Guests murmur in hushed, brittle tones, and while it sounds casual, it’s not. This place is nothing short of a minefield.
Men from every Bratva faction dot the space in their tailored suits, with their practiced smiles and hawk-like eyes that flick toward the exits too often.
As I listen to Dad’s acquaintance speak, I catch the guarded expressions, the subtle glances, and how some of the older men keep a hand near their jacket, even while sipping champagne.
It looks like diplomacy but smells like smoke before a fire.
It’s not only New York versus Chicago—it’s the whole thing.
All of a sudden, the room erupts in low murmurs when Yaroslav walks in, followed by what are supposed to be leaders in his Bratva. Security isn’t allowed inside the hall, but the bald-headed men with him look like bodyguards instead of other leaders.
“Here comes the snake.” Uncle Adrian slides to Dad’s side, speaking low. “Keep an eye on him. He’s up to something.”
Dad narrows his eyes. “I know.”
“I don’t like his secret dealings with powerful families close to our territory.”
“Then we need to make our own.”
“Not possible at the moment. Those families, such as the Davenports and Callahans, only deal with insiders.”
“Yaroslav was born a nobody in the streets of Moscow and lived like a rat for most of his youth.” Dad narrows his eyes in the Chicago leader’s direction. “He only got this far by using his father-in-law’s fortune like a parasite, so he’s definitelynotan insider.”
“He might not be an insider, but he has a bargaining chip that allows him an in we currently don’t have.”
That can’t be good.
Dad and Uncle Adrian fall silent, but many others are whispering about Yaroslav. He’s not truly liked by any of the other factions, but he’s respected, or probably feared, because many of the other leaders fall in line to greet him.
No one from our side steps up, though, which is understandable, considering the bad blood.
It might have started a long time ago, but it was cemented after that attack on the camp. Yaroslav thinks our side did it, and Dad thinks Chicago is the one behind it.
But I’m not sure.
I’ve often found that incident strange, and I’ve done a lot of digging over the years, but I’ve never come up with anything different from my father’s findings. He believes Yaroslav hacked into our system and sent people to kill me, and it was only a stroke of luck that Yulian took the bullet instead.
While it does make sense from Dad’s perspective, in reality, it’s not convincing. Although there’s no love lost between father and son, Yaroslav wouldn’t put his heir in danger like that; he just wouldn’t risk it.
But again, it’s only speculation, and there’s no proof at this point.
“Morozov, Volkov.” A man with fully white hair and a strong build cuts through the small crowd surrounding us, though he doesn’t truly have to since they make room for him.
The leader of the Boston branch.
Uncle Adrian nods in acknowledgment, and my father says, “Markov.”
“What’s with the long face, gentlemen?” His words roll out in a thick Russian accent, followed by a booming laughas he snaps his fingers at a waiter, who nearly trips rushing over. Markov plucks two flutes of champagne and hands them to my father and Uncle Adrian. “Let’s drink to new beginnings.”
Dad takes the glass but doesn’t lift it to his mouth. “Not if he’s here. I told you that.”
“Now, now.” Markov, our enthusiastic host, throws his hand around. “Don’t hold on to old grudges. It’s not like you. Besides, as a gesture of goodwill, Dimitriev brought his disabled child to show support for the cause. Flew her all the way from Chicago, which is unheard of, considering how much he shelters her. The least you can do is be a little lenient. For my sake, yes?”
“I willnotcompromise,” my father says with finality, but I’m not focused on him, my gaze square on Yaroslav.
My lips part when the last person I expected to see walks through the door.
Yulian.
