"And if they don't?" Kostya asked.
I smiled. It wasn't a warm expression. "Then we have contingency plans. But we let them make the first move. We control the board by controlling our response."
Maks was grinning now. "I love when you get strategic."
I glanced at the board beside me. White dominant, black dying. Control and patience winning over aggression.
"Life is chess," I said quietly. "Calculate every move. Control every piece. Never let emotion cloud strategy."
Kostya snorted. "Until life decides to flip the board."
He wanted blood. He wanted to send a message written in broken bones and burnt property. That was his language—brutal, efficient, immediately comprehensible.
I understood it. Sometimes it was even the right language. But not today.
"They hit three of our protection clients," Maks said, pulling up photos on his tablet. He swiped through them methodically. "Dimitri's restaurant on the boardwalk—they came in during lunch rush, ordered food, complimented the borscht. Then suggested that times were changing and new management might offer better terms."
He swiped again. "The hookah lounge on Brighton Beach Avenue. Same script. Compliments, casual conversation, then the suggestion that the Belyaevs could provide 'more comprehensive protection.'"
Another swipe. "Vladimir's jewelry store. This time they were more direct. Asked how much he was paying us. Offered to match it and provide additional services."
I leaned forward, studying each image. The same tall man in every frame—this Alexei Belyaev. He had an aristocratic face, the kind that suggested old money and expensive education. But his eyes were dead. Shark eyes.
"Additional services," I repeated. "Meaning?"
"They didn't specify," Maks said. "But Vladimir said it sounded like a threat wrapped in business language. He kicked them out. Called Kostya immediately."
Kostya nodded. "I sent two men to watch Vladimir's place. Three more to patrol Brighton Beach. Dmitri and the hookah lounge owner are both asking if they should close until this blows over."
"No," I said immediately. "They stay open. Business as usual."
"Business as usual while the Belyaevs recruit our people?" Kostya's voice rose slightly. Not quite a challenge. Almost.
I looked at him. Just looked. Let the silence stretch until his jaw tightened and he dropped his gaze.
"Our people are loyal because we protect them," I said quietly. "Not because we start wars on their doorsteps. The Belyaevs are testing our response. If we escalate, we prove we're unstable. If we do nothing, we prove we're weak. So we do neither."
"Then what?" Kostya demanded.
I picked up my coffee. It was still hot.
"Like I said—we wait for The Settling."
Maks was grinning now. That sharp fox smile that meant he'd caught up to my thinking. "Let them make that mistake."
"Maks, I want full surveillance on their operations. Every property, every car, every phone call. I want to know what they eat for breakfast, what they dream about at night, which of them has a gambling problem or a mistress or a drug habit."
Maks's fingers were already flying across his tablet. "On it."
"Kostya." I looked at my brother. Saw the resistance there. The violence he wanted to unleash. "Pull our men back from Brighton Beach. All of them."
"What?" The word came out like a growl.
"Pull them back," I repeated. "Make it obvious. Make it look like we're retreating."
"That makes us look weak—"
"It makes us look like we're giving them rope," Maks interrupted, catching on fully now. His grin widened. "They'll see the pullback as fear. They'll get bold. And at The Settling, with all five families watching . . ."
