A lot of things can be said about the Russian brand of organized crime, mostly that it doesn’t have much organization going for it. It’s chaotic and messy, which can be a strength just as much as it can be a vulnerability. It’s hard to attack something that has no real structure, but it’s also hard to control.
The Outfit, though less organized than some crime families, is far too rigid in their roles. Even in this display of manpower, Marcell’s showing both them and me that he has solderswho would die for him. Men that would fall for someone who doesn’t even truly hold the reins of their operation, for nothing but smoke and mirrors.
It’s nothing but a disgusting performance.
The formality that is entrenched in every moment of this show is enough to make any man want to start throwing punches. No one can live within The Outfit’s strict lines and remain themselves. Not really. They’ll always end up boiled down to a machine that exists solely to follow orders.
“And yet, here you are. Why bother gracing me with your presence?” Marcell’s still smiling, but he no longer looks amused.
Heaven forbid I don’t play his fucking game.
“I was shot at earlier while I was out with my wife and her son.” It’s a fight to keep my tone even, and the subtle shift in his posture tells me he can hear my simmering rage.
“That’s unfortunate, but I fail to see how it should concern me.” He waves a dismissive hand in front of him, and it hits me all over again that I could have lost them.
In the blink of an eye, Blair and Niko could’ve been nothing but stains on the sidewalk. Not because of this man, but because of the whims of his boss. Just because of whomyboss is.
If I were to lose them, it’d break me.
“You and yours want revenge for what happened to Sotero, yes?” I ask. He raises a single dark brow, his expression bored.
I lost my chance to back out of this when I called him, and I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, so I simply say, “I will kill Maksim Maslov. He’ll cease to live, and without him there will be no one to push the Bratva further into your territories.”
Renzuto leans forward, tapping his index finger against his thumb while he considers it.
“And why would you do that?”
“The bloodshed is going to continue. Things have gone too far for it not to, and we both know it. But leave my family out of it.”
“Just like that?” He leans back in his chair, and I wonder if he even has the authority to make the call on this. “I give you my word, and Maksim’s gone? You won’t come after us in the future?”
I shake my head, well aware that if he dismisses me, I’m either going to die in this room and be marked as a traitor, or they’ll sell me out and let the rest of the Bratva take care of me. I’m loyal to our cause, but no one else will see it that way. They’ll just see what I’ve offered to do.
I’m not loyal to Maksim, though. He isn’t worthy of it. He never was.
But Blair and Niko? They’re worth everything.
Nothing will sway me from doing everything I can to protect them.
“I don’t control the Bratva, and I have no interest in trying to,” I tell him. “But you won’t have to worry about whoever takes over killing off your men because the wind has changed direction.”
His eyes watch me with an intensity that matches what I’m feeling.
It doesn’t take a genius to see that we’re already heading toward war. The dominoes have been set into motion, andnothing that happens in this room will be able to stop them. All we can do is try to mitigate the losses.
War is expensive, both in money and blood. To pretend otherwise would be beyond foolish, and for a man who’s been presented with the chance to stem the bleeding, it would be suicidal. My eyes flick to the guard closest to the door and back again, watching as Marcell runs the numbers.
I’m not surprised he brought so many men with him. It’s crucial to their operations that he does everything in his power to protect himself, to give off the illusion of power.
But it’s also more mouths who will know exactly what is said in this room. It’s more men that may lose someone further down the line. And if they do, there’s no amount of threats he’ll be able to issue that will keep the details of this conversation confidential.
All the structure and formality may be able to buy a man’s soul, but they can’t buy his loyalty.
When he meets my eye, his cutting glare tells me he’s come to the same conclusion.
Marcell’s only in his role to be the boss for the men on the streets, someone to distract the feds while the real boss works behind the scenes. If he loses his men, he’s nothing.
He’s completely powerless.
