In the Beginning (Volkov Bratva #1)(34)

Tattoos covered a large portion of his body, some visible of his fingers, around his wrists, and on his arms. He had earned each of them, spending a good thirty years of his life behind bars in one of the cruelest prisons in northern Russia.

Viktor Volkov did not pretend to be law abiding, earning his fortune in arms smuggling, human trafficking, and the drug trade. If it was illegal and deadly, he had a hand in it. Out of the lot of them, he had spent the most time in prison.

While he was brother to Mikhail, he did not have the same level of esteem, mainly because people often viewed him as a bit unstable. To be a good leader, at least one that these men would follow, you had to put the good of the Vory v Zakone first, but Viktor cared more about personal gain than the men he governed.

It was no secret that Viktor wanted his position.

They each played a role in the grand scheme of things. There was the Pakhan, the head thief-in-law who controlled everything. It was a coveted position, but not one that could be taken by force. It was earned through bloodshed and war.

Two Spies—the Sovietnik and the Obshchak—they were the right hands to the Pakhan, the former being more of an advisor while the latter collected debts and the dues of the rest of the Bratva.

Brigadiers or simply, Captains. That was Mishca and Viktor’s position and one he had fought to get. The Captain led a small group of men—often called Boyeviks meaning warriors—who answered to him, then he answered to the Pakhan.

In New York, they each had their own designated area, a territory of sorts that they ruled over individually. Viktor was in Brooklyn, Mishca had Manhattan—a spot that Viktor was constantly trying to have—due to his profiting legal business that helped mask is shady dealings. While Mikhail could work anywhere, he normally stuck to Brighton Beach, for similar reasons as to why Mishca stayed in Manhattan.

When Mikhail entered, they all stood, following him to the table set up in the middle of the room. When they were all seated, drinks were poured, a tumbler of Vodka set in front of each of them, a tradition they followed at every meeting.

Mishca held his glass in a calloused hand, studying the scars that dotted the back of his knuckles, almost imperceptible unless he was looking for them. There was nothing particularly different about each one, but he could remember how he acquired them. Many of the thieves used their men to handle their affairs, but before Vlad started working for Mishca, he had settled his disputes himself.

Mishca wasn’t lying when he told Lauren that Vlad was his right hand man, but Vlad’s job was much more than that. At first, he had started out as a Byki—bodyguard—but as years passed, he earned the position of Kryshas, an enforcer. Mishca trusted no one as much as he trusted Vlad because his loyalty was not to Mikhail, but to him.

“How is business?” Mikhail asked pleasantly, pulling a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and lighting it.

All at once, each member seated withdrew an envelope—whether hidden in their jackets, briefcases, or carried by their guards—and set them in the middle of the table where the Obshchak collected them.

Even Mishca tossed a heavy envelope in the pile. Contrary to what people thought, Mishca wasn’t awarded any special privileges because he was the Pakhan’s son. He paid his debts like the other soldiers, answered for his every action, and treated his father like every other member when he was in their presence.

Outside these walls, their relationship was not that different from the one they led here, but there as a different dynamic o it,one that Mishca had learned to accept from a young age. Business and personal relationships didn’t mix well. There was a time and a place for everything.

Back when he was twenty-one, still in college, Mishca had taken out a loan from his father—the money coming from the obochek, a limitless fund for the Bratva—and with it, he had accepted the principal amount as well as the interest that went along with it. Only once was he ever late for a payment, and as a result, his father had broken two of his fingers.

Since that day, he had never been late again.

“Did any of our friends stop by for dinner?”

That was a code, just like most things his father said during these meetings. If at any point the feds were able to bug them—and they tried often—they would only hear pleasant conversation. Of course, they could interpret their talks anyway they wanted, but those ‘interpretations’ would never stand up in court.

Mishca had witnessed that over the years, watching his father skate by on technicalities.

The meeting didn’t last much longer, Mikhail adjourning them much sooner than Mishca was expecting. Not questioning it—rather eager to get out of there and maybe drop by Lauren’s—he pocketed his phone, swallowing his shot of Vodka before heading towards the elevators.

Viktor stopped him.

“Mishca, how is my favorite nephew?” He asked, blocking his way to the elevator.

Breathing deeply for patience, he faced his uncle. “Good.”

“I hear there is a new girl in your life, is she from one of my stables.”

Mishca worked his jaw, remembering where they were and that Mikhail was probably not far away. Viktor was a calloused old bastard that treated women like cattle.

The ‘stables’ he was referring to were his whorehouses in Brooklyn, five houses that held at least ten girls each. They were hooked on heroin and barely knew their own names less than what they were forced to do night after night.