Anton
I knew I’d see her again.
I just didn’t expect to feel like I’d been struck by lightning. For two months, I’d been telling myself that it was all in the past. One night. A reasonable mistake that was absolutely worth making. Seeing her the other night, however, had proven that it was not in the past at all.
“Earth to Anton,” Andrei says, pulling me back into the present. “What the hell is up with you these past few days?”
“I’m fine; relax,” I tell him. “Eyes on the ball, brother.”
We’re seated at a massive conference table on the first floor of the Upton Conference Center—a favorite meeting spot for our organization. Cameras and tight security. State-of-the-art surveillance and meeting services. All Karpov-owned. When we call the Bratva families for a meeting, we make sure it’s on our turf. Our terms.
We’re still waiting for a couple of guests. Most everyone else is here, exchanging pleasantries and gossip.
I find myself focused on the Fedorovs, probably because of Eileen’s mother. She was a Fedorov. Ivan’s sister, to be specific. He’s here with another sister, Petra.
He’s still alive and kicking, still ruling over his family with an iron fist.
Still haunted by her death.
“Seriously, what’s up with you?” Andrei asks in a low voice. “You’ve been distracted since the engagement party.”
“It’s nothing; I promise.”
“It’s not nothing. I saw the looks you and Eileen were giving each other. What happened that night with the Tommy bullshit?”
I give my brother a hard scowl. “This really isn’t the time to talk about that.”
“Fine, we can discuss it later. But right now, I need you here with me, alright? Kuznetsov isn’t playing. He’ll have plenty to say when he arrives.”
“I’m with you,” I reassure Andrei.
But I’m feeling the same uneasiness Andrei is. Kuznetsov has been making a few unsettling business moves across Chicago lately, building up competition against the Karpovs where he shouldn’t. It’s the beginning of a power play, and getting his hands on Eileen Donovan is just the icing on the cake. My instincts are right, at least where Sergei is concerned.
He’s up to something.
“Look at the Abramovic gang, those sneers on their faces,” I whisper to Andrei.
“They always act like pompous, arrogant pricks,” he scoffs, following my gaze.
“It’s different this time.”
“Kuznetsov’s influence?”
“Most likely. The Fedorovs have always been neutral, siding with the family in power, but I can’t trust them anymore. Not with Sergei marrying Ivan’s niece. That’ll make Sergei family.”
“You’ll be family, too, by marriage,” Andrei reminds me.
“Not good enough. Ciara’s not a Donovan by blood. There are times when I think I’m marrying the wrong sister.”
He gives me a startled look. “I knew it,” he hisses. “You do have something going on with Eileen.”
“Keep your trap shut.”
Our conversation ends when Sergei Kuznetsov comes in, accompanied by one of his associates. The conference table is now fully occupied, twelve heads and their appropriate partners are present.
“Since when do you bring Americans to the table?” Oleg Aronov asks Sergei.
“Here we go,” my brother mumbles. “There’s always a loudmouth Aronov at the ready.”
“Ladies, gentlemen, I’m sure you all remember Paul Mattis, my business associate,” Sergei replies with a flat smile as he loosens the button on his grey suit jacket. “His mother is Elena Kuznetsov, my cousin.”
“Eat crow,” Max Abramovic chuckles while his associate gives the Aronov boys quite the stink eye.
“Thank you all for coming,” I say loudly, sitting at the head of the table. “I’m glad we’re able to do this once a month without whipping out our semi-autos like the old days.”
“Or the glory days,” Ivan Fedorov grumbles.
“What was glorious about the Bratva being fractured, families slaughtering families for a slice of Chicago pie?” Andrei retorts. “We’re all stronger together, and you know it.”
Sergei smiles broadly. “That doesn’t mean we have to like each other, right?”
“Anyway, I understand congratulations are in order,” I say, raising my voice ever so slightly. I don’t need much to command the room. The day they speak over me is the day my reign will end. “Sergei, I understand we’re going to be family.”
“I suppose marrying a Donovan does have its disadvantages,” he sneers.
Good. I want him to hate me. I look forward to making his life miserable. A prick like Sergei Kuznetsov should never be allowed anywhere near Eileen. The mere thought of them building a family together makes my stomach turn.
