Something warm moved through my chest. Pride, maybe. Or relief that they trusted me despite the risk. Despite the fact that I was asking them to do the opposite of what their instincts demanded.
"Thank you," I said. Meaning more than just the agreement.
They understood. They always did.
Kostya stood first, his chair scraping loudly. "I'll start pulling the men back at dawn. And I'll call the owners tonight. Make sure they know we haven't forgotten them."
"Good."
Maks collected his tablet and his coffee. "I'll coordinate with Ivan Volkov first thing tomorrow. And I'll start running preliminary searches tonight—property records, shipping manifests, anything public that might tell us more about their operation."
"Don't stay up all night," I said, though I knew he would anyway. Maks ran on coffee and information. Sleep was optional.
He grinned. "Pot, kettle, Kolya."
Fair point.
They moved toward the door together. Kostya paused, looking back. "You sure about this? About waiting?"
I met his eyes. "No. But I'm sure that acting rashly would be worse. We have one chance to handle this correctly. If we escalate and we're wrong, we start a war we might not win. If we wait and we're wrong, we've only lost time."
"And if the Belyaevs hurt someone while we're waiting?"
The question hit harder than he probably intended. That was the calculation I'd been running since he walked through the door. How many moves ahead could I see versus how much damage could happen in the meantime?
"Then we respond with everything we have," I said quietly. "But we respond with justification. With the backing of the other families. Not as aggressors, but as defenders."
Kostya nodded slowly. "Good enough."
They left together, Maks's polished shoes clicking softly, Kostya's boots heavy and deliberate. The steel door closed behind them with a solid thunk, and I was alone again.
Withthemeetingdone,I returned to my seat, studying the board with fresh eyes. Fischer versus Spassky, improved. White was seventeen moves from victory.
Now I finished it.
I walked around the table, playing both sides faster now. Black’s rooks shuffled aimlessly, having no good squares. White’s bishop sliced through the queenside.
Every one of black’s responses was forced. Desperate. The noose tightening with each push of a pawn.
Seventeen moves later, exactly as I'd calculated, black was inzugzwang—a position where any move they made would lead to immediate disaster.
I sat back, looking at the completed game. In 1972, Spassky had resigned right here. He hadn't waited for the checkmate; he’d known when he was completely, utterly mastered.
Beautiful. Precise. Controlled.
I’d said life was chess but it wasn’t true. Chess was so much more simple.
My whiskey sat where I'd left it an hour ago. Two fingers of Pappy Van Winkle, probably warm by now. I picked it up anyway. Took a small sip. It was warm, the caramel notes turned cloying, but I drank it. Completing the ritual.
My stomach immediately protested. The burning sensation that had been my constant companion for weeks flared sharp and acidic. I set down the glass and pressed my palm against my abdomen, breathing carefully.
Stress. That's what the doctor I'd seen three weeks ago said. "You're thirty-three and your body is reacting like you're sixty. Reduce stress, improve sleep, watch your diet."
Helpful. Really helpful. I'd reduce stress right after I finished preventing a war, consolidating my position as Pakhan, and managing a bratva organization with dozens of different operations running simultaneously.
My jaw ached. I realized I'd been clenching it again, grinding my teeth the way I did when I was thinking too hard. I rolled my shoulders, trying to release the tension that had taken up permanent residence in my neck.
Four hours of sleep last night. Three the night before.
