Chapter 2
ROMAN
“Wait over there.”
I walk past one of the two guards stationed in the hallway of The Fortress, my father’s mansion and meeting place for top tier Volchya leaders. I don’t need to check my watch for the time outside the council room. My time means nothing to him.
If the Pakhan orders me to wait, I wait.
That’s the game I’m forced to play. Every fucking week.
It’s always the same thing. I wait like his lap dog, then listen to him rant about loyalty and strength, all the while he’s making decisions and deals that bleed Volchya dry and weaken our hold and power in Moscow.
I have to sit, pretending I'm the obedient bastard son instead of the man waiting for the right opportunity to kill him. It’s all a joke at this point and one I’ve vowed to end. I lean my head against the wall, facing the door separating the Pakhan and us.
It’s so obvious, him making us wait is nothing but a power play. Pointless and petty, meant to remind us who’s in charge. No worries there, we already know. But… he’s the Boss, so it’s his way or suffer the consequences. I accept that. It’s how we operate.
Always has been.
Lev, my second in command, settles against the wall next to me, arms crossed. "You think it’ll be as long as last week?"
“Wouldn’t be surprised.”
Lev lets out a short breath. He doesn’t have to say what we’re both thinking. As much as he’s like a brother to me, this issue of our Pakhan is an unspoken thing between us and every other brigadier or bratki who’s growing tired of his bullshit.
The door swings open. Pasha, Volchya’s accountant, steps out. His thin face is tight with anger, red splotches all over his cheeks. He doesn’t notice Lev and I as he storms past us, toward the stairs.
I smile inside my head, knowing Pasha must’ve gotten the shit treatment this morning. Just what I like to see. My father’s making my job easier with the more people he screws over.
"Roman!"
The Pakhan’s shout booms from inside the room out to the hallway. "Get in here."
I walk inside, leaving Lev out there waiting his turn.
The council room is where all of us get reminded who Moscow belongs to.
Who controls everything that goes on not just in the underworld but all the way to the top, where even the police are sometimes terrified to interfere in Bratva dealings.
This room is also where he shows off his wealth.
There’s artwork worth millions, including a framed portrait of Stalin mounted directly behind his chair.
The walls are lined with shelves of leather-bound books my father has never read, will never read and probably can't even name half the titles.
He sits behind a massive desk, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of vodka at his elbow. It’s not even noon yet.
"Sit," he orders.
I take the chair across from him. I can’t appear too relaxed in front of him, or he’ll take it as disrespect.
I also can’t look tense, that’s a definite sign of fear.
I find the right posture, one I’ve perfected over the years to appear as a well-meaning son who respects his father but isn’t afraid of him.
It’s all crap, though. I don't respect Grigori. I never did and never will. I don’t need him to know that.
Not yet.
He draws on his cigarette, watching me through the smoke. He’s looking for weakness. Betrayal. The Pakhan is on the hunt for any sign that I'm not what I pretend to be. I’m not surprised.
My father’s always been suspicious of me. That’s part of the reason I have to bide my time. His suspicion isn’t the worst of it. For the past couple of months, he’s become paranoid as hell, questioning even men who I know for a fact are loyal to him.
"I'm hearing complaints.”
"About what?"
"Your men. I hear they're unhappy."
Bullshit.
I keep my face neutral. He’s not fooling me. This is a test. It's always a test with him. "Some of them have issues with me. That’s true. They think I’m too young, that I made it through the ranks too fast. Don’t like taking orders from someone younger than themselves.”
"And?" He blows another puff of smoke, this time straight in my face.
"I've handled it."
"How?"
"Oleg had an accident last month. A drunk driver took him out on the way home one night. His car went up in flames. Body was completely charred.” I hold his gaze. “I haven’t heard a single complaint since.”
He fingers his chin, taking another drag on the cigarette. "The Albanians want more territory. Access to the markets and railway."
He stubs out his cigarette, immediately lighting another. I clench my jaw, curling my fist on my lap. The fucking Albanians. Not this shit again.
His brows narrow. "Something to say? Spit it out, then.”
"We've already given those cocksuckers too much ground.”
"Watch your mouth."