“It does help with unifying the Bratva for generations to come,” I say. “Someday, our last names won’t matter anymore.”
“Yes, we’ll all be one big happy family, all of us bowing before—let me guess—your children, not mine,” Sergei says.
Andrei raises a hand. “Gentlemen, come on. These engagements are a cause for celebration. Bringing the Irish into the fold was a smart move.”
“I’m the one bringing the Irish into the fold, just like I’m the one enticing the Italians with more lucrative offers,” Sergei shoots back. “All while you go off kidnapping their kids out of sheer spite. You’re lucky the Benedetto family was willing to sit down and talk to me about the entire incident, Andrei.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I reply. “It was a delicate situation, but we handled it.”
“The only reason you didn’t wake up next to a pig’s head in your bed this morning is because I talked Tony Benedetto off the ledge,” Sergei says. “And frankly, we’re all getting a bit tired of these Karpov messes. We’re the ones who have to clean up after you, it seems.”
I shake my head slowly as I look at him. “Now, you’re just being dramatic. Tommy was at fault. Granted, our reaction could’ve been more tempered, but we talked things through and sorted everything out. Whatever meeting you had with Tony was your business, not ours.”
“I secured their support if the Puerto Ricans decide to move in on the waterfront businesses,” Sergei says. He gets a nod of approval and confirmation from Paul Mattis, his trusted sidekick.
“The Puerto Ricans have grown brazen,” Paul says. “Rumor has it, they’re working with the Colombians to gang up on us. They’ve had emissaries visiting the Triads and the Yakuza, too, though I’m not sure how those conversations went.”
Peter Popov grunts with displeasure as he pours whiskey into his coffee from a gold-plated flask he keeps in his jacket pocket. “This is it, boys. End of days. If the Chinese and the Japanese line up for the South Americans, we’ll need proper leadership.”
“What do you mean, proper leadership?” I calmly ask.
“Someone who doesn’t have us wasting time patching shit up with the Italians or the Irish. We need both on our side,” Ilinka Aslanova interjects, her cold gray eyes cutting right through me. She may be in her sixties, but the woman can make any man quiver with a lift of her eyebrow. “In fact, I think it’s time we send emissaries of our own. The Mexicans might need our support, and the Polish need to be brought up to speed as well.”
I look across the table, noticing a change in sympathies. Andrei and I have suspected it for a while now, but it’s becoming visible. Sergei has been lobbying for support behind the scenes, and it appears it has paid off. It leaves my brother and me in a relatively delicate position. Reasserting ourselves at the top of the pack is imperative, but we can’t just whip our dicks out on the table, figuratively speaking.
“What are you saying, Mrs. Aslanova?” I reply, narrowing my eyes at her.
“What I’m saying is I wouldn’t send you or your brother. Andrei’s got a short temper, and you… we all know how you negotiate, Anton. What we need for the months and years to come is diplomacy and a sly tongue.”
“Let me guess; Sergei Kuznetsov should be our emissary,” my brother laughs. “The man is naturally unlikeable. Look at Paul, practically recoiling whenever Sergei opens his mouth.”
“Are you trying to be as offensive as possible?” Sergei retorts, visibly insulted.
“He’s not wrong,” I chuckle. “Sergei, you’re a brilliant accountant, I’ll give you that. Your gift with numbers is beyond impressive, and it’s probably why your businesses within our organization have been thriving since you took over. But dealing with the Mexicans and the Polish, reeling the Japanese or the Chinese in, those things are not within your repertoire, buddy.”
Sergei leans forward. “Ilinka doesn’t want you representing us.”
“Ilinka has one vote at this table. One.”
“One vote can make all the difference.”
I stand up, letting my anger get the better of me for a brief moment. I quickly remind myself that I cannot let Sergei win today, not even by a vote. Andrei is damn near ready to take out his weapon and empty the entire magazine into the bastard’s face. In the old days, I probably would’ve applauded such initiative. But these are different times, and these people require a different approach.
I want Sergei to be fuming by the end of the meeting. Therefore, I need to beat him at his own game, so I take a deep breath and look closely at each of the players present.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Clearly, there are some issues we need to address here. The lack of confidence in my brother’s and my ability to lead the organization cannot exist. Perhaps I should remind everyone that it was the Karpovs who brought Tony Benedetto into the Cavalier a few years back to sign the Century Truce.”
