16. Andrey

16

ANDREY

Considering I just released weeks' worth of pent-up desire, I feel strangely dissatisfied.

Shura tries to hide a cigarette behind his back, but I grab it from between his fingers and take a long draw. "We're a sorry pair," he sighs as I smoke. "How long has it been for you?"

"Almost a year."

"Fuck, you lasted longer than I did."

"What do you have to be stressed about? Your woman isn't determined to drive you insane."

Shura laughs miserably. "I take it the nursery didn't work."

I throw the spent cigarette onto the ground and grind it into the gravel. "Nothing works with that woman. But that's tomorrow's problem."

Shura snaps to attention. "We have new intel from Yorick."

"Can we act on it?"

"The Black Brigade is meeting tonight to discuss the terms of Slavik's alliance." Shura looks longingly at the mangled cigarette. "Yorick will be at the meeting."

My spy, Yorick, has spent weeks worming his way into the Brigade ranks. Access to a key meeting is a minor victory in and of itself. Seeing how rare those have become these days, I'll take it.

"So will we."

Shura's eyes snap to mine. "You're not—We can't—Shit, are you serious?"

"This is no time to play it safe. I need to make a statement."

"News of our double murders will make a grand statement," he drawls sarcastically. "The Black Brigade may have been out of commission for decades, but that doesn't mean they're not dangerous."

"Relax, Shura. I don't plan on underestimating anyone."

He drags a hand over his face as I walk towards the Escalade. The man looks like he could use a smoke, a Xanax, or both. With a grimace and a muttered curse, he follows.

I get in the driver's seat and fly down the road. My plan may only be half-formed, but forward movement is better than standing still. I can think of no better way to channel all my frustration than to strangle it and mash the accelerator to the floor.

The adrenaline gives me a sense of purpose. As long as I'm hurtling forward at a hundred and fifty miles per hour, it's almost possible to block out the image of those bright eyes staring up at me with equal parts longing and disappointment.

It's almost possible to forget her.

Almost.

It's close to midnight when my men gather around me. We're only one street over from the meeting place, waiting on Yorick to secure us a way into the seedy motel where the Brigade lieutenants are gathering.

"Only one man can be in the actual meeting room when it all goes down," I inform my men. "Any more and we'll be noticed."

Shura's jaw twitches, but he doesn't voice his reservations. "What about the rest of us?"

"There will be Brigadiers stationed outside the meeting room. Yorick will let us know the exact number soon. I want you to take them out— quietly ," I emphasize. "Then wait for my signal before you storm the place."

"And you really think it's a good idea for you, our pakhan, to be the one in that room when the meeting goes down?" Shura asks, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

"I don't move forward with bad ideas." He flinches at my tone but falls silent. With a sigh, I toss him a bone. "I don't plan on decimating their ranks tonight, but I do want enough blood spilled to force a change of allegiance."

That's the gist of my gameplan: that, in the absence of loyalty, fear will do the trick.

Right on schedule, my phone pings with an incoming message.

YORICK: Staff entrance at back of bldg. Take second staircase to fourth floor. Use Bear Door. Meeting in ten.

YORICK: Five guards.

It's clear he's typing fast. As fast as I need to move if I only have ten minutes to get into the room before the Brigadiers arrive.

Quickly, I share the information with my men. "Once I'm in, wait twenty minutes. Use the same entrance. I should be inside by that time and the meeting should be underway."

I turn to Shura, clasping his hand the way we do before every high-risk operation. "You should be able to handle five guards without a problem, no?"

"Leave that to me," he says confidently. "Just make sure you don't get killed before we can get inside."

Smirking, I gather my wits and dart towards the decrepit building.

The minutes fly as I follow Yorick's directions through the building. Ten becomes nine, eight, seven before I reach the Bear Door, which turns out to be exactly what it sounds like—an old wooden door with the face of a roaring bear carved into the surface. Not a single other soul is around as I jimmy the lock and sneak inside.

The second I'm in, voices start to filter up from the staircase on my left.

I press the door closed quietly and turn to the room. Columns and arches ring the perimeter and there's a raised dais in the center. Bedraggled red curtains cover broken, windowless stretches of the wall, leaving me plenty of shadowy alcoves to hide behind. But I find a door that leads to a bathroom and take refuge there just before men start filing into the room.

With the door slightly ajar, I watch the men enter one by one. Amongst the grizzled, scarred men, I spot Yorick.

He's wearing a white button-down, his hair slicked back with an unnecessary amount of gel. I can only imagine he's trying to fit in with the rest of these preening assholes .

By the time the door clicks shut, an incessant chatter fills the room like swarming locusts—until an older man steps onto the dais and the assembled group falls into a pregnant silence.

