Chapter 8
ROMAN
“Are you leaving?”
I look up from my phone. Nala stands in the hallway, barefoot, her hair loose today—dark curls fanning her face.
“Business.”
She nods, then her gaze drops to the gun holstered at my waist. When she looks back up, her voice is quiet. “Dangerous business?”
I pause, studying her face. For half a second I think I hear concern in her tone. It can’t be.
Better not be.
“Every day in the Bratva is dangerous,” I tell her. “The trick is knowing your way around it.”
She looks like she wants to say something else, but my phone vibrates.
It’s Lev.
Customs supervisor in Podolsk is becoming a problem. Rejected the first offer. Wants to meet with you in person.
Of course he does. I text back: I'll handle it today.
I grab my keys, head to the door then stop. This isn’t guilt, I tell myself. I don’t do guilt. I just don’t want her feeling used, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
"Anything you want me to bring back? I can stop somewhere on the way home.”
She shakes her head, then lifts a finger, calling out, “Wait. There is something I want.”
“What?”
“Candy,” she says, giving me a shy look. “I need sugar. I haven’t had chocolate in a long time. I want to see if I still like it.”
By a long time, we both know she means since before she got kidnapped.
“Anything else? More books? Magazines?"
"No. The books you got me are good. I’m only on the second one. It’ll take me a while to finish it before I read the next.”
“You’re not bored?”
She raises a brow as she fills the kettle with water. “Will you let me outside if I say I’m dying of boredom?”
“No chance.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and reaches for a cup from the cabinet. “Then it doesn’t matter.”
I’m almost out the door when she calls my name. “Roman.”
She’s standing by the table, watching me like she’s trying to figure something out. "My bedroom door was open this morning. Did you forget to lock it?”
"No."
Her features soften. "Why not?"
"Do you want me to lock it?" I ask in a rough voice, hoping to get that look off her face as if I did something nice for her.
"No. I wondered why you didn’t do it last night."
"It’s a waste of time. You're not going anywhere. And we both know it. Let’s say you managed to get out of this apartment.
You wouldn’t last a night in Moscow. You don’t know the first thing about staying safe.
You’ll end up on your back earning money for food.
That’s if my father doesn’t find you first. When he does, you’re back in a basement and I’m dead. ”
"I know all that,” she whispers.
Good.
“I’ll be back tonight.”
I leave before she can say anything else.
My first stop is the port authority office in Podolsk.
Mikhail, a customs officer on my payroll, is in the room pacing.
“The new supervisor isn’t taking the money.
” He eyes the door nervously. “He wants to meet you. Says he’s different and wants things done by the book. "
"Stop pacing.”
He drops into his chair, dabbing his forehead with a tissue. “Sounds like this new supervisor doesn’t understand that some things aren’t meant for the books.”
"Ivanov, it’s more complicated than that. I offered him six hundred thousand rubles, then a million. He refused both."
I lift a brow. Usually that kind of money buys compliance and silence.
“Then we're past the point of money.”
Mikhail shifts his weight. "What do you want me to do?"
I shoot him a look, letting him know exactly what I think, as if he’s capable of doing anything apart from sweating through his shirt.
"What I want and what you can do are two different things, that’s the damn problem. Get me his name. Now.”
"Ivanov,” Mikhail blurts. “If something happens to him, there’ll be questions."
“I asked for a name. Since when is that a crime?”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t think.” I grit out. “I understand. You’re a busy man. Overworked, trying to keep your family safe in that nice new neighborhood you just moved into. We all make mistakes.”
The color drains from his face.
“I misspoke. Please. The supervisor’s name is Vladimir Sokolov.”
I stand. “The shipment from Vladivostok arrives next week. There won’t be an inspection.”
Mikhail nods fast. “You’ll make sure of it," I add, leaving him pale and dripping with sweat.
From there, I drive to a textile factory, another front operation where Volchya keeps heroin stored in the back. None of it will ever reach the streets of Moscow, it’s too messy and not worth the risk. Our product comes in from Afghanistan and moves straight to Sweden and Norway.
Timur, the operations manager, meets me at the door. He’s calm as usual with no problems to report, exactly the way I like it.
I walk the floor and check inventory while running numbers in my head, kilos moved versus bolts of fabric sold.
When the numbers don’t line up, this is where Lev comes in, filling in the gaps, with manifests, invoice and anything in between needed to make it all look legit.
Whatever papers need to exist, he makes it happen.