“That truce had sloppy terms—” Sergei interrupts, but I cut him off.
“The adult in charge is speaking. Wait your turn.” I give him a dry smile, then resume my focus on the entire conference table. “From the moment I took over the chairman’s seat, our organization has seen a 250 percent growth rate in every single branch of activity, a 45 percent drop in the frequency of visits from the federal authorities.”
“In fact, twenty of the ninety current RICO investigations that the government’s agencies have built against us were dropped in just the first half of this year,” Andrei chimes in, eyes scrolling over his phone notes. “Another fifteen ended with either short-term arrests or charges dropped, tolerable settlements with the DA, and three hung juries.”
“On top of that, we had five organization members elected to the city and district councils in November,” I add. “That gives us additional influence over the regional authorities as far as docking and building permits are concerned. It will translate into approximately… What was the number again, brother?”
Andrei gives me a playful wink. “Twenty-seven point eight billion dollars, estimated to come in by the end of next year for three new residential and commercial projects, Lincoln Park, Douglas, and Bridgeport, to be specific.”
“Our organization has seen nothing but growth and fewer run-ins with the law since the Karpovs have been sitting at the head of this table,” I say. “Fewer killings, too. How many lieutenants and cousins have you buried this year?”
“Just the one,” Popov admits. “Just Fyodor.”
“And who killed Fyodor?” I ask.
Peter stares at his spiked coffee. “Charles Feng.”
“And what happened to Charles Feng?” I reply, knowing the answer already.
Peter looks up at me. “A nice cup of polonium tea.”
“What did the Triads do when the ME published his autopsy report?”
“They sent us a valuable heirloom,” Andrew reminds everyone. “A gift, they called it. An apology for what Feng did to Fyodor.”
“So, pardon me, Sergei,” I say, looking back at Kuznetsov and enjoying watching the color drain from his face, “if I call bullshit on the doubts you’re trying to cast upon Andrei and me. Unfortunately, we’re not perfect. Andrei’s temper did generate a small snag here and there, but it wasn’t anything that we couldn’t handle. The truth is, the Karpovs are an asset, whether you like it or not. So let’s call a vote.”
“Huh?” Andrei gives me a startled glance.
I reply with a subtle nod. I’ve got them right where I want them, and my brother will soon understand. There’s still a risk that it might blow up in my face, but I can tell from Ilinka’s face that I’ve got her back on our side.
“Let’s call a vote,” I repeat. “All those who want the Karpovs to remain at the head of this table, raise your hands.”
For a long moment, they simply stare at me. A few mouths are gaping wide, but I stand my ground, calm and composed, waiting for their vote. Max Abramovic scoffs, not as bewildered as the elders present.
“I take it you don’t like the roles and the responsibilities anymore,” he says.
“On the contrary, I very much do. But seeing as Sergei and some of his ass lickers feel like they would do a better job, I figured I’d let the Bratva council decide. What say ye?”
Another moment passes before the first few hands go up. The usual suspects are in my corner, but Abramovic and Kuznetsov aren’t alone either. The Popov and the Sokolov representatives lower their gazes. I hear Andrei’s sharp exhale as Peter Popov and Ilinka Aslanova raise their hands. To Sergei’s dismay, so does Oleg Aronov.
“Eight to four. Not bad,” I reply with a broad smile. “Your confidence is greatly appreciated.”
It’s a good thing they’re not aware of the massive sigh of relief that just unraveled deep inside of me. I’ll let it out once they all leave the room. I have to keep it cool for now; truth be told, four dissenters will turn to more later down the line, and Andrei and I both know it.
“Shall we get back to business then?” Andrei asks.
Sergei is anything but happy. He doesn’t seem too bummed out either. I can tell from the look on his face. I bet he’s doing the math in his head, thinking the same as me. Four could easily become six by the next council meeting. Then six could become eight and so on. If I lose my seat, Sergei will find an opening to do more damage to my family without a single care concerning our bond with the Donovans.
I guess I’ll just have to make sure I keep my seat.