"All I’m saying is, we’re losing money. The men are starting to notice. I’m not just talking about my people.”
"The men do what I tell them. The Albanian alliance is strategic. They have routes we need. Access to ports we don't control."
Strategic. I can’t stand that word. It’s meaningless, his excuse for every bad decision. Every concession. Every weakness.
Going into business with the Albanians is the opposite of strategic. It's rolling over. We're giving away territory and money because my father is too stupid to expand properly. He’s too afraid and weak to tighten control of what we have without outside help.
"They're bleeding us and this is only the beginning. A lot of questions are being asked.”
"Fuck them and their questions." He jabs a finger at me. "Remember your place, Roman. You’re a brigadier because I allow it. You're my bastard, not my heir. You have authority because I give it to you. I can take it away just as easily. Don’t you ever forget that."
There it is—my weekly reminder. The knife he likes to twist whenever I push back on his bullshit. I'm the son of a whore he fucked one time too many. A mistake he only acknowledges because I make him richer.
"I didn’t forget."
"Good." He takes another drag, eyes fixed on me. "I'm giving them the Vostrik District and Novy Kamen Quarter.”
I don’t react. I force my face to stay neutral and my voice level. I do nothing to betray how close I am to killing him. "Those are some of the best distributing areas. That's also Dimitri’s territory."
"I'm aware."
"He might take offense."
"Dimitri will do what he's told." He settles back in his chair and pours a shot of vodka. "He’ll follow orders. If he has a problem with my decisions, he can take it up with me himself. We'll have a conversation about loyalty."
Translation, if Dimitri complains, Dimitri dies.
He downs the vodka, cutting a hand through the air. "Now get the fuck out of my face. I have real work to do."
His dismissal is abrupt, insulting and meant to remind me of my place. I’m almost out the door, my hand on the door handle when I hear my name.
"Roman."
I stop without turning around.
"If there are any more complaints, handle it. All of them. I don’t want to hear about dissent. Dissent costs money.”
"Understood." I tighten my grip on the handle.
"Good. And Roman. Don't forget what I said. You’re alive because I allow it. Remember that next time you think about questioning my decisions."
I leave without responding, closing the door behind me. I stand in the hallway, drawing in a deep breath. Every instinct in me wants to go back inside and wrap my hands around his throat.
I can’t. Not yet.
Lev takes one look at me. "That bad?"
"The Albanians control Vostrik and Novy Kamen now.”
Lev exhales through his nose. "That’s… not good. Dimitry’s going to lose his mind."
"Yeah." I shove a hand through my hair. “I need to talk to him before he does something that gets him killed."
This isn’t me being a good friend. It’s pure strategy. I need Dimitry alive if I’m going to convince him to back me when I make a move on my father and take control of Volchya.
I wait outside until Lev finishes with my father.
The air is sharp, already freezing and it’s only autumn.
Outside the iron gates, I lean against my car, staring at the mansion my father lives in.
It takes up nearly the entire street. For most of my childhood, my mother and I lived in a cold and cramped apartment in an old Soviet block built for poor families.
All the while, the man I knew was my father lived here, in luxury, like the czar of Moscow.
When my mother died, I was fifteen. I knew I couldn’t go to Grigori Ivanov for help, so I helped myself. The day after her funeral, I joined the Bratva. Grigori didn’t care, as long as I stayed out of his way and earned him money.
I started at the bottom doing the dirty work nobody wanted. I was good at it. So good, people quickly learned I was not the one to fuck with. I worked my way up fast, proving myself again and again until my father had no choice but to let me lead my own brigade.
I had the respect of most of the Bratva and the Pakhan knew if he refused me, it would make him look weak and scared. I became the youngest brigadier in Volchya at twenty-two.
I've been proving myself for seven years and all that time I’ve been watching, learning and waiting for the moment I can seize control and put my father where he belongs. In the ground.
Lev comes through the gate toward me. We exchange a few words about business before I get inside my sedan.
It’s black, German-made, armored, with the glass bulletproof and the windows blacked-out.
I pull back onto the street, maneuvering through traffic.
I’m focused on the road, but my thoughts keep circling back to something that's been eating at me for months.