"Goodbye, Papa." I kiss his forehead one last time, and leave to meet the captains.
The library smells like leather and pipe tobacco and the particular mustiness of old books that nobody has read in thirty years but nobody is allowed to throw away. I stand at the head of the table my father had installed in here when I was nine, theone he used for meetings instead of the dining room because he said a man should never discuss business where his family eats.
Ivanov enters first. He's my father's lawyer, sixty-four, wire-framed glasses, the kind of man who has spent four decades making dangerous things look legal on paper. He takes the seat to my right without being told, opens his briefcase, and lays three folders on the table in front of him. He doesn't make eye contact. He doesn't need to. Ivanov is on whatever side the documents say he's on, and the documents say he's on mine.
Gregor comes next. Captain of the port operation, my father's longest-serving man. He's fifty-one, bald, built like a bull that gave up running and decided to stand in one place and dare things to come at him. He sits at the far end of the table, folds his arms, and looks at me with the expression of a man who has already decided but wants to see how the room plays out before he says anything.
Then Yevgeny, who runs the construction fronts, Alexei, who handles distribution, and finally, my Uncle, Viktor.
"Gentlemen," I say. "My father died yesterday morning." I keep my voice level. Unhurried. I learned this from him, the way a room responds to a man who doesn't rush. "He was sixty-six years old. He led this family for thirty-one years. He built what you are all sitting inside of right now. The funeral will be Thursday at Holy Trinity, and every man in this room will be there."
The men nod. Alexei crosses himself.
"Before his death, my father made his wishes clear. Ivanov."
Ivanov opens the first folder. He passes copies down both sides of the table, a single page, notarized, bearing my father's signature and the signatures of two witnesses. I've read it four times already. The language is plain.
"Succession," Ivanov says, adjusting his glasses. "Stepan Ivanovich Zhirinovsky designated his son, Nikolai Stepanovich Zhirinovsky, as sole heir to the position of Pakhan, to all operational authority, all financial holdings, and all obligations therein. Witnessed and filed in accordance with the charter of this organization."
The room is quiet.
Then Viktor clears his throat. "May I speak?"
I nod my ascent.
He stands from his chair and walks to the far end of the room, hands clasped in front of him, the positioning deliberate. He wants every man in the room to see two Zhirinovskys standing at opposite ends of the same table.
"My brother," Viktor begins, "was a great man. A visionary. He built this family from the ground up, and every person in this room owes him a debt that cannot be repaid."
He pauses. Lets the sentiment land.
"But my brother was also a sick man,” he continues.
Gregor shifts in his chair.
“I say this with love," the word love sits in his mouth like something he borrowed and doesn't intend to return. "I say it because my brother would want the truth spoken in this room, even about himself. He was not well. And in his illness, he made decisions that may not reflect his clearest thinking."
He pauses again and looks at me.
"Including," he says, "the matter of succession."
The room doesn't move.
"My brother had one son," Viktor says. "Nikolai. Thirty-seven years old. Capable. Experienced. I do not question his competence. But competence is not the only qualificationfor this chair. Stability is a qualification. Judgment is a qualification. The ability to prioritize the family's interests above personal concerns is a qualification."
He turns to face the table fully.
"My nephew was involved in a car accident a little over a week ago. Since that accident, his attention has been divided. He has taken on a personal interest that I believe compromises his focus. He has directed family resources toward a civilian. He has assigned men, your men, to watch over a woman who has no connection to this family, no understanding of our world, and no protection of her own to offer in return."
My hand is flat on the table. I keep it there. I keep my fingers open and my knuckles pressed against the wood because if I close them into a fist, every man in this room will see it and read it exactly the way Viktor wants them to.
"I bring this up not to embarrass my nephew," Viktor says, softening his voice to a concerned hush. "But to ask whether a man whose first act as Pakhan is to divert resources toward a personal attachment is the right man to lead this family through what promises to be a difficult transition."
He sits down.
The room exhales.
I count to five in my head. I look at every face around the table, one at a time, starting with Ivanov and ending with Gregor. I take each man's measure the way my father taught me, looking for the ones who are leaning toward Viktor and the ones who are waiting for me to respond and the ones who have already made up their minds.