"My brothers," Dario Krueger booms, his thick, white mustache twitching with every word. "It has been a long time since we've closed ranks in this way. I thank you for being here today."

There was a time when Dario Krueger's name carried weight in this city. But in the last few decades, he's become just another forgotten name on a long list of fallen gangsters.

"We have been content to deal in the shadows, profiting off small deals and meager alliances. But an opportunity has presented itself."

A low rumble emerges from the back of the room—whistles of support, excited murmurs.

Krueger smiles. "Slavik Kuznetsov approached me with a very tempting offer."

There's another rise in volume that Krueger waves away with obvious amusement. He's almost paternal with his men—a father addressing his boisterous, reckless sons.

"He isn't offering us only profit—he's offering us territory. Prestige. We'll have increased drug distribution to expand our market. In addition," he says, "Slavik will give us license to bring back the flesh brothels that brought us to power in the first place."

Flesh brothels? I have to grit my teeth to keep the angry growl at bay.

"It is a generous offer," Krueger states, as though the matter is already decided.

I lean in a little closer, trying to read the atmosphere in the room. At first, there had been an air of excitement and interest. But now?

I can smell the doubt circling in the air. The longer the silence stretches, the quicker it turns to fear.

"What say you, my brothers?" Kruger asks, raising his arms towards the throng of men.

For a moment, no one says a word. Then a man stands. He's younger than Krueger, but still senior enough for a ripple of silence to accompany his rise.

He doesn't bother stepping onto the dais. Instead, he stands where he is, his back to me, stiff and curt. "It's not a good idea to go against the Kuznetsov Bratva. Pakhan Andrey will not be pleased."

Finally, a man with some sense.

Krueger's reedy eyes tighten with displeasure, but he maintains his pleasant smile. "You seem to be a little confused, Benioff. Our alliance will be with the Kuznetsov Bratva."

"Slavik has not been seen or heard from in over a decade. He is not the true leader of the Kuznetsov clan anymore, no matter what he claims."

Krueger's smile slides off his face. "He is the eldest."

"Seniority means shit-all," Benioff retorts. "It's power that matters, and Andrey Kuznetsov is not a man to be trifled with."

I'm ready to give the man a standing ovation. But, judging from the look on Krueger's face, he's less inclined to agree.

"Andrey Kuznetsov is about to be deposed."

"Says the man trying to depose him!" Benioff pushes back. "What else would Slavik say? Especially since he's trying to win you over. He's succeeded, by the sound of it. You're ready to sign our lives away on a half-baked whim."

Krueger scowls as the men shift awkwardly.

Dissent within the ranks. I can use that.

My plan is forming fast. Krueger is a lost cause. But I have a chance of swaying Benioff in my direction. If I can do that, then?—

Before I can formulate the thought, Krueger is talking again. "You're absolutely right, Benioff. We shouldn't form an alliance with Slavik Kuznetsov. Especially when there is disagreement among us."

Without warning, Krueger pulls out a pistol and fires once. The bullet embeds itself in Benioff's forehead and the man crumbles like cheap plaster.

Krueger smiles with satisfaction. The air is rich with the smell of blood. "Anyone else with an opinion they'd care to share?"

There isn't so much as a murmur. Anyone who was sympathetic to Benioff's position has suddenly switched alliances.

"Wonderful!" Krueger slips his gun back into the holster. "Then we're in agreement. Lieutenants, join me up here while we toast to our fruitful new venture."

Four men join him on the dais. Champagne materializes from some hidden cupboard. Kruger raises his glass with aplomb. "To the destruction of an unworthy pakhan . And to the reinstatement of a new dawn for the?—"

But I've reached my threshold for bullshit theatrics.

Stepping out of my hiding place, I walk boldly through the throng of men, striding up the center aisle that leads to the dais.

"I'd put the champagne back on ice if I were you, Krueger."

The man freezes, eyes flaring with panic. Apparently, he still harbors a few doubts about who the true pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva is. Because he looks like he's seen a ghost.

Yorick is only a few feet from me, but he's playing his part, staring daggers at me like all the rest.

"Sorry to crash the party, boys, but I couldn't stand to listen to any more of your fearless leader's drivel."

Krueger's mustache quivers. "How dare?—"

He doesn't see the bullet coming any more than Benioff did. One second, he's standing on his platform, raised above all his men. The next, he's falling to the floor, blood spreading across his chest.

My men pour through the doors just as Krueger's head cracks against the stage. With the Bratva at my back, I unleash chaos on the sorry lot of them, already certain of my imminent victory.

This—bloodshed, power games, the skirmishes that live and die in the shadows—has always come easily to me. I know how to act, how to be, what to say, where and when to move.

But my life has expanded. It's stepped out of the shadows, whether I like it or not.

And Natalia remains a problem that can't be solved by brute force.

No matter how much I'd love to try.