Page 16 of Den of Thieves

“Alright,” Vladimir said, standing. As amusing as their bickering was, they were gathered there for a reason.

He pressed a button on his remote. The shades closed over the windows and a screen lowered from the ceiling. The projector hummed to life, showing whatever was on the tablet in the center of the table. A 3-D rendering of the globe zoomed in until it hovered over the eastern hemisphere. He clicked the button again.

“Here you will see the faces of every pakhan in Russia. Thanks to Pavel and Alvin, we have the whereabouts of each of them.” There were portraits of 20 of the gruffest men in the country. Many of the photos were mugshots that each pakhan wore like a badge of honor.

“The two highlighted in red are the men we know attended the Thieves of Old meetings. The rest of them were smart enough not to take their cars and use fake names with a car service.”

Vladimir clicked another button. “These 12 are clean and loyal. We need to confirm who’s side the other 6 are on by the end of the week. Battle lines are being drawn, and it is imperative that we are not caught off guard.” Vladimir paused, looking around the room at his most trusted relatives and advisers.

“This brotherhood used to mean something. Our word was law. There was loyalty and respect among pakhans. Now they’re acting like animals scrapping over any ounce of power they can get their grubby hands on. We are better than this. We will see the other side of this war. I can guarantee you that.” The men roared and pounded their fists in agreement with their fearless leader, but Vladimir wasn’t finished.

“Stand by my side, and I will reward your loyalty in spades.”

“Aye, spoken like a true king.” Dean raised his glass.

“You have your marching orders. I don’t care how you get your information, as long as it’s discreet and accurate. We will reconvene at the end of the week for updates.”

At his signal, the meeting ended. One by one, everyone got up to leave the conference room. Vladimir remained seated. “Dasha, a word?”

“Yes, boss?”

“I am not one to get in between the lover’s quarrel—”

“Good. I can’t imagine why you would start now.” Dimitri crossed his arms and looked out the window.

“Careful. I am still within my right to shoot you for touching my sister in the first place,” Vladimir growled. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Aksana’s been crying or drunk all week. How long are you going to make her suffer?”

Dimitri’s eyebrows rose. “Are you serious? She has you doing her dirty work now?! Of all the—” Dimitri’s words cut off before he visibly calmed himself. “Vladimir, I will say this the only way I know how: your sister is a spoiled princess. I’m done bending the knee to someone who is too selfish to see what is right in front of her.”

Vladimir leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “So, you’re done? For good?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?!”

“Then why are you so worked up, old friend?”

Dimitri jumped up and made a bunch of aggravated sounds on his way to the door. “I don’t have time for your Kovalyov mind games. I have work to do.”

He stormed out and Vladimir couldn’t help but laugh.

He smiled to himself, continuing to stroke his chin. It was about time someone stood up to his baby sister. He hoped Aksana would learn her lesson this time. He looked back towards the door Dimitri had just vacated. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t meddle in their relationship, just a tiny bit, to help his sister get what she wanted.

“Chipmunk, get in here!”

“Yes, boss?” The young man scurried into the war room like his ass was on fire.

“You have proven yourself.” Vladimir stated his approval, and Alvin beamed.

“We now have eyes and ears in all of Russia. My program is so effective even Nikolai can run it without help.”

“Rule eight: never make yourself disposable. It is important to remain irreplaceable on your journey to the top.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I have a special assignment for you.” Vladimir sat back in his chair and folded his hands.

“Anything, sir.” Alvin’s eyes widened at the business card between them.

“I want you to call that number and send two hundred red roses to my sister. Tell the florist they are from ‘Dasha’. She will understand.”

---