Chapter 01 #2
None of them say anything more. No one pushes.
It’s clear the meeting is over, so everyone starts moving.
Yuri closes his laptop, gathers his things, and leaves right after Yelena, who takes pride in being the last to arrive and the first to leave.
Igor walks past me but stops at the door and looks at me.
“You know he’s right, Maks. The rumor, I mean. Our men need something to rally behind. Think about it.”
He leaves without another word.
Vladimir, however, stays. He never leaves without being dismissed, so I walk to the sideboard and pull the Stolichnaya[11] from the small fridge hidden there. I grab two glasses, pour two generous shots, and when he accepts the one I offer, he thanks me with only a nod.
We drink in silence, and even after more than thirteen years of sharing vodka with him, I’m still impressed by how Vladimir drinks it like tea—controlled sips, no grimace.
“You’re not going to give me advice?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
“And why not? Isn’t that your job? To advise?”
“Because you’ve already decided.”
I look at him. Vladimir sits with his impeccable posture, one hand resting over the other, his wedding ring on display.
Ekaterina was killed when one last group of dissidents—unhappy with my rise to the pakhanate and Vladimir’s decision to support me—invaded his home.
His wife was murdered with three shots at point-blank range, to send a clear message to the others: they would not accept a sovietnik[12] who stood by my side.
The message, however, never reached anyone, because they were all hunted down and exterminated. We never spoke about the incident again, but sometimes we drink in silence, and we both know exactly what the other is thinking.
“How do you know I’ve already decided?”
“You were touching your scar when I came in.” I turn my gaze back to him. He’s still staring at the vodka as if it might change color. “You never touch your scar unless you’ve made an important decision. My guess is you already knew about the rumor—you just wanted confirmation.”
“I will,” I say.
“What?”
I finish my second shot and rest the glass on a perfectly aligned napkin.
“I’m going to get a wife.” He doesn’t blink, just stares at me. “Useful, beautiful, and elegant. Someone for these men to see and remember. That way the rumor will stop.”
“Hm.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You grunted.”
My counselor keeps staring at the vodka. Something in his expression seems off.
“You were going to say something,” I press.
“I wasn’t, Maksim.” He finally finishes the vodka, sets the glass in the center of his own napkin, and raises his eyes to mine. “You made the decision. I work with the decisions you make. If I disagreed, I would have said something when the word ‘wife’ came out of your mouth.”
He says nothing more. He just stands up, gathers his briefcase and papers, and heads for the door, leaving me alone with my own thoughts.
Standing beside the table, I pick up the mask.
It weighs nothing, physically. Three hundred grams of tactical plastic.
But its weight in my hand is different. It’s the weight of thirteen years without a face, thirteen years without a name, thirteen years being Muzhchina v Maske to an entire world and Maksim only to five people.
Igor thinks the mask protects my scar. Yelena knows it protects my face.
Vladimir knows it protects my life. Yuri has probably run three different analyses on why I wear it and never spoken any of them aloud.
Olga, however, doesn’t comment on the mask. No, she just asks if I’ve eaten.
And she’s right about one thing: I haven’t eaten today.
I set down the mask. I go to the counter. I pour the third shot, because that’s the one that will fuel me to act now that the decision is made.
A wife.
The word is absurd. I never thought about having one in my entire life.
Not in this context. Not with this weight.
I thought about women. I thought about sex.
I never thought about marriage. Marriage is for other people.
Marriage is my father’s domain—he married my mother and humiliated her for years on end, before cancer did his job for him.
From every angle I’ve ever looked at it, marriage has never shown me a good result.
But the rumor is real. And rumors weaken the hierarchy, undermine the morale of the brigadiers, erode the trust that holds the whole thing together.
A Pakhan without a wife is a Pakhan with nothing to lose, and a Pakhan with nothing to lose is a Pakhan who'll make decisions that cost other men their lives—men who have plenty to lose.
That's the crux of it. I might find it unfair, but the truth is the rumor works.
And whatever works against me, I disarm. I don't negotiate.
A wife.
Useful. Pretty enough to present at events.
From a background that won't create obligations to other families—no ally's daughter, because that turns into a web instead of a solution.
Ideally, a woman whose family owes me. That way, she comes in through transaction, not choice.
No emotional ties, because emotional ties only bring complications, and I don't need any of that.
No expectation of children, because I'm not bringing anyone into this world just to inherit a mafia. Nothing I can't control.
Functional. Disposable.
I exhale through my nose and realize I'm gripping the edge of the glass. I loosen my fingers and relax my jaw, which is clenched again. This shit is going to cost me a cracked tooth.
“Vladimir.”
I call out into the empty room, and he appears in seconds. As if he'd been waiting on the other side of the door. Maybe he was. After all, he's known me a long time.
“Pakhan.”
“Find a bride. Early twenties, no family ties to any Bratva, but in debt to us—directly or indirectly. Beautiful. Smart enough not to embarrass me at a dinner table. No brothers who could become a problem later. No children from a previous relationship. No chronic illness that could turn into a complication. No militant religious faith. In ten days, I want three options on my desk.”
Vladimir doesn't take any notes, as always.
“In ten days.”
“In ten.”
He stares at me for a moment, and I hold his gaze. I'm serious, and I don't have time to waste explaining every point.
“Da, Pakhan.”
He leaves.
I'm alone in the room once more. The mask is still on the table, the vodka is still in the glass, and the decision is made.
I should feel lighter, now that I've decided. But I don't.