Chapter 37
JULIAN
The council meeting is in the back room of a bar in Brighton Beach that’s been closed to the public for years.
The room is long, with a low ceiling and a concrete floor. It’s illuminated by pale industrial lighting that turns everyone’s skin sallow. A single rectangular table runs the length of the space, and there are heavy wooden chairs on either side, along with one at the head—my chair.
Ethan and I arrive thirty minutes early. Ethan sweeps the room for devices and weapons. Every man attending will be armed, but it’s the surprises I’m worried about, like stashed sidearms or bugs for listening in.
Ethan gives the place the all-clear. As the heads file in one by one, he stands behind me, still as a statue.
Petrov, the port operations king from Newark, arrives first. He’s stocky, with a white beard. He gives me a nod. His support is confirmed and paid for.
Zhukovsky, the real estate man, is next. He’s tall and gaunt. Another confirmed vote. He takes his chair without a word.
Then Morozov—the one who declared for Dobrov. He avoids my gaze as he enters. He slides into his seat, glancing at Dobrov’s empty chair. He’s got the shifty behavior of a guilty person, which, in a sense, he is.
The others file in: Federov, Kuznetsov, Baranov, and Semenov. They’re all old names, old money, and old blood. Men who remember my father, men who watched me grow up in this life.
Men who are anxious to see if the prodigal son has been worth the long wait.
Alexander enters next, dressed sharply, as usual, minus the tie. He’s dressed very similar to me, and I find myself wondering what kind of message he’s trying to send. That he’s on my side? Or that he wants to replace me?
Either way, it was a deliberate gesture. Alexander doesn’t make choices like that accidentally.
He takes the seat to my right, giving me a glance and a quick nod, silently saying: I’m with you.
I note it, but I don’t trust it.
Dobrov arrives last, just as I thought he would. He wants to make a grand entrance. All eyes are on him as he steps across the room and settles into his chair with the unhurried ease of a man who’s confident he already knows how the evening will end.
With Dobrov’s arrival, the meeting can begin. Mrs. Lee is also here—waiting for me to call her in to declare her support.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, remaining seated. Standing is for men who need to project authority. I already have it. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll keep this brief.”
No one speaks; all eyes are now on me.
“When I left this city, I did so to secure our most important international partnerships—the Triad alliance. The Filipino corridor. These aren’t just nice-to-haves—they’re trade routes that would open the Pacific to Bratva operations for the first time in a generation.”
I let the words settle for several long moments before continuing.
“That work, I’m pleased to say, is done.
The deals are signed and the routes will soon be operational.
I’m here tonight to confirm, formally and permanently, that I’ve resumed the role as Volkov pakhan.
I’m not stepping aside. I’m not sharing the seat. I’m back for good.”
Murmurs travel the length of the table. Petrov nods, Zhukovsky remains still, and Morozov stares at his hands on the table.
“To confirm the status of our Triad partnership,” I continue, “I’ve invited Mr. Yang’s U.S.
representative, Mrs. Margaret Lee, to address the council directly.
Mrs. Lee has been instrumental in coordinating the Pacific trade agreement, and she’s here tonight to confirm the Triad’s support for our leadership, as well as the terms of our alliance. ”
I nod to Ethan. He opens the side door, and Mrs. Lee enters.
She’s dressed in a dark suit, her hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense bun. Two men arrive with her, taking positions against the wall. She walks with quick, purposeful steps to the end of the table opposite me. She remains standing.
“Mrs. Lee, thank you for joining us,” I say, greeting her. “Please confirm for the council the terms of the Triad’s partnership with the Volkov Bratva and your organization’s support for its current leadership.”
Her eyes sweep the table. She takes her time, her gaze gliding slowly from one syndicate head to the next. She then looks at Alexander. Then Dobrov.
Then me.
“Thank you, Julian. I’m pleased to address the council on behalf of the Triad organization.”
She pauses, and the room holds its breath. My heart rate ticks up a notch.
“The Triads have been honored to work with the Volkov family over the past eighteen months. The Pacific trade agreement represents a significant opportunity for both organizations, and we remain committed to its success.”
