now?”
“I’d like to think it’s because I asked,” he says, “but that may be too vain of me. I imagine you came because you want to tell me why you’ve started attacking my men.”
That’s almost laughable. He’s got to be putting me on. I look over at him to check to see if he’s joking. He’s not smiling.
“I don’t have time for games, Nikolai. You know exactly why I’ve been attacking them,” I say. “You’re the one who started all this.”
“I started all this?” He scoffed. “I’ve done a lot of things in my time as Pakhan, but I can’t say I’ve ever been unaware of a war that I supposedly started. As far as I know, I have done nothing to denigrate your or Maksim’s name.”
I cringe at the sound of my mentor’s name on his lips. “I should slit your throat for even speaking his name,” I growl. “You have no right.”
I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. I lean forward, clutching my hands together in an effort to quell my anger.
“You have a rare sort of anger, friend,” he says. “The kind that speaks of vengeance. Is that what all this is about?”
“Of course it is. You had him murdered. Poisoned. What other kind of response could you expect from me but violence?”
“And that is why Emil is dead,” he says. His voice sounds somber as if he just finished regaling me about some great man who lived an honorable life. He sighs and says, “What a waste.”
“What exactly do you want from me?” I say, turning around fully to him.
“My sovietnik was attacked by one of your men last night, not to mention your men butting into a deal a month ago, killing one of my men. And now you sit here acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about?
If this is some kind of game that you’re playing with me—”
“I didn’t kill Maksim,” he says. He stares at me, his eyes as dark and cold as night. “I didn’t order it to be done. I had nothing to do with it.”
I just stare. This is a trick, some ruse he’s trying to pull on me for his own sick amusement. Well, I’m not playing. I stand.
“I’ve had enough of this—”
“Sit down, Anton. We’re not done talking.”
“What is there to talk about? I’m not playing games with you.”
“Neither am I,” he says, raising his voice slightly. It echoes off the walls of the church. “Sit.”
He points to the space next to him and everything in me wants to drive my fist into his face. I sit down, however. Maybe it’s curiosity. I don’t know. But instead of fighting him, I listen to what he says.
“From my perspective,” he says, “You searched out one of my sixes, kidnapped, tortured, and murdered him and three of my men in cold blood two months after your return from Russia. Your men have been threatening mine on a near regular basis for weeks, and now you tell me that one of my men attacked your sovietnik unprovoked. From here, all I see is the new Bratva king working to destroy the alliance that I had with his predecessor.”
I’m watching him, looking for the deception or the lie. Some sign that he’s as full of shit as I think. I don’t see any…
“Your six,” I tell him, “was in Russia when Maksim was killed. The same town. He was seen in the hotel where we were staying. Are you telling me that was just a coincidence?”
“Yes,” he says. “Let me ask you something. In all your anger and rage, has it once occurred to you to ask yourself what the reason might be that I would have to attack your Bratva? Neither you nor any of your men have ever insulted me or even gotten in the way of our businesses. Our relationship has been friendly all these years and out of the blue, for no reason whatsoever, you believe I would attack Maksim?”
“Maksim was old,” I say. “You probably assumed he was weak. Thought it was an opportune time to try and dismantle my Bratva.”
“That would suggest that I think you are weak,” he says without emotion.
“I know who you are, Anton. I’ve known since you were a boy.
You are skilled at your trade. You always have been.
Unlike even my brigadiers, however, you are smart.
You are more likely to use your mind before you use your bullets or your fists. I do not think you are weak.”
I’m struck silent. The truth rings like a bell in his words. He goes on.
“I have been watching you and Maksim since your father left. I’ve seen how he has grown to be more than just your mentor. He became your father figure at a time when you needed one the most. For that, I can appreciate your rage. It is just. Unfortunately, I do not belong at the business end of it.”
He tilts his head and smiles a little at me.
“I have always known how formidable you would be as an opponent, should you inherit the reins of your Bratva. If I were going to launch an attack on you, I can promise that it would be more strategic than it’s been.
One way or another, this matter would have been solved within weeks of Maksim’s death. ”
I suppose he’s not wrong. There is a long standing rumor that Nikolai once wiped out an entire brotherhood in one night.
The story went that he lured them all into a hall somewhere on the south side under the guise of attending a charity event.
Once the last member of that brotherhood entered the building, all the doors were locked and the building was burned to the ground.
Legend has it that it wasn’t just Bratva in the building, either. Their families were with them. Women and children died alongside their fathers and brothers. It was a massacre.
