“Courting the old guard,” Alex replies. “He says thepakhanshould be getting his hands dirty, not blathering on in a boardroom.”
“He hasn’t seen my boardroom. It has a good view.”
“He’s not interested in the view.” Alex’s mouth is a tired line. “He wants the chair. I told him the future is clean. He gave methat empty Durov smile and asked if I was happy living as a domesticated, housebroken puppy.”
I take a slow sip. “Charming.”
“Some of the old men listen because he plays the role they miss,” Alex goes on. “They’re not traitors. They’re bored. Nostalgia makes them feel young again, like the gangsters they signed up to be all those years ago.” He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a measured sip. “He leaves out aboveboard payroll. He leaves out clean docks. He leaves out lawyers that end things before they start. He leaves out everything that allows us to be rich as gods with none of the needless bloodshed.”
“Stories are cheap,” I say. “City fees are not.”
“He thinks he can stir up enough smoke to rouse them into action. And if he can’t, he wants to make your life as hard as it can be.”
“If he pulls, I cut the rope. I’m moving my house into daylight. Legitimate business. We hold the line.”
“It’s the right play,” he agrees. “Men who care more about building a legacy tend to outlast men who put more emphasis on a dramatic, memorable death.”
“I don’t need glory.” I tip my chin at the city. “I need a solid, money-making empire—one that won’t get broken up by RICO charges.”
He takes that in. It’s our typical way. I arrange, he observes, the room goes quiet as decisions click into place.
“What does he want from you?” I ask.
“Nothing he’ll say out loud,” Alex replies. “But he wants the status quo, thebloodystatus quo. And he thinks I’ll choose our name over any other loyalties.”
Loyalties like me.
I move closer and rest a hand on his shoulder. Touch is a language in itself, saying things that words sometimes cannot.
“You and I picked our family a long time ago,” I tell him. “Different names. Same goals. Same dreams. Remember the stairwell.”
A long time ago, a bullet meant for me found him instead.We may not be blood, but we are still brothers.
“We aren’t going back,” I say. “We aren’t selling our soldiers stories about Bratva glory earned in blood when what they need are good schools for their children and quiet households. I protect the pivot. Anyone who threatens it gets corrected.”
He nods once. He knows what corrected means.
I take another sip. “But I’m not in the business of making widows. I’m in the business of removing risk. Preferably without noise.”
“Preferably,” he repeats, not mocking, just honest.
We go over the current items. A lease closing in Red Hook—legit waterfront property this time, not a cover. A hotel group nosing around because our brand of discretion is better than any security system they can buy. A port official nearing retirement who might be persuaded to consult once he’s free of his badge.
All things that can make us money legitimately.All aboveboard, all profitable.
The conversation runs smooth and tight. Alex and I share the same brain when it comes to business.
My phone lights up on the desk. It’s a text from Mrs. Koval.
Miss Hewitt is still out.
It’s a quiet insult.
Heat moves through my chest, fast and involuntary. Possessive. Protective. Inconvenient.
I keep my face expressionless while Alex finishes a point about warehouse insurance and “random inspections” that are anything but. He pauses when he notices the temperature change. He always does.
“Housekeeping?” he asks.
