ILYA
It’s 7:30,and I’m itching to call or text Alina. She went to meet her friend Isla for coffee today, but that was over and done with. And she sent her driver off with Isla.
If I were Demyan, I’d have lost my shit, tracked her down, dragged her back, and probably locked her up.
But I’m not him.
I don’t do things that way.
I can be hard, cruel, if I need to be. But I don’t do that with women, and I’d never do that to Alina.
Also, I don’t need to track her down. I have one of my most trusted men from the Yegorov Bratva following her at a distance, covertly. After leaving some animal shelter, she started walking, so I make sure her driver is ready to pick her up.
I go back to the books. The Yegorov machine is smoothly moving just as I expect it to. I’m not worried about that.
I’m worried about this one, the Belov one. Mine.
Oh, it could run without me, but it shouldn’t. If I want to shake it up, I should be able to without a single hint ofdissonance. I’ve been familiarizing myself with the setup, with the lay of the land on the US side.
And time and time again, I run into issues. Not with the things the bratva are doing. No, it’s worse than that.
With the exception of Melor, my men seem determined to make my transition to their leader as difficult as possible.
My men. It’s odd to think of it like that, where I don’t have someone above me. My men. It’d even be laughable if it weren’t so fucking annoying as all hell.
Because my men don’t act like my men at all.
Things don’t turn up when I request. They drag their feet and sometimes almost ignore orders, right up to the moment I may cut them loose or end their lives.
I don’t mind being tested. I expect it. I’d be suspicious without it. But what I do mind is the insolence.
It frustrates me beyond reason.
I’ve been here well over a week now, two if you count the first time I walked into the mansion. Days are long, and no matter how busy I am or how little or how much time passes, there’s been time enough to ease things, get to know the men, let them get to know me. But the needle’s stuck on the same spot of insolence and mistrust.
I’ve been open. I’ve offered to listen to their input after I’ve let them know my plans for the future. I’ve been hardline. I’ve broken bread and set up drinks. Nothing works.
Without their trust, I won’t last long as their leader.
I could, I guess, bring in Demyan’s soldiers and allied troops and conduct a tempestuous coup of sorts, a mind-bending gutting of what’s essentially myself. Because firing them wouldn’t be enough. I’d have to have them killed. And that’s a big body count. A loss of life on the Yegorov side and possibly pissing off Belov allies and ruining deals.
It’s all a clusterfuck in the making, and if there is to be a merger, it should be that. Clean, supported on all sides.
Strength leaning into strength.
But all that is nonsense. The actions of a weak man, an ineffectual leader.
Belov will align with Yegorov. But it needs to be done with everyone here on board.
Besides, each cog here is important.
As for me, it’s a headfuck. All of it. I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact I’ve had this whole other side to me I never knew about. A legacy denied and hidden.
I only have a few memories of my father. I was so young when he died, and my memories are exaggerated. He was a giant. He filled all the space. He was loving and stern and soft with my mother. He was safe.
A good man who loved me and my mother, a kind giant with strong arms. My mother always reinforced that.
Yet my grandfather must have really hated him.
