Page 66 of Sexting the Silverfox

“Welcome, Grigori,” Arkady states, smiling disingenuously. He stays close to me, making me feel increasingly uneasy. I am his shield, whether I like it or not, because we can both sense the silent rage oozing from my father.

“Arkady, you piece of trash,” Papa says, then gives me a short but comprehensive glance. “Are you okay, Audrey?”

I shrug in return. “So far, so good. Thanks for asking.” My tone is deader than the Dead Sea. None of these men deserves any respect or sympathy from me. I’m just a fucking bargaining chip.

“Let’s hear it, Arkady. Lay out your terms,” my father says, sighing deeply, hands at his sides.

I take a moment to really observe him. His body language and choice of clothing say more than he ever will. The jeans and black boots tell me he’s ready for trouble if push comes to shove. It’s been a while since he’s been directly involved in violence of any kind, but Grigori Fedorov is a former heavyweight boxing champ, revered and reviled in the Bronx.

His black shirt and smart grey Armani jacket tell me he’s come to talk business. He wouldn’t want to get any blood on it. But he will if he has to.

“I thought I already stated my terms,” Arkady tells my father, then takes out a folded contract from his jacket’s inner pocket. “I even drafted them on paper. All I need is your signature.”

“And who is going to verify this? Who’s going to sanction it? You speak as if there’s some higher Bratva court that’s going to legalize this thing,” my father scoffs, unable to hide his contempt.

“It’s for my peace of mind. It’s what I will hold up for you to read while I peel the meat from your daughter’s bones, should you ever think of double-crossing me,” Arkady bluntly replies. “I consider myself a fair man, Grigori. I’d like to make a fashionable return to New York, not a bloody one. Securing your signature on this piece of paper will get the other families on board, and things can be official. So, if ever you decide to fight me, I’ll have the paperwork handy for them to know they need to keep their fucking distance while I kill you all. Does that make sense?”

The Fedorovs may be leaders of the New York Bratva, but they’re not the only ones. There are others, smaller families and clusters, gangs and organizations. At this point in time, they have sworn their allegiance to my father, paying protection taxes to the Fedorovs in exchange for being able to do business in New York. If someone like Arkady comes in from the outside, these people will fight alongside the Fedorovs.

But they are also annoyingly strict. If Arkady dangles a paper with my father’s signature on it, then the same families and clusters are honor-bound to stand back because if a man like Grigori Fedorov goes back on his word, then he is not a man, nor is he someone worthy of following into the fire. He will lose all credibility.

And the Fedorovs alone are not enough to stand against Arkady and his men. That much even I know.

I look at my father and wait for his reaction as he reads through the contract, one page at a time.

“You’ve done your homework; I applaud you,” he finally says.

“I had to,” Arkady replies, “out of respect for the Bratva.”

“However, you will never get what you want.”

My jaw drops. What?

Arkady’s bravado falters, and he gives my father a confused frown. “You do realize what’s at stake here, right?”

“I do,” Papa says. “And I’m telling you what is going to happen, even if I do give you what you want. I’ll give you a chunk of my territory as per your request, but you will never get the support you desire. New Yorkers are a different breed, Arkady. You don’t know them like I do. You will never get them in line.”

“That’s my problem to deal with, not yours.”

“It will become my problem because your inadequacy will lead to unnecessary violence,” my father says calmly. “It will spill out into the streets, and the NYPD is remarkably well-staffed. You’ll inevitably bring more cops to our doorsteps. And that’s when the others in the Bratva will demand that I take action. They will look to me for guidance and protection.”

Arkady cannot believe what he’s hearing. I bet he’s never been told no before.

“I will take what is mine, whether anyone in New York likes it or not,” he says. “But I really don’t want to do it by beheading your daughter. Think about it, old man. You’re not cut out for this game anymore.”

“Your youthful spunk is just that,” my father replies. “You’re a flash in the pan. I have years on you, Arkady, and I know your father was just as reckless, just as foolish. But at least he knew his place in Chicago. He stuck to his lane, while I stuck to mine because he understood the New York spirit. You cannot handle us.”

“Funny you say that because I believe I handled your kind pretty well back at the hotel. How are your sons, by the way?”

The jab is meant to deliver a gut punch to my father, but the Fedorov wolf is not easily rattled. There are moments when I despise him, yet this is one of those rare instances where I find myself admiring him for his self-control and composure.

I see it now. The reason why New York is ultimately behind the Fedorovs. My father may be a cruel and ruthless man, but he is also poised and unshakeable.

“Vitaly and Anton will both make a full recovery,” Papa says, and it does take some of the edge off for me. “And I would like my daughter back now, Arkady. I’ll give you what you want, but you will not be able to keep it.”

“Sign this, then,” Arkady says, nodding at the contract. “Prove you’re a man of your word.”

“Prove you’re a man of yours first. Release Audrey.”

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