I rinse my cup and set it in the dishwasher, feeling good now that the wheels are in motion.
I can meet the men and then be on my way.
But an hour later, I don’t feel as good as I did.
The meeting is met with unhelpful, resentful, stone-faced, silent men who look at me like I personally murdered their pakhan.
Many are Russian. Some American-born Russians, but they all have the same attitude.
Requests and questions are met with derision. Demands met with silence.
I find the books, but unless someone tells me who they deal with and in what exactly, then all I have are rumors and hours of picking apart everything.
They don’t even fucking look at me.
Annoyed and out of patience, I dismiss them, warning them if they don’t want to be under a new pakhan, their old pakhan’s heir, I’ll look over their resignation requests and decide what to do with them from there.
The implication is clear: I’ll decide if they live or die, if they stay in the US or head back to Russia.
“Melor?” I say to the last man, the only man who looked at me and had any air of acceptance about him, “can you stay back, please?”
He nods and closes the door. “Yes?”
He didn’t say “sir,” but he doesn’t insult me by calling me Ilya without my invitation. Mr. Belov would also hold a level of insult I won’t put up with.
“Can you fill me in on what the bratva’s been doing? Last I understood, most of the Belov Bratva operations were inRussia. I was surprised to find such a big base of operations here.”
He meets my gaze, and I hold it, keeping everything neutral. It’s second nature. I’ve done it before. This is his decision.
As the minutes tick on, I can see the softening, the ease of his rigid stance, but I think he wants to know what I am. He heard what I said to the men, but this is a different situation. One-on-one.
If I put myself into his shoes, this is like an audition.
Demyan and I never did this. But when I went to work for his father, at Demyan’s side, his old man was a control freak, someone who’d belittle Demyan, treat him as unworthy, no matter what he did.
I was Melor. Once.
This isn’t the same thing, but it’s familiar. I recognize the air in the room.
“I’m an honest man,” I say. “So I’ll let you know this. I’ve worked next to a powerful pakhan most of my life. I’m his second.”
Demyan and I don’t label who I am or what I do. I’m more than a second, but it works for now.
“And I can and will build up both the Chicago and the Moscow branches of the bratva if I have to. I’ll gut it from the inside and replace it with loyal, smart people. If you’d prefer to be in Russia, so be it. I’d like a man I can trust, to help show others I’m worth trusting—show, not order—but first, let’s talk business. I need the overview.”
“Very well. Sir.” He stands as I sit behind the desk and gesture to the seat opposite.
“Tell me about who we deal with. Allies, enemies, what we import, export, the kinds of properties and businesses we own and run. Here as well as in Russia.”
“The Russian operations run themselves. Don’t get me wrong. The Belov name is big business, big money. But only a few trips a year are needed to check up on things. I’d suggest letting the money makers make money. That part runs so smoothly, the pakhan moved here from boredom fifteen years ago.”
He continues on. The Chicago mansion is the headquarters, but my grandfather had dealings everywhere. Still does. He’d been quietly building inroads and setting up as an often silent ally to a host of cartels, mafia families, and bratva. There’s legit business, too.
But when he starts on the families and groups my grandfather had serious issues with, I’m shocked. They’re some of Demyan’s closest allies.
“Do the men know I’m with the Yegorov Bratva?”
His nod is all the answer I need.
