The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(102)

“We’ll see.”

“There’s plenty of time for that, no? Go explore the world. You are young, cherish it. Do not let our life consume you, yes?”

“Thank you for the advice, Clorick.”

For a while, they sat in silence, just letting the buzz of the tattoo gun speak for them. With each passing line, Mishca knew that from this point, things would have to be different. He would have to be different. He wanted to change the structure that Mikhail had created, and more importantly, he wanted to create a different legacy for himself than the one Mikhail had passed down to him.

With this, he had all the power, and now he could do what he had always wanted.



Leaving the manor, Mishca placed the set of duffel bags Vlad had left for him in the trunk of his car, already having gone through them once Luka had told him where they were stashed.

To say that Vlad’s investigation had been thorough was an understatement. There was enough incriminating evidence in just one of the flash drives stashed away to send Mikhail away for the rest of his life, plus thirty years, let alone what Mishca had found on the rest of them. Not only was there information on practically everyone in the Bratva, but some of their enemies as well.

Mishca had willingly handed over some of that evidence to the other Pakhans as a sign of good faith between them, but that didn’t mean he gave everything up. Luckily, only he and Luka knew about the information Mishca now held—since he told the Pakhans he’d come across it elsewhere—and that gave him the leverage he would need to get rid of a thorn in his side.

He drove out to a cigar shop in Brighton Beach, one of the few places Mikhail liked to go to unwind. It was no secret that he had lost favor with the others, rumors spread like wildfire.

Mikhail was sitting alone in a back room, guardless for a second time. He had a Cuban in one hand, already lit, a thin stream of smoke billowing from the tip. He hardly acknowledged Mishca’s presence when he entered, but that was to be expected since he knew what was coming next.

This was the first time Mishca had ever seen his father in such a somber mood, but with all he was facing, Mishca could understand why. They hadn’t stripped Mikhail of his markings out of respect, but at this point they were worthless, and everyone knew this.

With where he was going, he would need to stay in Mishca’s good graces, a place he had never been.

“Why are you here?” Mikhail asked, reclining back in his seat as though Mishca still answered to him. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

“The manor, is there anything you want from it?” It would be on the market within twenty-four hours, and Mikhail would be out of the country within the same timespan.

“Not particularly, but I suppose I should be a little more respectful since you have moved into my position.” He laughed without humor, tapping his cigar against the edge of an ashtray. “Just because you bear that symbol does not make you worthy of it. What makes you think that I will let this happen?”

Mishca pulled out a chair, slapping down a single folder full of surveillance pictures, audio transcripts, and more that hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface. “You never had a choice. You have one chance, Mikhail, and only one.” Next, he placed a flight plan on top of the folder, a one way ticket to Russia. “Return to the motherland, set up your business there if you wish, but so long as I head the Volkov Bratva, you are never to return. If you do, if I ever catch wind of you here, I will send this file to someone that will make sure you pay for your crimes.”

Mikhail glared down at it, not bothering to open it at all, probably already knowing what was inside it. “You think to blackmail me?”

“Not much thinking about it. I am. Your flight leaves in the morning.”

Mishca would have left it at that, figuring he had made his point, but Mikhail had never backed down from a fight, even when it was one he couldn’t win.

“I will have you slaughtered like—”

He didn’t get to finish that statement, not before Mishca pulled out his gun and fired a warning shot into the floor, right between his feet.

“Next time, I won’t miss.” Mishca walked towards him, sticking the barrel of his gun beneath Mikhail’s chin.

The older man hissed, feeling the burn of the heated muzzle, but he didn’t flinch away. He was too proud of a man.

“I would have let you stay, would have let you spend the rest of your miserable days in that shithole restaurant of yours, but do you know what I found in these files? You sanctioned the Albanians to come after me when they got Klaus instead. Yes, I hated you then too, but I was still loyal, and yet you never thought to mention that.”

Mikhail remained stoically silent, his face not revealing a single emotion.

“The only reason you get to live is because I need someone to assume responsibility for the deaths at your restaurant. Don’t worry, the men under your command will take the majority of the blame and will probably be sentenced to life because of it. Luckily for you, you will be out of the country, and you and I both know how Russia feels about extraditing back here.”

Mishca put his gun away, straightening his clothes. “And don’t bother trying to have me killed, the last person that tried didn’t fare too well.” Bending down so that he was nose to nose with Mikhail, Mishca smiled coldly. “Besides, I have a very pissed off mercenary that would love to take your head. If he could find a man in the mountains of Siberia, he can find you.”