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Vanya turns his head to look at me, cocking one well-groomed eyebrow. I bet he plucks them, the prissy bitch.
“No, I wasn’t,” he chuckles. “Probably because it was your cousin doing the choosing.”
“We all know how that goes,” Egor snorts.
Nepotism is an art in Russia.
“I was chosen off talent,” I remind Vanya. “Leo Gallo and I despise each other.”
“So even your own family doesn’t like you,” Vanya replies, smirking all the more.
The other men laugh, and I take a swift step forward, pulling my fists out of my pockets. The only thing preventing me from propelling one of those fists directly into the center of Vanya’s arrogant face is my father’s good hand pressed flat across my chest.
“Control yourself,” he hisses.
“I placed first in the tournament and second in marks,” I tell Vanya. “Whereas I’ve barely heard your name spoken at school. I almost forgot you attended until this moment.”
Abram gives a little snort. Vanya hears it. Now it’s his turn to color, because he has no good response for his complete failure to distinguish himself at Kingmakers.
“I’d be glad to give you a lesson in my skills right now,” he barks, the veneer of civility between us completely rubbed away.
“No need for that, boys,” Abram says in a bored tone. “We have other entertainment planned for the evening.”
He claps his hands. The double doors at the end of the private suite swing open. Twenty elegant women swarm through, dressed in sparkling gowns and diamond jewelry. Every one is tall and slim, their shining hair piled high on their heads. These are no chorus dancers, but the prima ballerinas, expected to drink and dance and socialize with the Bratva. Like geishas, they offer the highest levels of cultured feminine charm.When the Bratva want to fuck, they visit their own brothels. When they want to be entertained, they bring in the ballerinas.
The next hour is spent drinking and socializing. A table along the wall groans under the weight of a mountain of crab legs, caviar, boiled quail eggs, fern salad, sizzling sprats, and suckling pig.
I make my way over to the food, intending to eat, until I see fresh strawberry pie with a shortbread crust. My mother used to make that. She tried to learn all the traditional Russian dishes because it made my father happy to come home to her cooking, even when it was awful, even when her borscht was shit.
My father would laugh and try to gulp down her terrible food, and she would smack him with the dishtowel and say there was no need, we could visit the restaurant on the corner. He would grab her and kiss her and say that he’d prefer to order in, and they would send me to bed early so they could be alone. My mother would bring me up a piece of strawberry pie, which was the one thing she could actually make reasonably well.
I look at the pie.
I know it will taste like sawdust in my mouth.
I grab a glass of chilled vodka instead and swallow it down, liking the way it burns.
When everyone has had their fill of food and women, the ballerinas are dismissed. Isay Zolin calls the meeting to order. He controls the second-largest territory in Moscow. While his holdings are secondary to Nikolai Markov’s, Isay is the president’s cousin, and thus has been given chairmanship of the Bratva for the time being.
Isay checks that all thePakhansare in attendance, including those from St. Petersburg. When he calls the name of Ivan Petrov, a tall, fair-haired man with a scar down his left cheek says, “I’m here in my brother’s place.”
That must be Dominik Petrov, flanked by his two black-haired sons. I’ve never met them, but the eldest son Adrik is a legend at Kingmakers.
“This meeting is for all thePakhans,” Isay says severely. “I expected Ivan.”
“He sends his regrets,” Dominik says. “As you know, his business in America has been highly lucrative for all of us, but it demands no small attention. An emergency delayed him.”
“Has he authorized you to vote on his behalf?” Isay demands.
“He has,” Dominik says with a curt nod.
“Then we will proceed,” Isay says.
Now comes the tedious portion of the evening when the bosses vote on the minutia of shared Bratva business, including what percentage of the vast fund held in common should be given in disbursements, and where the remaining portion should be invested.
Each Bratva boss runs his own operation, but a percentage of profits is pooled, some used to secure our mutual goals in government and business, and some allotted for administrative expenses, bribes, legal defense, and so forth.
If the bosses don’t agree, then the lieutenants andderzhatel obschakalike my father are called upon to likewise cast their votes. It’s all very democratic, as far as democracy prevails when you know that the man above you might cut your throat if he doesn’t like your opinion.
