Yeah. She’s definitely avoiding me.
Do I want her? I don’t even know what I can offer this poor girl. I’m almost ten years her senior, and I lead a syndicate that runs on debauchery, lies, and sin. She should be with a personified pair of tan khakis, sleeping in a safe house with no enemies and a white picket fence. She deserves sunshine and laughter and a lifetime of peace.
I waste the last twenty minutes before my meeting staring at that stationary blue dot, wondering what the hell I’m doing.
Standing from my desk, I strap on my guns to each thigh and lock up behind me. Maybe I could buy a pair of khakis.
My fingers drumagainst the table as I watch nearly my entire organization slowly filter into the room, a wave of anticipatory silence settling over the growing group. After Sergei informed me of the situation, I called everyone to Empire. Not just because it’s the most successful of all my businesses, but because of the expansive, soundproof conference rooms I installed in thebasement beneath it.
It’s neither secure nor sustainable to have the entire Bratva collected under the same roof, but tonight, I had no choice. It’s imperative that I resolve this little hiccup with the utmost clarity.
When everyone seems to be gathered, I clear my throat and look up, addressing my men.
“Welcome to Empire. I am pleased to have you all here to participate in our management meeting tonight. As this is one of our most successful fronts, I think it is vital that each of you witnesses exactly how your Bratva does business, and how our money makes its way into each of your pockets in exchange for your loyal service.”
Without enough chairs for everyone to sit at the long conference table, many are standing at attention throughout the large room, and I make sure to look each and every one of them in the eyes before proceeding.
“Sergei.” I nod toward my Clubs Manager. “Please lead us through the clean-sale quantities from each of your sub-managers.”
“Yes, Pakhan,” Sergei replies before clicking something open on his computer. “Empire Club Enterprises has made 100K. Fairview Ave. is at 42K. Batiste is 45K, and Alias is at 80K. Each biweekly clean sum was supplemented by approximately 30% from the laundering side.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Sergei,” I tell him, allowing my lips to slip into a venomous smile. “Will the sub-managers stand up?” I ask lazily from the head of the table.
Four men rise from their chairs, their faces tempered by confusion. Sergei shuts his laptop with a click and slides it back on the table.
“Which of you manages Batiste?” I ask, knowing damn well who runs the restaurant in question. What kind of Pakhan would I be if I didn’t do my own research?
A bead of sweat slides down the second man’s lips before he licks it away and hesitantly raises his hand. “My name is Borris, Sir. I run Batiste.”
His face twists to hide behind a prideful exterior, though his fingers remain trembling by his side.
“Your sales are quite impressive, Borris,” I compliment. His smile grows when I speak, until I let out a divisive tsk.
“Though I remember them being higher in the previous quarter. How do you suppose that happens, Borris? Do I need to hire a new chef?”
Panic laces his face before he can disguise it. I see everything he’s hiding away behind those darkening eyes.
“I’ve heard a few complaints, Pakhan. It might be wise to do as you say and hire a new kitchen service,” he replies quickly.
“Ah.” I scratch my jaw. “You see, Borris, it may be outside my direct responsibilities, but I do like to look into the health of my business ventures every once in a while.”
I allow a small stretch of silence to seep through the crowd before continuing.
“And it would seem that last week, the projected earnings for Batiste alone were approximately 70K. Remind me, Sergei, what was Borris’ bi-weekly total?”
“45K, Pakhan,” Sergei responds, pragmatic as ever. I watch carefully as eyes widen across the room and Borris’s face blanches white.
“Huh.” I tilt my head a fraction to the right. “Where’s that 25K, Borris?”
His fingers are no longer the only thing shaking. His entire body seems to rattle now, trembling like a sock in the wind.
“Please, Pakhan, I’m so sorry—I’ll put it all back, I?—”
Pop.
My shot carves through his useless plea with brutal efficiency. The bullet finds its home in the curve of his brow, the body slapping against the floor barely a second later. A sharp, familiar tang of iron fills the closed space as I rise from my seat and slip my weapon back into my belt. Everyone in the room knows better than to move, but the sea of frozen bodies narrows their gazes on their fallen brethren.
“I think this little lesson has been long overdue. Let me remind each of you what happens to rats in my Bratva.” I gesture to the bag of bones and blood currently staining my formerly pristine floor.