This factory was one of my first fronts, built from the ground up and everyone here knows how I run things. I don’t tolerate slacking, no side deals and no getting creative with my money. I don’t negotiate and I don’t give second chances.
“The Albanians,” I say, once I’m satisfied. “What's the latest?"
"They’ve bought two more businesses in Novy Kamen. There’s talk of someone being interested in a restaurant near Zavodskaya.”
"Who's selling to them? Locals or investors?”
Timur coughs into his fist. "Locals."
Figures. My father’s weakass leadership is the cause of all this, locals thinking they can sell their businesses in Bratva territory to the Albanians.
I don’t care if they have a change of mind after a reminder from my men, I need to make sure this never happens again, but unfortunately, I’m not the Pakhan and the one we have is still breathing. I can only do so much.
I’m still thinking about my father when Timur clears his throat. “One more thing.”
“Make it quick.” I look down at my phone, checking the time.
"It’s the Pakhan. Ivanov, I hate to bring it up, but everyone’s talking. I say this with all due respect; there’s too much talk about the brothel fire. It’s everywhere. A few minutes ago, I heard that Vera Belova is dead. With how your father’s been acting, I wouldn’t doubt it’s true.”
"Let them talk,” I snap. “All you have to do is keep everyone working."
I leave and head east, to an old Bratva-owned warehouse where we prep weapons shipments.
Inside, I see Andrei, Vasily and a new kid named Anton. They're packing crates with disassembled Kalashnikovs, laid out in pieces. Vasily looks up when I walk in. "Boss."
I nod, inspecting their work. "How many crates?"
"Fourteen so far. We have twelve more to go."
Andrei seals another crate. “You heard about the fire at the Pakhan’s whorehouse?”
"I heard."
"The lady who ran the place is dead. I heard they found her body near the dumpsters behind a restaurant a few hours ago.”
Anton hovers near, whispering. “They’re saying the Pakhan shot her himself.”
"Where are you hearing all this?" I ask, keeping my tone casual. Maybe he knows more.
The boy shifts his leg. “The whores. They talk. Not to me, but you know… word gets around.”
“What’s the word that’s getting around?”
They look back and forth at each other, daring the other to talk first. Anton opens his mouth.
“They’re saying it’s a girl. Maybe a whore who stole lots of money from the Pakhan and hid it. Some say she knows his secrets.”
“Gossip you mean,” I mutter, checking the foam padding in a crate.
"There's more, though,” Anton continues. “He brought in Chechen mercenaries."
My hands freeze for half a second, but I don’t look up or show a reaction.
Chechens. Outside men from the Caucasus mountain with no ties to Volchya or loyalty except to whoever’s paying the highest.
I straighten, deciding to end this. "I don't give a fuck what mercenaries crawled out from where. I care about these crates being filled."
Anton shuts up and reaches for another rifle, suddenly focused on his work.
“Finish by tonight.”
I leave and get in my car but don’t start the engine.
Not yet. If Anton’s right, I need to set things in motion sooner than I’d planned.
Once the mercenaries are embedded, it’s only a matter of time before they know Volchya’s operations and faces.
Any move I plan to make against my father will be twice as hard.
The one advantage I have is, I’m no longer going in blind since Nala confirmed my allies. I pull out of the lot and call Lev.
He answers on the second ring. "What’s up?”
"I need you to reach Dimitri and Alexei. We meet at Alexei's place on Prospekt Rubin in one hour."
Lev knows what a meeting like this means. "What about Yuri?"
"No."
He doesn't ask why and doesn’t need to. "I’ll make it happen.”
The line goes dead. Next, I drive directly to Alexei’s auto shop, and he comes out to greet me. He’s got more than ten years on me, but he’s never had a problem with me, even when other bratki couldn’t stop reminding me how young I was.
A few minutes later, Lev joins us with Dimitri following behind.
Alexei locks the door behind us and leads us into a room without windows.
No one speaks. They give me the floor to lay out my plan.
I don’t lie to them or make promises I can’t keep, like everyone walking away alive. It’s a risk we all have to take.
I watch their faces as I talk. Dimitri's eyes burn with rage, humiliation and the need for vengeance. Exactly as Nala described. Alexei listens with his arms crossed, nodding slowly. Lev stands against the wall, quiet, just letting me talk. He doesn’t care about power the way I do.
What he does care about is Volchya and the chance to reverse the mess my father created.
When I’m done, every pair of eyes is on me. They're all in.