A tinge of relief begins to form in my chest.
“However.”
However.
My jaw clenches at the word. It lands like a bomb. Men shift in their seats, while I remain still.
“The Triad leadership has expressed concerns regarding the stability of the Volkov organization’s internal governance.
There have been troubling events over recent weeks—public confrontations, security incidents, contested leadership.
And these events have raised questions about whether or not the current management structure can guarantee the operational consistency that a partnership of this magnitude requires. ”
The tinge of relief evaporates, something cold and hard replacing it. I remain still.
“After careful consideration,” she continues, “The Triad organization has concluded that the Pacific trade routes should only be opened to the Russian Bratva under leadership that demonstrates broad internal consensus. To that end, the Triads will only proceed with the partnership if, and only if, Alexander Volkov assumes the position of CEO, syndicate head, and primary liaison.”
A silent shockwave pulses through the room. When it dissipates, there’s a very particular tension in the air—the kind that precedes gunfire.
I glance over at Alexander, who sits very, very still. His expression is carefully blank—no reaction at all.
He knew. He sat in my office yesterday, spouting bullshit about how he was tired of fighting and how ready he was to fall in line, and the whole time he knew.
In that instant, I think about the story of the fishing trip, the chess set.
Every last word was nothing more than a performance, just as I suspected.
What I say next is beyond important—both what I say, and how I say it. I take a deep, slow breath, then speak.
“Mrs. Lee,” I begin, keeping my voice calm and level.
“The terms I negotiated were with Mr. Yang—directly and in person. And these negotiations took place over the course of many, many months. These terms specified my leadership and my oversight. This sudden change of plans is a unilateral revision of an agreement.”
“Indeed,” she says. Her tone is ice cold, bloodless. “But that agreement was conditional upon stability. And those conditions have changed.”
“The conditions haven’t changed.” There’s a whisper of an edge to my words. “They’ve been manufactured.”
I glance over at Dobrov, who looks like he’s using every last bit of strength he has to suppress a pleased smile. “You, Dobrov, and Alexander made a deal. That’s what this is.”
Mrs. Lee’s expression doesn’t change one bit. “I represent the Triad’s position. How I arrived at that position is not relevant to this council.”
“It’s relevant to me.”
“With respect, Mr. Volkov, this council doesn’t operate on what’s relevant to you. It operates on votes.” She folds her hands. “The Triad’s support follows Alexander Volkov. And so does the Dobrov syndicate, and the Morozov family.”
“You went behind my back,” I growl. “All of you.”
“Business is business,” Mrs. Lee says. “You’re the head of this organization, Julian. You, of all people, should know that.”
Three votes, plus Lee’s weight, could shift the dynamic considerably.
The other syndicate heads are watching, the ones who were waiting to see which way the wind blew before committing. And the wind sure as hell just changed direction.
“I move that we postpone the vote,” Baranov says. He’s an older, cautious man. “These are significant developments. We need time to—”
"There is no time." Lee's voice cuts clean. "The Triad's offer expires tonight. You can accept the terms as stated or let the Pacific routes close off—to everyone at this table.”
She's bluffing. Or not. I can't tell, and that's a problem. Because in every previous interaction, I could read Lee. I could see the seams, but tonight the seams are gone.
A thought occurs to me then. Maybe Yang has nothing to do with this, that this is a move conjured up by Lee and Lee alone.
It’s a bluff I’m willing to call.
"I'd like to speak with Mr. Yang," I say. "Directly, before any vote is taken."
"Mr. Yang is no longer available."
No longer available.
Not busy. Not traveling. Not indisposed. No longer available.
I feel Ethan shift behind me. He caught it, too.
"What does that mean exactly, Mrs. Lee?"
"It means what it means, Mr. Volkov. The Triad's position has been stated. The council can now deliberate. I'll be in the adjoining room when you've reached a decision."
She walks out. Her men follow, the side door closes heavily behind them.
The room goes quiet as soon as they’re gone.
I reach for my phone, but there’s no signal.
I look at Ethan. He checks his and shakes his head.
The room has been jammed.
Something is wrong.
Very, very wrong.