Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I look over at Anton and nod. He walks around the table, approaches Yaroslav from behind, grabs him by the hair, and slams his face forward into the table. His nose crunches and blood pours down his face. He curses in Russian, but he’s too afraid to do much else.
“You will speak to your Pakhan with respect,” Anton says. “He will not be addressed in such an informal manner. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Yaroslav says. The fear in his eyes should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I don’t want to rule these men with violence and coercion, but right now, I need them to understand that I am in charge.
“Try again,” I tell Yaroslav.
He clears his throat and wipes his face with his sleeve. “Pakhan, I meant no disrespect. I only want to understand.”
I nod at Anton and he returns to my side.
“The Armenians killed my father.” More stony, hard looks. Everyone remembers what happened to my old man. It was an ugly, horrible day for the Bratva, and one which we have not finished living through. I suspect we won’t for longer yet. “They’ve denied it over the years, but we all know the truth. My plan was very simple. I married Karine, the niece of Aram Sarkissian, and I used her to make my overtures of peace seem reasonable and realistic. Once I managed to get close to Sarkissian, I was going to rip his Brotherhood to pieces from the inside, and finish by murdering him with my own hands. This is a tactic my father once taught me, a tactic he learned in his years with the KGB. However, it went wrong, and I suspect Aram saw through my plans.”
That last part is conjecture, but what happened with Aram’s sister and Karine feels much too planned. It’s my belief that the Armenians were always going to backstab me first, but we forced their hands sooner than anyone thought.
“Where does this leave us now, Pakhan?” Yegor asks. His face is bruised from the fight, but he’s otherwise unharmed.
“Now, we come out of the shadows. I tried things the old way. I hoped that subterfuge and scheming might place us in a good position before we made our move, but that didn’t work out. Now, we simply have to exterminate the Brotherhood with every ounce of our being.”
I get some reaction at that. A few of the men murmur their assent, and even Yaroslav seems to rouse himself a bit, despite the bloody nose.
“It’s really going to be war, Pakhan?” Yergar presses. “Even with them in Baltimore?”
“It’s really war,” I confirm, meeting the eyes of my brigadiers and the heads of the associated families, daring them to disobey me. None look interested in getting murdered today, and so they’re all nodding along. “We’ve lived with the Brotherhood threat for too long. Now it’s time we finally get rid of them like the cockroaches they are. Tell me, are you all men of the Zaitsev Bratva? Have you sworn your lives to your Pakhan?”
“Yes, Pakhan,” comes a chorus of voices. Not all of them are enthusiastic.
“Have you sworn your bullets? Your blood? Your money? Your riches?”
“Yes, Pakhan.” Louder this time.
“Then do not turn your backs on your sacred oaths. Together, we will cut the throats of our enemies and watch as they die choking on their own tongues. We will burn their buildings, take their treasure, and make sure all traces of them are gone from this earth. We are Zaitsev, and we are strong. Are you going to fight?”
“Yes, Pakhan!” A louder cry this time, and I give them a nod.
“Gather your forces. Prepare your soldiers for what’s to come. I expect all of you to obey and do your duty. I’ve bled for this war already, and I will bleed for it again. All of you will too.”
I leave the room. There’s a murmur in my wake as the brigadiers discuss what’s going to come next, and I suspect most of them will start with planning. Some will be unhappy; that’s the nature of the war.
But none will dare speak up.
“I’ve got bad news,” Anton says in the hall. We pause beside a painting of the Schuylkill River, an idyllic little scene, back before man came and changed everything.
“What happened?”
“It’s Artemy.” Anton’s expression is stoic. “He’s dead.”
I lean against the wall and look up at the ceiling. “Shit.”
“Yes, I know. His son’s taking over operations of his business, and I think the boy’s going to be an asset. He’s clever and strong, like his father.”
I close my eyes and remember the fight. I remember Artemy’s truck backing into the Armenians. I remember Artemy himself coming out and saving his Pakhan, and dying in the process.
“He’ll be given all the honors we can. We’ll pay for his funeral and make sure his family is taken care of.”