Under Control: Chapter 20

“We have to hunt down every single one of those cock-sucking Armenian bastards and put lead into their pathetic fucking bodies,” Yaroslav Gusev says, pounding his fist against the table. His jowls shake and his face is pink with vodka and rage. “That was a clusterfuck. That was a goddamn horrible mistake. And we cannot let it slide.”

The room devolves into bickering yet again. Yaroslav’s shouting over Kirill Antonov, while Yegor and Pavel drink aggressively and occasionally call insults across the table. Anton stands at my elbow, watching everyone with an impassive stare, while I remain at the head of the table, my shirt open and a glass of vodka at my elbow, doing my best to listen to the infighting and the arguing with an open fucking mind.

But my patience wears thin.

This is a dangerous gathering. Not only because some of the most powerful and ruthless men in the city are all under one roof, but also because it represents the strength of the Zaitsev Bratva in one easily accessible location.

One important rule during wartime: never put the leadership in one place.

Unfortunately, this is a risk I need to take.

The slaughter at that damn country club caused an uproar among my men. They’re livid that the Brotherhood killed so many of our soldiers, even though we came out of that encounter relatively unharmed, at least compared to the Armenians. I’d guess they lost twice as many in the end.

The bigger issue is what Yaroslav keeps alluding to without being bright enough to outright say it.

The attack is a stain on the honor and prestige of the Zaitsev Bratva, and blood must flow if we’re going to make sure this damn city knows that we cannot be fucked with.

Eventually, I grow tired of the complaining. I climb to my feet and throw back my vodka. I wait for the talking to fade away as my men turn their attention to me.

These are the heads of the important Russian households. Oleg Fedorov’s here, though he’s down one son. His eldest took a bullet to the face at the country club, a tragedy which I’m sure I’ll be paying for eventually. This is a more complete gathering, the central leadership plus all the associated wings.

“Enough,” I say once the room is entirely silent. Nobody moves or opens their mouth to interrupt me. “There will be war. You all know that. But what you do not know is that there was always going to be war.”

I’m met with confused looks. Yaroslav is drunk enough that he leans forward and slurs into the tension. “What do you mean, Zaitsev? You were trying to make an alliance with those filthy Armenians. How would that have led to war?”

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.”

“I’ll make sure it’s done.”

“His sacrifice must be honored, Anton.” I stare hard at my friend. “The others are going to think about Artemy. They’re going to need an example of what happens in death when a member of my Bratva does his duty.”

“I understand.” Anton glances back to the room. “You don’t think we’ll have trouble? War always tends to bring out the worst.”

“We’ll have trouble, but nothing serious. Honestly, I suspect half of them are relieved about the situation. They’re not happy about how it happened, but they all hate the Armenians as much as I do, and they’ll be more than willing to spill Armenian blood.”

“I’ll go see to Artemy’s arrangements.”

I grab his arm before he can walk away. “Send word down to Baltimore. Find any allies we can, anyone that hates the Brotherhood as much as we do. We don’t need them to fight, but we need eyes and ears in the city.”

“I’ll get it done.”

“We’re taking the fight to them. No more sitting back and letting events unfold.”

Anton nods sharply and walks away.

I watch him go, thinking of Artemy. The old bastard was a pain in my ass, but he was a good and loyal member of the Bratva. He didn’t always agree with all of my decisions, but he did what he was ordered to do, and he always wanted to do what was right, no matter what.

Now he was dead.

A fucking travesty. I can’t afford to lose good brigadiers, not right now. There isn’t a lot of wartime experience left in that room—so many of the men that came up with my father went through many years of peace.

They don’t know what it’s like to fight for their lives.

But they’re going to learn.