Sofia
I walk down the hall, the rubber soles of my tennis shoes nearly silent on the marble floor. I was summoned mid-workout. He hates when I work out. Hates when I wear what he calls neopryátnyy. Sloppy. Messy. Unbecoming of a bratva princess.
Being assaulted in a back alley is also unbecoming. If I ever find myself in that position again, I want the strength and the skills to protect myself. He’ll just have to deal with a sweaty daughter.
I knock once before pushing the heavy wooden door open.
My father is behind his desk. I know one of his men helped him into that chair. His health is much worse than he lets on. He sits behind the desk because it makes him feel powerful.
His ice blue eyes that are nearly identical to mine sweep over me. He mutters under his breath before he gestures one frail hand to the chair. “Sit.”
I take a seat, crossing one leg over the other.
He looks older than he did even a week ago. Skinnier. Paler.
He is sixty-two and has always seemed ageless in the way powerful men sometimes do, but something has changed in the last thirty days. I don't say it. I wouldn’t want someone pointing out my frailty.
"I spoke with Oleg this morning," he says.
Oleg Petrov. Manages the construction arm of the business.
I have been working around Oleg for two months now because Oleg is in his late fifties and has strong opinions about who belongs in a boardroom.
Me with my vagina is naturally excluded.
Apparently the lack of a Y chromosome somehow interferes with my ability to understand construction.
And that’s why I scheduled the subcontractor meeting for when I knew he'd be out of the office and on a site.
"I heard," I say.
"He tells me you ran a meeting with the Harlem subcontractors."
"I did."
My father looks at me. I can’t tell if he’s happy or angry. Another trick he’s always had.
"He says you renegotiated the material sourcing on the Riverside project."
"The existing contract had us paying a seventeen percent markup on steel. Nobody bothered to check whether the rate was competitive. It wasn't. I found a comparable supplier at market rate. We'll save roughly a quarter million on that project alone."
“We buy from the Italians,” he says.
“And the Italians have been screwing us over for long enough.”
I know the rules. I scratch their back, they scratch mine. We pay inflated prices and launder a little money, and they turn around and do the same. I know the business and how it works, but it’s been leaning a little too much in their favor.
“I’m trimming the fat,” I tell him. “You get a little richer. They’ll still get rich, but they’ll have to skim from someone else.”
For the briefest second, I think I see pride in his eyes.
My father has never been the warm and fuzzy type.
He’s never hung my childhood artwork on the fridge or attended parent teacher conferences.
I know what I am to him—his heir. The one he got instead of the son he wanted.
That does not require praise. Hell, it doesn’t even require love.
It’s not a traditional father-daughter relationship, but few people in our world have traditional relationships.
It just is what it is, and I’ve accepted that.
"I see," he says, which is high praise from Mikhail Baranov. He straightens a paper on his desk that doesn't need straightening. "I'll review the comparison."
"I'll have it sent over today."
“Check the door,” he says.
I get to my feet, open the door and scan the hall.
No one is lurking and eavesdropping. I close the door and turn the lock.
I push a button to turn on the white noise machine that will muffle our voices.
There are weekly scans of the entire property to check for listening devices.
In all my years, there has never been one found, but my father is a careful man.
He doesn’t take chances with his freedom or his position.
“I’m dying,” he says without preamble.
I knew this, but I believe he thought he would win the battle against mortality.
“The cancer is in my lungs. My bones.”
I listen.
I keep my face composed and listen to my father describe his own death like he's briefing me on a quarterly projection.
"The timeline is accelerating," he says. "I had planned for two more years. It will be less."
"How much less?"
"Perhaps one. Perhaps less than one." He says it without flinching. A man who has accepted his fate. "You will inherit everything. The legitimate holdings, the other operations, all of it."
"I know. I've been getting myself ready, just like you’ve told me to do."
He studies me for a moment. "I know what you've been doing," he says. "With the businesses. The restructuring. The meetings." He pauses. "I've let you."
He let me.
Not that he didn't notice. He noticed everything. He made a choice to stand back and watch, to see what I would do. It’s been an audition. The last year of me quietly running things has been a test.
I should be annoyed he tested me from a distance, not the way he would have a son. I'm not. Not really.
“I have proven I can run the business.” I state it. I don’t question it. I’ve proven it.
He almost smiles. "There are other divisions you are not yet fully informed about. Medical supply. Some international logistics. When the time comes, you will be briefed fully."
Medical supply. I know the Baranov portfolio has a subsidiary in medical equipment distribution of devices, surgical supplies, contracts with mid-size hospitals up and down the Eastern Seaboard.
It's one of the smaller holdings. It’s more import/export, nothing that requires a lot of attention. I make a mental note to look closer.
"Anything I should know now?" I ask.
"Not yet." He coughs, reaching for a tissue and covering his mouth. I see the dots of pink against white before he tosses it in the trash. “The transition needs to be managed carefully. There are relationships that require maintenance. People who will test a new head of the family."
"I know."
"You don't know yet," he says, not unkindly. "You think you do. You'll learn quickly enough when it begins. You're my daughter and my only heir. This is yours. Don't waste it."
