So we wait, watching as more cars line up outside the hotel. They deposit a group of men and drive off. Some of them park in the lot. Most don’t.
I look up at the towering building, knowing that Budimir is in one of the topmost floors, probably already congratulating himself on his coronation as the newly legitimized don of the Kovalyov Bratva.
Not for long, you son of a bitch.
“Maxim is approaching,” one of my men lets me know.
I roll down my window as Maxim approaches. He’s dressed subtly, but I can see the thick outline of the bullet proof vest he’s wearing underneath.
“What is it?” I ask.
Maxim’s face is grim. “Kovar is here.”
I stare at him in shock for a moment. “Say that name again.”
He grimaces. “Kovar. I recognized him immediately.”
“Budimir invited that motherfucker to the don’s council meeting?” I say, mostly to myself.
Maxim nods.
“Fuck,” I grumble. “The old bastard is more off the rails than I thought.”
Throughout my whole childhood, Kovar was more of a ghost than a person. Like the boogeyman—a myth about a terrible creature lurking in the shadows.
It wasn’t until I got older that I understood he was real.
And he wasn’t a ghost. He was a man. A cruel man. A bloodthirsty man. A man with no code, no morals, no philosophy.
He just lived for spilling blood.
I had never come face to face with him, nor was that ever a realistic possibility. Not since Stanislav and the other dons exiled him from the council table.
Several Years Earlier: “Exiled?” I ask. “Can you do that?”
Stanislav looks at me with careful eyes that give nothing away. But I can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s pissed off.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he tells me. “I am the fucking don. And he is nothing but a sewer rat that needs to be squashed.”
“A sewer rat that made a hundred million last year.”
“By selling children into prostitution,” Stanislav snarls, and I realize suddenly that he’s not pissed with this Kovar scum. He’s pissed with Budimir for forcing this conversation to happen in the first place. “By selling children for parts.”
“We haven’t exactly picked a moral business to deal in, brother,” Budimir says calmly. He seems completely unruffled by Stanislav’s obvious annoyance.
“Selling guns and drugs is one thing,” Stanislav points out. “We don’t deal in children. And we don’t let anyone else deal in children on our turf.”
“He’s prepared to give us a cut.”
Stanislav slams his hand down on the table. The sound seems to reverberate around us. I see the color drain from Budimir’s face.
But it’s not fear I’m sensing from him.
“When did you start turning from opportunity, brother?” Budimir demands furiously.
“It is my prerogative to do as I please,” Stanislav replies. “This is my fucking legacy.”
Budimir seems to retreat within himself. He says nothing.