"They'll make their mistake," I finished. "And we'll be the reasonable ones. The ones who showed restraint. Who respected the old codes."
Kostya stood, his chair scraping against concrete. He paced to the wall and back, working through it. I could see his tactical mind engaging, setting aside the emotion, looking at the strategy.
I walked to the map, trailing my fingers along the red lines that marked our territory. Brighton Beach, Sheepshead Bay, parts of Coney Island. Russian Brooklyn. Our home for thirty years, carved out by my grandfather's generation and defended by my father's.
Now it was mine to protect.
"The Belyaevs are here," I said, tapping the unmarked area in Red Hook. "Warehouse district, near the ports. Strategic position for import-export operations. They're smart enough to know that controlling shipping means controlling supply chains."
Kostya joined me at the map, his bulk casting a shadow across Brooklyn. "They chose well."
"They did," I agreed. "But location isn't everything. They're isolated. No allies. No established relationships with the other families. They're trying to buy their way in through aggression, which means—"
"They're desperate," Maks finished from his seat. "Organizations that expand this aggressively are usually compensating for weakness somewhere else."
I nodded. "Exactly. Either their Moscow operations are failing and they need New York to succeed, or they're running from something. Either way, they're vulnerable."
I traced the route from Red Hook to Brighton Beach. "They're pushing into our territory because we're the closest. And because . . ." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Because the other families see us as transitioning to legitimacy. Less violent. More business-focused."
"They think we're weak," Kostya said flatly.
"They think we're changing," I corrected. "Which to men like the Belyaevs means the same thing. They don't understand that strength isn't just about who can hit hardest. It's about who can survive longest."
I turned back to my brothers. "Maks, I want surveillance on every Belyaev property. The warehouse, the office building they're using as a front, any apartments or safe houses. Phone intercepts if you can manage it. I want to know their structure—who answers to whom, who makes decisions, where the weak points are."
"I'll need to bring in the Volkov's tech guy," Maks said, already typing notes. "Our systems are good but theirs are better. Ivan Volkov has toys I've been dying to play with."
"Then coordinate with him," I said. "Ivan's reasonable. He'll see the benefit of knowing what the Belyaevs are doing."
"And if the Volkovs want something in return?" Maks asked.
"Then we negotiate. But the information benefits everyone. All five families need to know what we're dealing with." I paused. "I want the preliminary reports on Belyaev movements by tomorrow morning. Anything unusual, any deviation from their pattern, I want to know immediately."
"You'll have it," Maks promised. "Though I should warn you—if they're smart enough to choose Red Hook, they're probably smart enough to run counter-surveillance. This might get expensive."
"How expensive?"
He calculated for a moment. "Fifty thousand for comprehensive coverage. More if we need specialized equipment."
I didn't hesitate. "Do it."
"Confident in your strategy," Maks observed.
"Confident in my information gathering," I corrected. "Strategy is only as good as the intelligence behind it. You taught me that."
Maks looked pleased. He'd been running intelligence operations since he was twenty-two, back when I was still finishing my degree and pretending I might have a life outsidethe bratva. He'd built our entire surveillance network from scratch, using a combination of hacking skills, bribery, and sheer charm.
"Both of you will attend The Settling," I continued. "Kostya, you're visible security. Maks, you're there to observe and document. I want to know who shows up, who talks to whom, what the other families are thinking."
"And you?" Kostya asked.
"I'm there to look controlled and reasonable," I said. "To show the other families that the Besharovs are stable, strategic, and not interested in starting wars. To be everything the Belyaevs aren't."
Silence settled over the war room. My brothers looked at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them. Then they both nodded.
"It's a good plan, Kolya," Maks said quietly. Using my childhood name. The one only family used.
"It's a risky plan," Kostya corrected. "But good."
