They were opposites. That was the point. Grandfather taught me that years ago: "You need both the sword and the pen, Kolya. The man who only has muscle makes stupid mistakes. The man who only has brains can't enforce his decisions. You need both."
So I had both. Kostya was my sword—brutal, efficient, loyal to the point of death. Maks was my pen—intelligent, connected, capable of finding information that didn't want to be found.
And I was supposed to be the balance between them. The strategist who knew when to use force and when to use finesse.
Most days, I wasn't sure I'd figured that out yet.
"Show me," I said to Maks.
He turned the tablet. Surveillance footage from three different locations, all timestamped within the last six hours. The quality was good—Maks had either hacked the businesses' security systems or paid someone for the feeds. Probably both.
A tall man in an expensive black coat moved through each frame. Lean build, sharp features, the kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn't so cold. He spoke to the owners. Smiled. Gestured to the men flanking him. Then left.
"Alexei Belyaev," Maks said. "Nephew of Sergei Belyaev, the Pakhan in Moscow. Arrived in New York six weeks ago. Staying at a warehouse complex in Red Hook. Seventeen known associates, most of them fresh from Russia."
I watched the footage loop. The way Alexei Belyaev moved. The way he smiled. The way his men positioned themselves—not like security, like predators.
"He's shopping," I said.
"Da," Kostya growled. "Shopping for our territory. We should—"
"The Settling is in two days," I interrupted.
Silence. Kostya stopped drumming his knuckles. Maks's fingers paused on his tablet.
"The Settling?" Kostya leaned forward, confusion clear on his brutal face. "What does that have to do with—"
"Everything."
I set down my coffee cup. Looked at both of my brothers. Saw the moment they started to understand.
Maks got there first. He always did. His eyes widened slightly, then a slow smile spread across his face. "You're not going to retaliate."
"No."
"You're going to let them dig their own grave," Maks continued, his voice warming with appreciation.
"Da."
Kostya's confusion shifted to frustration. "We do nothing? That makes us look weak."
"It makes us look controlled," I corrected. "There's a difference."
I stood, walking to the wall where a large map of New York showed our territory in red ink. The Volkov territory in blue. Kozlov in green. Two other families in yellow and purple. And now the Belyaevs, unmarked but encroaching on our red.
"The Settling is neutral ground," I said, more to myself than to them. "Run by the Sidorov family for fifteen years. All five families use it to liquidate assets, settle debts, move contraband without starting wars."
I turned back to my brothers. Kostya was listening now, his tactical mind engaging. Maks was already typing notes, cross-referencing something.
"Violence at The Settling violates the old codes," I continued. "It would unite every family against the violator. The Belyaevs are new. Moscow money trying to make a statement in New York. They don't understand our traditions yet."
Understanding dawned on Kostya's face. "So if they fuck up at The Settling—"
"All five families would have justification to move against them," Maks finished. "And we'd be the reasonable ones. The ones who followed the rules."
I nodded. Returned to my seat. Picked up my coffee again.
"It's a theory," I said. "Based on the assumption that the Belyaevs are as reckless as they seem. That they'll make a mistake when given the opportunity."
