Lev lets out a short breath. He doesn’t have to say what we’re both thinking. As much as he’s like a brother to me, this issue of our Pakhan is an unspoken thing between us and every other brigadier orbratkiwho’s growing tired of his bullshit.
The door swings open. Pasha, Volchya’s accountant, steps out. His thin face is tight with anger, red splotches all over his cheeks. He doesn’t notice Lev and I as he storms past us, toward the stairs.
I smile inside my head, knowing Pasha must’ve gotten the shit treatment this morning. Just what I like to see. My father’s making my job easier with the more people he screws over.
"Roman!"
The Pakhan’s shout booms from inside the room out to the hallway. "Get in here."
I walk inside, leaving Lev out there waiting his turn. The council room is where all of us get reminded who Moscow belongs to. Who controls everything that goes on not just in the underworld but all the way to the top, where even the police are sometimes terrified to interfere in Bratva dealings. This room is also where he shows off his wealth. There’s artwork worth millions, including a framed portrait of Stalin mounted directly behind his chair. The walls are lined with shelves of leather-bound books my father has never read, will never read and probably can't even name half the titles.
He sits behind a massive desk, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of vodka at his elbow. It’s not even noon yet.
"Sit," he orders.
I take the chair across from him. I can’t appear too relaxed in front of him, or he’ll take it as disrespect. I also can’t look tense, that’s a definite sign of fear. I find the right posture, one I’ve perfected over the years to appear as a well-meaning son who respects his father but isn’t afraid of him. It’s all crap, though. I don't respect Grigori. I never did and never will. I don’t need him to know that.
Not yet.
He draws on his cigarette, watching me through the smoke. He’s looking for weakness. Betrayal. The Pakhan is on the hunt for any sign that I'm not what I pretend to be. I’m not surprised.
My father’s always been suspicious of me. That’s part of the reason I have to bide my time. His suspicion isn’t the worst of it. For the past couple of months, he’s become paranoid as hell, questioning even men who I know for a fact are loyal to him.
"I'm hearing complaints.”
"About what?"
"Your men. I hear they're unhappy."
Bullshit.
I keep my face neutral. He’s not fooling me. This is a test. It's always a test with him. "Some of them have issues with me. That’s true. They think I’m too young, that I made it through the ranks too fast. Don’t like taking orders from someone younger than themselves.”
"And?" He blows another puff of smoke, this time straight in my face.
"I've handled it."
"How?"
"Oleg had an accident last month. A drunk driver tookhim out on the way home one night. His car went up in flames. Body was completely charred.” I hold his gaze. “I haven’t heard a single complaint since.”
He fingers his chin, taking another drag on the cigarette. "The Albanians want more territory. Access to the markets and railway."
He stubs out his cigarette, immediately lighting another. I clench my jaw, curling my fist on my lap. The fucking Albanians. Not this shit again.
His brows narrow. "Something to say? Spit it out, then.”
"We've already given those cocksuckers too much ground.”
"Watch your mouth."
"All I’m saying is, we’re losing money. The men are starting to notice. I’m not just talking about my people.”
"The men do what I tell them. The Albanian alliance is strategic. They have routes we need. Access to ports we don't control."
Strategic. I can’t stand that word. It’s meaningless, his excuse for every bad decision. Every concession. Every weakness.
Going into business with the Albanians is the opposite of strategic. It's rolling over. We're giving away territory and money because my father is too stupid to expand properly. He’s too afraid and weak to tighten control of what we have without outside help.
