Chapter 28

Chapter 27

Luka

"THE ANCHOR Bar," I grunt as I take in the dimly lit corners of the room. Dimitri and Erik, my brothers-in-arms, flank me.

"Fuckin' shithole," Dimitri mutters under his breath, giving a bitter chuckle. He's not wrong. This is not the Ritz. And yet, it's got something else – a gritty charm, like a scarred street dog that's seen too many fights.

It's a grimy bar with peeling wallpaper, faded in places where countless men had leaned against it. Stale beer and something sharper, a hint of desperation maybe, linger in the air.

Outside, it's worse. Hookers in cheap lipstick and torn fishnets lounge against the exterior, vying for the attention of stumbling drunks. The sign creaking overhead is a decrepit relic, the neon letters flickering inconsistently, a visual representation of its patrons' wavering fortunes.

"So it is," I agree, but it doesn't matter to me. We are soldiers, not princes. This dive bar is our stronghold, not like those ostentatious palaces where other mob bosses flaunt their ill-gotten wealth.

Too flashy, too fucking inviting for a hit.

But this bar is more than meets the eye. Behind a hidden door, a concealed room exists, sheltered from the outside chaos. A sanctuary for our kind of "business" talks.

With a nod from me, Grisha, our man, leads us through the deceptive camouflage of the dingy bar into the heart of our den. The door is a nondescript piece of the wall, as inconspicuous as a rat in the gutter. Stepping into the room feels like crossing into a different realm – it's cleaner, safer, sacred even.

The air's thicker here, heavy with memories and whispers of past strategies, past victories. "This place," I find myself murmuring as we settle into our positions around the worn table, "carries the ghost of my father."

The smoky scent of his favorite cigars, the worn-out grooves in the armrest of his chair – all bear silent testament to my father's reign.

A once fearless leader, his spirit a goddamn phantom at our council. He ran this covert shit from within these walls – a king among rats, his command unchallenged, his power absolute.

Erik interrupts my silent contemplation, sliding a crumpled manila envelope across the table. "Aleks," he hisses, spitting the name like it's poison.

"Pizda," Dimitri sneers, the disgust heavy in his voice. Aleks has been a pain in our ass for far too long, his desire for power as pathetic as it is dangerous.

I read through the documents, realization dawning with each passing line. "The bastard's buying off our suppliers," I grumble. This move is typical Aleks – sneaky and underhanded. "He's aiming for our roots," I snarl.

The memory of Yulia left with pizza half-eaten, her excitement replaced with confusion, adds fuel to my fury. This son of a bitch isn't just threatening our business; he's fucking with my family, my home.

Dimitri's fists clench on the tabletop. "Let's just ice him," he growls, always the direct one.

Erik, however, shakes his head. "We've got to play it smart," he insists, voicing my own thoughts. "We need to protect our ground. Aleks has been building his army," he says, his gaze unwavering, locked onto mine. "The fucker's been recruiting from all corners of the world. It's not just about the drugs, women, and smuggling anymore, Luka. It's about manpower and territories. It's about control."

"Recruiting globally now, isn't he?" I remark, leaning back in my seat, a grim smile tugging at my lips. The diversification of Aleks's crew is more a sign of his desperation than power.

"Not just Russians. Japanese, Korean, Americans…" Dimitri lists, a bitter chuckle escaping him. "He's building a fucking United Nations."

"And gaining ground," Erik adds, his voice laced with concern. "More territories mean more resources."

"More men, more problems," I correct, my gaze steely. "We've survived worse. We'll weather this storm too," I state, resolute. "We protect our own. We protect our ground."

"We've—" Dimitri starts but is cut off by a harsh rap on the door.

"Boss, Grisha," comes the deep voice from outside.

"Da. Come in," I respond, my words cutting through Dimitri's aborted sentence.

With a grating creak, the door swings open, and there stands Grisha, our resident mountain of a bodyguard, his icy gaze scanning the room.

He's balancing an ornate tray – an odd elegance to his otherwise brutish facade – holding glasses and a dusty bottle of whisky. The bottle is old, its label barely readable. My father's choice – a relic from his reign, just like this shithole.

The amber liquid gleams in the dim light as Grisha pours, its scent permeating the room – a nostalgic remembrance of countless previous councils. It's a reminder of the legacy we carry, the battles fought, and the battles to come.

