10
Lyon stood in the shadows, watching the two men in the front seat of the gray Tahoe. As afternoon had turned to evening, it had started to rain, and the neon sign above the dive bar across the street reflected red light into the puddles in the road.
It was one of Musa’s holdings, a small one, but Lyon knew he made pickups there on Fridays. Sometimes he sent his men to do it, but more often than not, he went along for the ride.
That was one of the differences between Musa Shapiev and Yakov Vitsin. Yakov had been inherently lazy. He saw no benefit to his association with the bratva beyond the drugs it could buy him, the women it could place in his bed.
Musa wasn’t lazy. He also wasn’t crazy. His brand of recklessness was borne out of a sense of injustice, the belief that he was entitled to more than he had, and the equally strong belief that what he was entitled to could be his if he played his cards right.
He and Lyon weren’t very different that way, which was what made Musa Shapiev the most dangerous of Lyon’s potential enemies.
The man in the passenger seat got out of the Tahoe and Lyon saw that it was Arman Belsky, Musa’s most loyal associate. He bounded across the street in the drizzle.
Lyon waited for him to enter the bar to step out of the shadows. He was in the passenger seat in less than ten seconds, unsurprised to find a gun pointed at his head before he’d even shut the door behind him.
Musa also wasn’t slow. Or stupid.
“Antonov,” Musa said without moving. His coarse features were menacing, his eyes burning with hatred. “What are you doing in my car?”
Lyon wasn’t worried about the gun. Alek was across the street, watching everything. Musa could still kill Lyon if he wanted to — even Alek wasn’t fast enough to stop a bullet when the gun was two feet from Lyon’s head — but Musa would be dead shortly thereafter.
Musa wouldn’t kill Lyon. Not yet, and not like this.
That was something the Baranov name had bought Lyon: time and consideration. A move against him was a move against the Baranovs now, and while Viktor was old, he still had the respect of the soldiers on the street, not to mention the Spies.
Certain rules would be followed. For the time being.
Lyon sat back against the passenger side window. “I thought we could have a little chat.”
Musa looked him over, like he expected Lyon to be holding a weapon. “You’re either very brave or very stupid,” Musa said.
“Just pragmatic. We have much to discuss.” Lyon indicated the window. “Mind if I crack this?”
The car reeked of cigarette smoke.
Musa lowered his weapon and shrugged.
Lyon opened the window, breathed in the cold night air, and turned his attention to the bar across the street, peering at it through the windshield. “I don’t blame you for wanting more.”
“This is one of my smaller holdings,” Musa said. “But then, you know that.”
Lyon studied him in the shadowed light. “True, but none of your holdings do you justice. You deserve more.” He paused. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re a good earner, a goodavtoritet.”
“I don’t need your praise,” Musa hissed. “I know what I deserve. What we deserve.”
Musa was speaking for the Chechens now.
Lyon nodded his approval. “How can the rest of the world know a man’s worth if he doesn’t know it himself?”
“What do you want, Antonov?” Musa asked.
Lyon chose his words carefully. “The other men are lining up behind me. Anyone who challenges Viktor’s endorsement will be at a disadvantage. You have much to lose by doing so, and much to gain through your support of me as pakhan.”
“What exactly do I have to gain?” Musa’s voice was thick with derision.
“What do you want?” Lyon asked.
Musa glared at him. “So it’s that simple then? I tell you what I want and you give it to me in exchange for my acceptance of you as pakhan?”