All men will bow before me or die.
ChapterOne
Catarina - 5 years later
“It is time to make move,” Anton Smirnov says, straightening up in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk of his private home office. Unlike a lot of Russian diplomats in the US, Anton chose not to live at the Russian Diplomatic Compound in the Bronx, preferring a plush penthouse apartment on Park Avenue with stunning views over Central Park. Security is premium at this modern building, and he is guarded by a team of loyalvory.
“I agree. Pennsylvania, Florida, Ohio, Illinois, Washington, and Nevada are all running smoothly. It’s time to shift our focus to Boston, New Jersey, and New York.”
I have no doubt mention of Nevada is the reason for the tightening of his thin lips. Animosity between the Bratva and Don Salerno is as hostile as it has always been. Anton is the mainpakhanpresiding over the restructure of the Russian mafia within the US. While he was not here when things were at their bloodiest between my stepfather and the Russians over control of Las Vegas, he is well versed in the recent history and determined to exact revenge.
On that, we are in perfect alignment, but these things take time. It’s a protracted game of chess, and every movement on the board requires deep analysis, strategic thinking, and copious amounts of patience.
“I will talk with Moscow and arrange meeting with Colombians to discuss expanding supply,” he says in a distinctive authoritative voice, his tone still heavily accented despite his strong grasp of the English language and the voice coaching he availed of.
“It’s already a foregone conclusion.” I fold my hands neatly on my lap. “They have been trying to infiltrate the New York market for years. They won’t turn us down, and I’m confident we can secure a good price. Part of getting Don Mazzone to agree will depend upon them undercutting the competition.”
“The quality of their product trumps the Paraguayans’, and they have proven their reliability,” Anton supplies, rising majestically from his chair and heading to the liquor cabinet.
“That helps too, but the main obstacle I face is Don Mazzone’s reluctance to get involved.”
Bennett Mazzone is the head of the Mazzonefamiglia—the most powerful of the five families who rule New York. Greco, Accardi, Maltese, and DiPietro make up the other four. All of them sit on the governing board of The Commission, led by Bennett as their president. Currently, all Italian American mafia organizations are members of The Commission, and we have enjoyed relative peace and prosperity for several years, thanks to their strong governance.
“He should want to clean up the mess,” Anton replies, gesturing for me to join him at the window. “It’s bad business for everyone.”
“I agree, and it doesn’t matter how much he has legitimized his business operations or that there are no ties to him on the streets. The FBI won’t care. They are still aggressively pursuing the mafia via the RICO laws, and Don Mazzone has a big target on his back. His contacts can only do so much if they come for him. While I understand his reticence, he doesn’t have much of a choice.” I climb to my feet and join my ally at the window.
Anton hands me a vodka shot. “Na Zdorovie!”
I chink my glass against his. “Na Zdorovie.”
We knock back our shots, standing companionably side by side as we survey the glorious view of the city and Central Park from Anton’s fiftieth-floor penthouse.
To look at him, you would never suspect he is a powerful figure within the Bratva and the most powerful Russian in the US. The cut of his tall thin frame underneath the expensive suit is that of a confident man who is assured of his considerable talents and his place in the world. His dark hair is always neatly trimmed, and the streaks of gray threaded throughout give him a distinguished look that is nonthreatening. He looks nothing like the stereotypical mobster and everything like the diplomat he is. He’s ex-military, and like a lot of his comrades in Russia, he has been heavily involved in the criminal world for many years, working a dual role for government and the underworld. They are not always easy to separate.
“What do the other families think?” he asks, cutting through my inner monologue. He tips his chin down to look at me.
“From the reports I have received, they are conflicted. Don Mazzone washed his hands of the street trade many years ago, focusing on supplying top-quality narcotics to VIP clients through his network of casinos and clubs and concentrating on his property development and tech businesses. The other families have always supported his decisions because they are all filthy rich, thanks to his shrewd thinking. But the current drug war on the streets is making most of the dons uneasy. Don DiPietro is already calling for action. When I sweep in, offering a solution, Bennett would be mad to turn me down.”
“Your track record speaks volumes.”
“Ourtrack record speaks volumes.”
Anton was introduced to me almost four years ago by a mutual contact. He had only recently relocated to the US through diplomatic channels. We connected instantly, recognizing a common goal and a shared philosophy for achieving it.
Through his strong leadership, the Bratva is finally achieving their potential in the US, but there is a lot more to do. What we have achieved thus far has been done on the down low, but that won’t appeasePakhanSmirnov forever. He understands the need to do this in a structured piecemeal fashion, and he is less arrogant than most of thevoryor made men I have encountered, but he is still aman.
There is only so long their ego can be contained.
“Has your brother-in-law mentioned anything about Greco marriage contract?” he asks, ushering me back to my chair, oblivious to the immediate panic that one word invokes in me.
Anton and I have a great relationship, but it’s strictly professional. When outlining my reasons for wanting to form a working relationship with our enemy, I was deliberately vague about the events of my childhood, giving him only what he needed to know to be convinced of my sincerity.
He has no idea how that name instills true fear in me.
I brush a piece of lint off the leg of my white pants suit before reclaiming my seat, needing a few seconds to compose myself. Intense pressure sits on my chest, and a painful lump lodges in my throat until I focus on my breathing and get a hold of myself. The entire time I’ve been fighting an inner battle, my outward expression has remained composed, thanks to years of practice shielding my emotions. I clear my throat and shake my head. “Cruz hasn’t said anything.” I meet Anton’s steely brown eyes head on. “What have you heard?”
He leans forward on the desk, clasping his hands in front of him. “It’s your in.” A pleased smile creeps across his mouth. “This is opening we have been waiting for.”
