Part of the reason of course was that Kirill had procured me a fake passport and other identification. That would allow me to roam freely throughout Europe for a couple of weeks if I so wanted.
Not that I’d need that much time to settle scores.
At least I’d have the freedom to capture the essence of the players that could be of threat to the Chertov Empire. With Kirill’s ‘vacation’ perfectly timed, he would be by my side until we both returned to Moscow where I would regain my position as Pakhan. The leadership position was something Mikhail had never wanted, although from what I’d learned in the three dayssince being freed he was doing well, fully recovered from the anxiousness during the initial stages of my untimely death.
Where he’d been nothing but a reluctant soldier in my father’s army, he’d earned himself the position ofSovietnikor my councilor, which would suit his personality and his strengths perfectly. As my advisor, he could remain active while pursuing other avenues in his life.
With Stash taking the role of handling finances, he was perfectly placed as theKassir, our Treasurer. In my mind, Kirill’s place as the Brigadier, with all soldiers reporting under him, was the most important position. As security advisor, he was worth every penny of the raise he’d receive once I was back in power.
From what little we’d heard about the attack on the prison, and the powers that be inside Russia had full control over all news sources, Kirill’s advance planning had paid off. Dozens of guards and prisoners had been killed both during and in the aftermath of my prison break. Several buildings had burned to the ground, at least two hundred other prisoners having escaped.
That would keep anyone from realizing the true intentions of the explosive event.
It hadn’t taken long after getting washed and donning a suit that my mind had returned to the necessity of running a billion-dollar empire. That would still take decent planning and my reintroduction into society. It wasn’t often a dead man regained control of such a large empire.
Kirill had spent hours filling me in on what he knew, including everything he’d heard on the streets of both Moscow and Italy.
What I’d learned had done little more than amuse the hell out of me.
As expected, several factions had taken credit for eliminating the devil. The heavy boasting always meant the same thing—a struggle for territory using whatever method available. Of course my death meant the Chertov regime had been weakened, even with the decent job Mikhail had been doing. He’d never been destined to take the helm. Neither had Stash.
The fact my father’s empire was still standing without significant damage was a miracle in itself.
And had already presented another full list of questions.
Even smaller Bratva organizations that initially would never have dared cross us were itching to do so now. That’s what weakness did, birthing a new crop of men with bloated testicles and limited intelligence. While I’d love to talk with Dimitri and learn what he knew regarding the various factions in Europe, I’d decided to wait until I had a better handle on what we were dealing with.
Not that I didn’t trust Dimitri, but someone had betrayed me. He had a lot to gain himself if the regime began to spiral. He could swoop in as a savior.
However, to eliminate them as a threat would require my reappearance. But in a way I determined. As soon as the shit hit the fan, we’d need to watch more than just our backs.
Tick. Tock.
It felt as if I was going up against a ticking timebomb.
Thankfully, Kirill had been instrumental in keeping the family regime together, Mikhail relying on his expertise and connections built over the years. In doing so, he’d also kept his ear to the ground, which was the reason once the rumorabout the man with the eight-pointed star had surfaced, he’d investigated without raising any red flags.
I was on my way to talk with the very man who’d gone out of his way to discover the truth. Igor Rasputin wasvory v zakone, his position within the old establishment considered elite. He came from a time when skirmishes between different Bratva organizations were handled by a council of men and a bloody single battle until the death.
My father had taken me to one in my life, the seedy club providing any type of proclivity money could buy. The fights were legendary, often called theBitva Volkov. The Fight of the Wolves.
What happened inside the ring was never interfered with and anything could be used to get the job done. Pipes. Brass knuckles. Sticks. Blades.
I’d been sixteen years old, my father considering taking in an event at the one of several underground clubs a rite of passage. I’d even rooted for the man who’d lost. He’d been younger, more virulent, and in excellent physical shape. Seeing him lose had shocked me given his opponent had been at least thirty years older.
The lesson learned had been extremely valuable. Up until then, I’d been a cocky son of a bitch. Afterwards? Let’s just say less cocky, understanding that my elders deserved respect if not admiration.
Which was why I didn’t go into a similar Parisian bar without paying homage to the man who’d saved my life.
Kirill noticed me as soon as I climbed from the SUV, giving me a hard look. “I was worried you’d decided not to come.”
“I had business to take care of.”
“And how is she?” His grin had yet to annoy me. It would soon enough.
“Older. I need you to take some time finding out everything you can about Rafaela Marichetti. She had no guards.”
He chuckled in a way that allowed me to know he was concerned about my itinerary. “Are you taking her home with us?”
