The room goes still. You could hear the hum of the fridge in the next room.
“What the hell are you doing?” Boris hisses, his face red with indignation as he tries to stare his son down.
Andrei’s gaze doesn’t waver. “The truth,” he says simply. “That’s what this meeting is supposed to be about, isn’t it?”
He nods toward the council members, and one signals for the data to be projected onto the screen behind the bar.
Images flash on the screen—scans of ledgers, transcripts, bank statements. One recording plays of Yuri and Boris arguing about Ivan’s death. About Natasha. About how Yuri’s power would ensure Boris’s rise after the death of my grandfather… My blood runs cold, even though I already knew the gist of it.
The gasps from the table confirm what I suspected: the others didn’t.
Boris lunges at his son, roaring, “You ungrateful little—”
But Viktor moves first, slamming his arm against Boris’s chest. Mikhail is already there, stepping between them, his voice a warning growl. “Touch him, and you’ll lose that hand.”
Andrei doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “I stand by the bratva code,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. “Even if my father does not.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. It's time for reckoning…
The council murmurs among themselves, voices a low buzz of Russian that bleeds through the silence. I can feel every eye on me, waiting for the verdict that will decide whether I leave here breathing or in a box.
Voronin raises a hand, silencing the room. “Before judgment is passed,” he says, “you should know that this council was not convened solely on Boris Popov’s request.”
A ripple of confusion runs through the table.
Voronin continues, his pale eyes sliding toward me. “We were contacted directly by Matteo Rossi.”
The name lands like a gunshot. Every man here knows the weight of it.
“He informed us,” the old man goes on, “that Alexei Balshov prevented a war between the Rossis and our brotherhood. That you risked your own life to retrieve Elena Marino from your late father’s custody. Matteo Rossi commended this act…and he made something very clear.”
He lets the words hang before delivering the blow.
“He said that any harm brought to Alexei Balshov would be seen as an offense against the Rossis.”
The air thickens. No one speaks. The meaning is clear. The Rossi don has drawn a line of protection around me. A powerful one.
Boris’s face drains of color, and I have the satisfaction of watching the fear seep into his eyes.
Greedy bastard.
Voronin nods toward him, slow and deliberate. “It appears, Boris, that your ambition has outpaced your sense.”
Sokolov folds his hands. “The council acknowledges Alexei Balshov’s failure to notify us in due course. But given the circumstances and Rossi’s statement…it is clear his actions served the bratva’s best interest.”
His voice hardens. “What cannot be ignored are your crimes, Boris Popov. The murder of innocents. The child Ivan Balshov. The women—Natasha, Katarina, and the others. Each one a violation of the code. Crimes against your own.”
Boris tries to speak, but Voronin cuts him off. “Enough! The council’s decision is unanimous.”
He turns to look at me. “Alexei Balshov is absolved of wrongdoing and endorsed aspakhanof the Balshov Bratva.” He pauses, returning his attention to Boris. “Boris Popov is to be executed for his crimes. The punishment will be carried out by Alexei Balshov himself, in accordance with tradition.”
Boris surges to his feet, shouting protests that no one listens to. His men don’t move to defend him—they know better. Mikhail, Dmitri, and Viktor join Sergei to stand behind me, all on guard.
I bow my head slightly. “Spasibo,” I murmur to the council.
Then I turn to Boris, meeting his wild, desperate eyes. “You took too much from my family. Now I’ll take your life in return.”
The guards seize him, dragging him from the room. His shouts echo down the narrow hall.
