My men stand back, waiting for me to take the lead or issue an order. I don’t say a word. I just stride towards the headquarters gates as my men fall in line behind me.
There are four men at the gates. They get to their feet as we approach, their expressions wary, but I keep my body language casual.
“Excuse me, boys,” I say. “I have an appointment with your boss.”
They nod humorlessly and open the gates. We flow inside.
There are more men in the courtyard who glance up as we enter, but I breeze right past them and into the building.
I walk into a large living room setup, where yet another bunch of men are milling around.
The hierarchy is obvious. The underbosses are reclined on the couches, drinking whiskey and smoking cigars.
The men hovering around the periphery of the room are soldiers, runners, grunts.
But every single one of them turns to look at me when I enter.
“Is Kaminski in?” I ask.
No one answers for a moment.
“Are you all fucking deaf? I asked if Kaminski is in.”
Finally, someone speaks up. My gaze swivels over to track the speaker.
It’s one of the smug idiots on the couch. He’s tall, broad, muscular, with a distinct and massive tattoo of an eagle sprawling across the front of his throat. Apart from that, his features are forgettable.
“Who’s asking?” he says.
“Artem Kovalyov.”
I hear someone swear to the side, but I don’t even glance in his direction.
“Send a message up,” Eagle Tattoo snaps at an aide.
I stand there silently and wait. The atmosphere is tense at best, but I keep my expression calm, unbothered.
I don’t have to fake that. I am calm. I am unbothered.
I’m in my element.
Then I hear footsteps. A few seconds later, three men stomp down the stairs into the middle of the space.
The last one I recognize immediately as the Polish mafia don, Kaminski. I’ve seen him in passing before when I was a boy.
He hasn’t changed much. Maybe a few kilos heavier and a few more grays in his hair and beard.
“Kurwa!” he exclaims in Polish as his eyes settle on me with disbelief. “It is you.”
“Surprise,” I chuckle, raising my hands with a smile.
“You must have some kind of death wish coming back to this city.”
I shrug. “I have a slightly different perspective.”
“Which is what?” Kaminski asks, taking a few steps forward as his underlings converge around him.
“This is my home,” I reply. “And I’m taking it back.”