"Na zdorovie," Dimitri says, raising his glass. It's a simple toast, yet it holds the weight of our collective determination. He downs his drink in one smooth gulp, the grimace on his face belying the burn.

A vicious growl builds in my chest as the thought of Aleks floods my mind. A vile parasite, feasting on the lifeblood of our operations.

That fucker… He was the one who arranged for my father's murder, had him shot in cold blood on the steps of his own home.

The whisky burns a fiery trail down my throat, the smoky flavor mingling with the bitter taste of wrath. Aleks would pay for what he'd done. By God, I'd make sure of it.

Erik follows suit, his movements slower, more calculated. He stares into his glass for a moment, as if seeing something we don't, before knocking it back, his throat working as he swallows.

"Boss, they are here," announces Ivan, another one of our loyal watchdogs, his gruff voice coming from the doorway.

"Let them in," I command.

The door creaks open, drawing our attention. Two figures step into the dimly lit room, their features shadowed, but the recognition instant.

"Vadim. Anton," I nod toward each man in turn. Vadim, a broad-shouldered bear of a man with unmatched loyalty, and Anton, sleek as a panther, his mind as sharp as his looks. They've been running our operations on the ground, their insight invaluable.

"It's been a while, boss," Vadim rumbles, his voice a low growl that betrays an unspoken warmth. Anton, ever the silent watcher, merely nods, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile.

"Four years," I admit, acknowledging the space that has grown between us. "You've been keeping things under control?"

Their answers come as nods, silent affirmations of the heavy mantle they've carried in my absence.

"Always." Anton's voice is like steel, the conviction in his tone making it clear he's been doing his damnedest to uphold not just my expectations but my father's legacy.

"What's the damage?" I ask, my gaze shifting between Vadim and Anton.

Vadim grunts. "We've been trying to reach our suppliers, boss. No fuckin' luck. It's like they've disappeared into thin air."

Anton chimes in, his voice cool and calm, "Some shipments didn't come through. We're short on supplies."

"Aleks's work, no doubt," I spit, clenching my fists in barely concealed rage.

"Seems so." Anton nods, his jaw set in a tight line.

"Blyad!" Dimitri swears, slamming his hand on the table. "We can't let this asshole bleed us dry."

"I agree," Vadim rumbles, his face hard as stone. "We've got people dependent on us, families. We can't let them down."

"We got a plan, boss?" Vadim asks, his voice gravelly but carrying a note of unwavering faith. I look at Anton, his silent nod reassuring.

"A plan to hit back," I confirm, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "But we need to call in some favors," I add, my words resonating in the silence that shrouds us. "From our friends."

Dimitri leans back in his chair, casting a skeptical glance. "So, the Diablos in New York? Those guys are ruthless."

"Exactly," I reply, "Ruthlessness we could use."

"And what about the Angeles de Fuego in Chicago?" Dimitri adds.

"Armando owes us. My father did him a solid back in the day. We can count on the Angeles, too," I say, my voice steady and confident.

"But can we trust them?" Erik chimes in, his usual calm disrupted by the gravity of the plan.

I give a curt nod, the barest trace of a smile tugging at my lips. "It's time they paid their dues."

"Las Vegas?" Dimitri continues, rolling his eyes. "The Royal Serpents? You know those high rollers don't want to get their hands dirty."

"We'll make them an offer they can't refuse," I state.

Dimitri grunts, scrutinizing me. "And you're sure they'll play ball?"

"They hate Aleks as much as we do," I counter, my gaze steady. "He screwed them over, too. It's time we all came together. Our collective strength…it'll give us a chance against Aleks."

Dimitri levels me with a stare, and I sense he's not convinced. It should piss me off, but it's to be expected. I've been out of the loop too long. But that doesn't mean I've lost my touch. Or lost my grasp of the landscape out here.

I've been behind bars. Not dead.

I lean back in my chair, meeting his gaze head-on. "We make it worth their while, Dimitri. It's either that or we let Aleks keep pushing us around. Your choice."

"Not just mine," he responds, looking around at the others. There are several nods of affirmation. It's gratifying.

"Our aim is clear now: bring down Aleks and his traitors," I say firmly. "Once we do that, Aleks himself will have no place left to crawl. He will finally face the consequences of murdering my father," I declare, my voice ringing with cold determination.

There's silence all around me, but I know everyone understands where this is going.

War starts now.