Page 22 of Forbidden Vows

“Are you trying to be as offensive as possible?” Sergei retorts, visibly insulted.

“He’s not wrong,” I chuckle. “Sergei, you’re a brilliant accountant, I’ll give you that. Your gift with numbers is beyond impressive, and it’s probably why your businesses within our organization have been thriving since you took over. But dealing with the Mexicans and the Polish, reeling the Japanese or the Chinese in, those things are not within your repertoire, buddy.”

Sergei leans forward. “Ilinka doesn’t want you representing us.”

“Ilinka has one vote at this table. One.”

“One vote can make all the difference.”

I stand up, letting my anger get the better of me for a brief moment. I quickly remind myself that I cannot let Sergei win today, not even by a vote. Andrei is damn near ready to take out his weapon and empty the entire magazine into the bastard’s face. In the old days, I probably would’ve applauded such initiative. But these are different times, and these people require a different approach.

I want Sergei to be fuming by the end of the meeting. Therefore, I need to beat him at his own game, so I take a deep breath and look closely at each of the players present.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Clearly, there are some issues we need to address here. The lack of confidence in my brother’s and my ability to lead the organization cannot exist. Perhaps I should remind everyone that it was the Karpovs who brought Tony Benedetto into the Cavalier a few years back to sign the Century Truce.”

“That truce had sloppy terms—” Sergei interrupts, but I cut him off.

“The adult in charge is speaking. Wait your turn.” I give him a dry smile, then resume my focus on the entire conference table. “From the moment I took over the chairman’s seat, our organization has seen a 250 percent growth rate in every single branch of activity, a 45 percent drop in the frequency of visits from the federal authorities.”

“In fact, twenty of the ninety current RICO investigations that the government’s agencies have built against us were dropped in just the first half of this year,” Andrei chimes in, eyes scrolling over his phone notes. “Another fifteen ended with either short-term arrests or charges dropped, tolerable settlements with the DA, and three hung juries.”

“On top of that, we had five organization members elected to the city and district councils in November,” I add. “That gives us additional influence over the regional authorities as far as docking and building permits are concerned. It will translate into approximately… What was the number again, brother?”

Andrei gives me a playful wink. “Twenty-seven point eight billion dollars, estimated to come in by the end of next year for three new residential and commercial projects, Lincoln Park, Douglas, and Bridgeport, to be specific.”

“Our organization has seen nothing but growth and fewer run-ins with the law since the Karpovs have been sitting at the head of this table,” I say. “Fewer killings, too. How many lieutenants and cousins have you buried this year?”

“Just the one,” Popov admits. “Just Fyodor.”

“And who killed Fyodor?” I ask.

Peter stares at his spiked coffee. “Charles Feng.”

“And what happened to Charles Feng?” I reply, knowing the answer already.

Peter looks up at me. “A nice cup of polonium tea.”

“What did the Triads do when the ME published his autopsy report?”

“They sent us a valuable heirloom,” Andrew reminds everyone. “A gift, they called it. An apology for what Feng did to Fyodor.”

“So, pardon me, Sergei,” I say, looking back at Kuznetsov and enjoying watching the color drain from his face, “if I call bullshit on the doubts you’re trying to cast upon Andrei and me. Unfortunately, we’re not perfect. Andrei’s temper did generate a small snag here and there, but it wasn’t anything that we couldn’t handle. The truth is, the Karpovs are an asset, whether you like it or not. So let’s call a vote.”

“Huh?” Andrei gives me a startled glance.

I reply with a subtle nod. I’ve got them right where I want them, and my brother will soon understand. There’s still a risk that it might blow up in my face, but I can tell from Ilinka’s face that I’ve got her back on our side.

“Let’s call a vote,” I repeat. “All those who want the Karpovs to remain at the head of this table, raise your hands.”

For a long moment, they simply stare at me. A few mouths are gaping wide, but I stand my ground, calm and composed, waiting for their vote. Max Abramovic scoffs, not as bewildered as the elders present.

“I take it you don’t like the roles and the responsibilities anymore,” he says.

“On the contrary, I very much do. But seeing as Sergei and some of his ass lickers feel like they would do a better job, I figured I’d let the Bratva council decide. What say ye?”

Another moment passes before the first few hands go up. The usual suspects are in my corner, but Abramovic and Kuznetsov aren’t alone either. The Popov and the Sokolov representatives lower their gazes. I hear Andrei’s sharp exhale as Peter Popov and Ilinka Aslanova raise their hands. To Sergei’s dismay, so does Oleg Aronov.

“Eight to four. Not bad,” I reply with a broad smile. “Your confidence is greatly appreciated.”

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