“I misspoke. Please. The supervisor’s name is Vladimir Sokolov.”
I stand. “The shipment from Vladivostok arrives next week. There won’t be an inspection.”
Mikhail nods fast. “You’ll make sure of it," I add, leaving him pale and dripping with sweat.
From there, I drive to a textile factory, another front operation where Volchya keeps heroin stored in the back. None of it will ever reach the streets of Moscow, it’s too messy and not worth the risk. Our product comes in from Afghanistan and moves straight to Sweden and Norway.
Timur, the operations manager, meets me at the door. He’s calm as usual with no problems to report, exactly the way I like it.
I walk the floor and check inventory while running numbers in my head, kilos moved versus bolts of fabric sold. When the numbers don’t line up, this is where Lev comes in, filling in the gaps, with manifests, invoice and anything in between needed to make it all look legit. Whatever papers need to exist, he makes it happen.
This factory was one of my first fronts, built from the ground up and everyone here knows how I run things. I don’t tolerate slacking, no side deals and no getting creative with my money. I don’t negotiate and I don’t give second chances.
“The Albanians,” I say, once I’m satisfied. “What's the latest?"
"They’ve bought two more businesses in Novy Kamen. There’s talk of someone being interested in a restaurant near Zavodskaya.”
"Who's selling to them? Locals or investors?”
Timur coughs into his fist. "Locals."
Figures. My father’s weakass leadership is the cause of all this, locals thinking they can sell their businesses in Bratva territory to the Albanians. I don’t care if they have a change of mind after a reminder from my men, I need to make sure this never happens again, but unfortunately, I’m not the Pakhan and the one we have is still breathing. I can only do so much.
I’m still thinking about my father when Timur clears his throat. “One more thing.”
“Make it quick.” I look down at my phone, checking the time.
"It’s the Pakhan. Ivanov, I hate to bring it up, but everyone’s talking. I say this with all due respect; there’s too much talk about the brothel fire. It’s everywhere. A few minutes ago, I heard that Vera Belova is dead. With how your father’s been acting, I wouldn’t doubt it’s true.”
"Let them talk,” I snap. “All you have to do is keep everyone working."
I leave and head east, to an old Bratva-owned warehouse where we prep weapons shipments.
Inside, I see Andrei, Vasily and a new kid named Anton. They're packing crates with disassembled Kalashnikovs, laid out in pieces. Vasily looks up when I walk in. "Boss."
I nod, inspecting their work. "How many crates?"
"Fourteen so far. We have twelve more to go."
Andrei seals another crate. “You heard about the fire at the Pakhan’s whorehouse?”
"I heard."
"The lady who ran the place is dead. I heard they found her body near the dumpsters behind a restaurant a few hours ago.”
Anton hovers near, whispering. “They’re saying the Pakhan shot her himself.”
"Where are you hearing all this?" I ask, keeping my tone casual. Maybe he knows more.
The boy shifts his leg. “The whores. They talk. Not to me, but you know… word gets around.”
“What’s the word that’s getting around?”
They look back and forth at each other, daring the other to talk first. Anton opens his mouth.
“They’re saying it’s a girl. Maybe a whore who stole lots of money from the Pakhan and hid it. Some say she knows his secrets.”
“Gossip you mean,” I mutter, checking the foam padding in a crate.
