The waitress tops off our glasses, the bass rattling through the floor. Mikhail tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he studies me, then waves her away with a flick of his fingers.
“You wonder why I ask you here.” His voice drops lower, less cheer now, more calculation.
I glance at my glass. “You said friends. Drinking.”
He steeples his fingers, eyes darting once toward the dancers on stage, then back to me. Calculating.
“Igor grows suspicious of shadows that are not there. He gives Timofey more responsibility—casino accounts, freight routes, even introductions to partners like me.” He taps his chest. “But Ido not like dealing with children. And Timofey is still a child, no matter how polished his suits.”
Lev chuckles under his breath. “Polished turd is still a turd.”
Mikhail doesn’t smile. “A child who listens too much to his own ambition. He talks of expansion, of risk, of… speed.” His mouth twists. “Speed kills business. You know this, Anton. You build carefully. Brick by brick.”
I swirl the vodka in my glass, watching the clear liquid catch the red light. “And what is it you want from me?”
“What I want,” Mikhail says, leaning closer, “is stability. If Igor chooses badly, if he hands power to a man who burns instead of builds, then the men with money will step back. They will protect themselves. The Bratva cannot afford that.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “Many eyes watch Timofey. But many more look to you. They see who you are. Who your men follow.”
Dima’s shoulders stay still, but I catch the flick of his gaze my way. Lev smirks again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I knock back the vodka, feel it burn all the way down.
They want reassurance. Maybe more. But I can’t give it. Not yet.
Mikhail leans forward, thick fingers drumming once against the table.
“I’ll be plain,bratishka. Men like me… we want stability. I keep hotels. Others keep ports, trucks, accounts. We have wives, children, business to protect. We cannot survive aPakhanwho hands power to a gambler.”
He tilts his head, eyes sharp despite the vodka shine. “Timofey is a gambler. You are not. That is the difference.”
Lev whistles low. “Sounds like a pitch.”
Mikhail ignores him. “I am not alone. The others see what I see. The crews follow you, not Timofey. Even Igor knows this, though he pretends otherwise.”
Dima shifts, finally speaking, voice even. “You’re saying if Igor falls, Anton is the one you’ll look to.”
Mikhail doesn’t flinch. “I am saying he already is. Whether he admits it or not.”
The words hang there, heavy enough to choke on.
I stare into my vodka, watching the fractured light in the glass. They want me to say yes, to nod, to accept the weight they’re sliding across the table. But a nod here isn’t just a word—it’s war. Against Igor. Against Timofey. Against everything I’ve built under his roof.
Loyalty isn’t something I break. Not even now.
“I’m not your answer,” I say finally, voice flat. “Igor still breathes. He’sPakhanuntil he doesn’t.”
Mikhail studies me like he’s weighing how much of that is conviction and how much is fear. Then, slowly, he nods.
“You are cautious. Good. But understand—when the time comes, you will not choose. The choice will already be made.”
Lev leans in, grin sharp. “Translation: congratulations, boss. You’re already elected.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but the sound of it lands too true.
I sip my drink, let it burn, let it remind me I’m still in control of myself, even if the rest of the room is writing history around me.
Mikhail snaps his fingers again, and two girls glide over from the edge of the stage, sequins catching the red light. Not random—his girls, his property, part of the show he likes to put on when he’s entertaining. One leans in close, perfume thick enough to sting my nose, and sets a hand on my shoulder like she’s been told to.
