Page 74 of Lethal Alliance

I nod. Another thing I like about Mak is that he doesn’t fuck around when he has something to say.

“The Fedorovs were one of the early bratva clans in Europe. Came straight out of the Russian gulags, back in the fifties. Brutal fuckers. They set up camp in Paris and for decades ran everything there from girls to gambling. Even the local criminals didn’t mess with them, not after the bosses of three Paris families were found without their heads in one of their own bars.”

“Nice.” Dimitry refills his coffee and casually bites into an éclair.

Mak shakes his head. “You lot are just as twisted as any of my army boys. Anyway.” He turns back to me. “The Fedorovs weren’t just interested in owning the game. They were also dedicated to reclaiming all the treasures that had been smuggled out of imperial Russia by the aristocratic exiles during the revolution. Most of the pieces had been traded years ago. In the years after the revolution, Europe was awash with what is now seen as priceless art: Fabergé eggs, elaborate jewelry. Back in the early years, there was so much of it on the black market that the pieces were virtually worthless. People were trading Fabergé necklaces just for enough food to feed their families.”

I nod impatiently. “We don’t need a Russian history lesson, Mak. My father was a jeweler and a safe maker. I know all this.”

“It matters,” he says calmly. “Trust me. The Fedorovs didn’t give a fuck about history or the Russian aristocrats clinging to a faded past. They were a new generation, with no respect for the old traditions. By the time they ran Paris, it was forty years after the revolution. The imperial treasures hadn’t just regained their value—they’d become prizes sought by every collector in the world. The Fedorovs were ruthless in tracking them down, and they weren’t shy about the tactics they used to acquire what they wanted. They burned jewelry shops, robbed houses, and tortured families for information. Eventually their search led them to two old friends, one a jeweler and the other an art dealer. The two men were rumored to have escaped Russia with a stolen fortune: the Naryshkin treasure.”

Dimitry and I exchange a look. “Okay,” I say. “You’ve got my attention now.”

“The Fedorovs went in with their usual brutality. When they didn’t get the results they wanted, they tortured the men’s families. Killed them, in the end. Wives, children—all of them, brutally tortured to death. Then the Fedorovs locked the bodies inside the men’s businesses and set the buildings on fire. There was nothing left of their families but ash.

“It wasn’t the first time they’d pulled this trick. It was an effective deterrent for anyone else who might feel inclined to hold out on them.

“Only this time, the Fedorovs had picked on the wrong two men.

“Why the men escaped death that night, nobody knows. But the hell they unleashed after the death of their families is still whispered about in some circles today. These men didn’t just go to war, Roman. They went on a rampage that was nothing short of a bloodbath.

“They didn’t just take revenge on the Fedorovs.

“They annihilated them.

“And they didn’t just take back what had been stolen from their own shops. They also reclaimed every last valuable piece the Fedorovs had acquired from impoverished Russians. A literal fortune. And they did it all without anyone knowing their real names. They were like ghosts, whispered about but never named. People were either too scared or too admiring to risk pissing them off. They were known simply in Russian asGolova,the Head, andRuki,the Hands. People said the Head did the killing and the Hands did the stealing.

“By the time the war was done, the Fedorov clan was destroyed. The Head and the Hands didn’t try to take over the Fedorov organization. They simply annihilated it, then vanished, seemingly into thin air.

“Along with a reputed fortune, of course.

“One of the Fedorov clan killed during that war, along with two of his sons, was a man named Victor Orlov.”

Oh, shit.

“And let me guess,” I say slowly. “Victor had a son who survived. Named Vilnus.”

Mak nods. “Yup. There were also a few surviving Fedorovs and Orlovs. People who’d been smart enough to run when the blood began to flow. Most of them moved to the United States. Russian clans are loyal, you know that as well as I do. One of them must have paid Vilnus Orlov’s fare, because some years later, he turned up in Miami.”

I frown. “How the fuck did he wind up allied to Petrovsky, with that kind of past?”

His mouth twitches. “I take it you are aware that Sergei Petrovsky is indeed the legendary Head of my story?”

If there’s one thing I know about Mak, it’s that his intelligence is second to none. “Let’s not fuck about, Mak. You know who I am. You know who Petrovsky is. You probably know the fucking brand of toilet paper Putin uses. So just get on with it,da?”

He tilts his head to one side, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “You do take all the fun out of life, Roman. But out of courtesy for your situation, I’ll answer.

“Orlov, or whoever paid his fare and was pulling his strings, had done his homework. He knew who Petrovsky really was, knew about the Naryshkin legacy. By that time, Petrovsky had built himself a fearsome reputation in Miami. He was known for being old-school: honor, tradition. The Head might have been a ruthless fuck, but he played by the rules of an earlier, more honorable time.

“So Orlov didn’t lie to him or pretend to be anyone other than who he was. He came to Petrovsky with his hat in his hand, claiming the Fedorovs had disowned him back in Paris despite his father dying for them. He said that they’d left his sisters to be raped and killed, and him to starve. He claimed that he and the Orlovs were in a blood feud with the remaining members of the Fedorov clan. He asked Petrovsky for his help in avenging his family.”

Dimitry rocks back in his chair and gives a low whistle. “Jesus. Smart.”

“It worked.” Mak shrugs. “Petrovsky helped Vilnus take his revenge, though he was careful to make sure it was Vilnus who pulled every trigger. Rumor has it that Orlov even killed Fedorov women and children, something Petrovsky never approved, but which he probably took as proof of the depth of Orlov’s rage. By the time it was done, I guess Petrovsky thought that Orlov had proved his loyalty.”

“Only Orlov was just biding his time,” I say softly, my hands clenched on the tabletop. “The slimy fucker used Petrovsky’s support to eliminate his competition for him.”

Mak points a finger at me. “Exactly.”

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