And at the end of the day, Nikolai had accomplished what he’d said he would do if they ever betrayed them. He would destroy them all and leave no trace. Anyone who was part of that Bratva is either dead or later swore their fealty to the Amur.
It gives me pause. The man next to me is calculating. His Bratva is named for the region it came from as well as one of his ancestors. He has survived longer than almost any other Pakhan I’ve ever known.
“I am telling you now,” he goes on, “in front of God, that I am not the person you are looking for.”
“How do I know you’re not lying to keep me from attacking your men?” I ask him, and he smiles.
“You’re smart enough to know the answer to that.”
I am. He has nothing to fear from me. Not even now with four of his men dead at my hands. He sighs and stands up, straightening his suit jacket. “Your anger is righteous. You deserve your vengeance. I sincerely hope you get it.”
With that he leaves, and I’m left stunned and thoroughly confused. Nikolai could have wiped us out ages ago. Any change in leadership has weak spots among those closest to the throne. Any Pakhan worth his salt knows that.
Shit. Where does that leave me?
I leave the church, my mind spinning as I trace the order of events back in my mind.
I discovered Maksim, dead on his hotel room floor, cup of tea sitting half empty by his night stand, the almondy smell of cyanide heavy in the air.
I questioned the hotel manager and staff to find the comings and goings of whoever might have been in his room.
Months later, Mikki finds the culprit, Emil Andreev, who was seen at my hotel the night Maksim died, and the rest…
I waged war against Nikolai, knowing his retaliation would come, and it did. Last night, Mikki was attacked with a message from him… or at least, that’s how it all appears.
If Nikolai wasn’t behind any of this, then it means that someone is setting me up. Someone set us both up. But who? Who would have the most to gain from the fall of my Bratva?
I drive home, running a list in my mind.
Maybe there are some within my own Bratva who set all this up in the hopes that Nikolai and I would tear each other apart and he would just pick up the pieces after.
Seems like the most likely thing. Destruction from within seems logical.
Mikki even said that Kat was doing her best to sow dissent.
Maybe it was working. And maybe whoever it is knows better than to stick his neck out after seeing what I did to Lev.
It looks like I missed someone crafty enough to stay under the radar.
As soon as I pull into my driveway, I see another car parked behind Mikki’s. A little pink sportscar with the top down.
Kat. Fuck.
I park and get out, half jogging, half walking up to my front door.
When I walk into the living room, I see Kat standing next to Natalya. Her hair is mussed and her face is covered in sweat, but under her bangs, I see a little swelling on her forehead… and there’s a little line of blood under her chin, right at her jugular.
Kat has her arms crossed as she side-eyes Natalya, whose eyes are wide with genuine fear. As I step in slowly, I notice a fresh bruise on her arm, red welts turning blue by the second.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” I say to Kat.
Kat half scoffs and laughs and says, “Anton. You’re here! Your little friend was just telling me—”
“Get out.”
Her smile drops and she puts her hands up to me in a defensive position. “Wait, let me explain. I came over because I just wanted to talk to you. That’s all.”
I close the gap between us, grabbing her by the arm. She flinches under my touch. “Let’s go.”
I drag her all the way out of the house, pushing her as soon as we’re outside. She stumbles just short of the steps. “Now hold on one second,” she said. “You don’t have to be so rough on me—”
I get right in her face. “I saw the bruise on her arm, pizda,” I growl at her. “You put your fucking hands on her, didn’t you? You put a knife to her throat?”
She just stares up at me, emerald eyes wide with horror. “I–I didn’t mean—”
“If you ever come near my home again,” I tell her, “I will slit you from your throat to that rotten cavern of poison you call a pussy. You understand me? I will kill you, bury you in a landfill, and piss on your grave.”
Tears form in her eyes as she stares at me, her horror giving way to sadness. “You don’t mean that—”
“Have you ever known me not to follow up on a threat, Katerina? Ever? Even to you?”
She shakes her head quickly.
I point my finger in her face. “Darken my doorstep again. I dare you. It would make my day to finally put your demonic ass in the ground once and for all.”
She utters a sob and steps back. I hurt her, which isn’t an easy feat.
Kat has armor like steel around her heart.
She doesn’t bother saying anything to me.
She just turns and rushes off, her sobs carrying on the wind behind her as she gets back in her car.
I stand and watch until her car is far down the lane and driving through the gates of my estate.