From my father, that passes as love.
“Understood.”
He waves a hand, basically telling me to leave.
I turn off the white noise machine and leave his study.
The house sits outside of the city on four acres surrounded by what is said to be an invincible fence.
Guards everywhere. Security cameras cover every inch.
Heavy locks and doors thick enough to stop bullets.
I climb the stairs to my bedroom and barely notice any of it.
Before the night at the club, I thought it was overkill.
It took that night to appreciate the safety of these walls.
When I become the head of the bratva, these walls will be put to the test. But I will never hide. Never show fear. Never again.
Dinner with Tori is at a wine bar in the West Village. Tori has been my closest friend since our freshman year. She knows who I am. She knows what I am and doesn’t judge. Her family is from the Midwest and her closest brush with the criminal underworld was a The Godfather marathon with her brother.
“What’s going on?” she asks, tossing her curly hair in that blissfully carefree way she has.
“Nothing,” I lie easily.
“Sofia.”
I take a drink of my wine. “It’s not good news.”
She straightens, hand reaching out to squeeze my arm. “Tell me.”
I feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders. "My dad confirmed the cancer is worse than he's been saying. The timeline is shorter."
Tori sighs. "I’m sorry, Sofia."
"I'm okay.” I force a smile. For her, this would be devastating news. She’s normal. I am no such thing. "We're not that close, he and I. You know that. It's not—he's my father and I don't want him to die but I'm not going to sit here and pretend there's something between us that isn't there.”
She watches me over her wine glass. She’s looking for the tells I’m learning to hide. To make it in this world, I have to learn how to be like my father. Guarded. No emotion.
"How are you, though?” she asks softly. “For real.”
"I'm fine." And I mean it, mostly. "He confirmed the inheritance. You’re looking at the next pakhan."
“Is that a thing?” she asks. “I mean, in The Godfather world, there’s a don. Can you be a pakhan?”
I laugh. “Nope, but here’s me breaking glass ceilings.”
Tori lifts her glass. "To being a very intimidating twenty-one-year-old female pakhan."
I laugh and the laugh is real and that helps. We drink.
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance at it and see one of the enforcers. They all have my number and know to call me if there are issues with our legitimate businesses or the ones that may not be above board.
I glance at the screen. Viktor. I hold up one finger to Tori and answer.
“Yeah.”
“We have a situation with the tenant on Garfield.” Viktor’s voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. He’s been doing this long enough to know how to talk on a phone. “He’s decided he doesn’t want to renew the lease terms.”
I set my wine glass down. “He said that?”
“Said he heard the property management company is under new ownership soon. Figured he’d wait and see what the new terms look like.”
Meaning he heard Mikhail is dying and decided to test the waters. See if the heir has teeth. Classic.
“The lease terms aren’t changing,” I say. “Same rate. Same schedule. First of the month.”
“He pushed back pretty hard.” A pause. “Said he’s got other options.”
“He does,” I agree pleasantly. “There’s a lovely industrial space in Jersey. A little further from his suppliers, I’d imagine. And he’d have to renegotiate with the Morano family on distribution, which I hear they’re not easy to work with these days.”
Tori is watching me the way she always watches me during these calls.
Chin resting in her hand. Eyes slightly narrowed.
Reading every word I’m not saying out loud.
I can’t come right out and tell her. She needs plausible deniability.
I love her, but I trust no one. I will not walk myself into a prison sentence.
My circle will get tighter once I ascend to the top.
The feds could try to use Tori against me.
She’s a good person without a criminal background to be used against her, but there are always buttons to push. I cannot expose myself. Ever.
“You want me to go explain his options?” Viktor asks.
“I want you to go remind him that good landlords are hard to find, and we’ve always treated him fairly.
The rate reflects that fairness.” I keep my voice light.
Conversational. “If he still wants to explore his other options after your conversation, we’ll wish him well and start looking for a new tenant. ”
“And if he needs a little more convincing?”
“Use your best judgment, Viktor. You’ve always had good judgment.”
“Understood.”
I hang up and reach for my wine.
Tori stares at me.
“What?” I say.
“You know what.”
“Property management is complicated.”
“Sofia.” She says with a soft laugh. “That tenant is going to have a very bad night.”
“Or he’s going to make a smart business decision and everybody sleeps fine.” I shrug one shoulder. “His choice, really.”
She shakes her head slowly, but there’s no judgment in it. This is the thing about Tori. She knows who I am. She’s known for three years, and she’s still my friend. She doesn’t ask me to be something else. She just occasionally shakes her head.
I turn my phone face down on the table. Viktor will handle it.
He’s been handling things like this since before I was old enough to know what handling it meant.
The tenant will either pay or he won’t, and if he won’t, he’ll learn quickly that the Baranov name means the same thing whether Mikhail is sitting behind that desk or I am.
The people who think I’m soft are going to find out very quickly I’m not.
My father didn't raise me to be helpless. I think about the empire that's coming. I’m not afraid.
I’m hungry.
This is mine.
Let them mistake restraint for weakness. They’ll learn.