Lyon didn’t speak. What could he say? They were right. By insulting Kira, Lyon’s wife — whatever else had happened, that was still true — Musa had asked for the fist he’d gotten to the face.
But Lyon had broken protocol by delivering it. Musa had been a brigadier, and as such had been under the protection of the Spies just as Lyon himself had been. The appropriate thing for Lyon to do would have been to bring his complaint to the Spies, allow them to sanction Musa for his infraction.
But Lyon hadn’t been thinking about what was appropriate. He’d only wanted to pound Musa into oblivion for showing disrespect to Kira’s name.
“Of course,” Ivan interjected, “Musa then exacerbated the breach in protocol by setting fire to Samara.”
Lyon was relieved. Ivan’s words didn’t mean he was safe, but they did mean the Spies had taken into consideration Musa’s own infractions. Setting fire to Samara, the restaurant that had been Lyon’s unofficial headquarters, had been an outsized response to Lyon’s assault on Musa.
“But here we come to the gravest of actions,” Silas said. Lyon knew what was coming. “Subsequent to the fire at Samara, you proceeded to disrupt our supply chain. This cost us dearly, a price we still pay today and will pay for many months, perhaps years, into the future.”
Lyon almost had to bite his tongue to keep silent. It was true that he had arranged for their cargo at the Port of Chicago to be rerouted — or Musa’s cargo anyway. It hadn’t been difficult: payoffs to a handful of dispatchers, more payoffs to some of the dock masters.
They were moves that had been sanctioned by Ivan himself, who’d told Lyon he would handle the Spies. Moves that had seemed brash at the time, but wise in their own way, a way to show the Spies — and the soldiers on the street — that Lyon was more than a killing machine. That he understood strategy and could lead with more than his fists when required.
But there was no point telling the Spies all of that. He wouldn’t burn Ivan as his silent partner, and excuses weren’t becoming of a leader.
“Your move at the Port, while understandable on some level, disrupted not only Musa’s income stream, but that of the entire organization,” Silas continued. “The goods are one thing, but the petroleum…”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Petroleum imports were the largest source of income for the bratva in Chicago, larger even than the drugs and guns they imported and sold. Their organization received millions of dollars a year taxing the distribution companies that imported it from Russia, and while the shipments Lyon had waylaid had been a large part of Musa’s holdings, those holdings also kicked revenue up to the organization as a whole.
“Of course,” Ivan said, “Musa’s subsequent execution of Viktor Baranov was an infraction beyond any which we have discussed so far.”
Lyon didn’t have to ask why Musa hadn’t been called in front of the Spies. What he did to Viktor was punishable by death. Lyon had heard he was in hiding. This meeting wasn’t about whether Musa or Lyon would lead the bratva.
It was about whether the Spies would order Lyon’s execution.
“Which is why we have made a decision.” It was the first time Nikolai Ilyan had spoken, and Lyon turned his eyes to the older man. Although he was small in stature, he had the watchful eyes of an eagle. Lyon had always admired him. “The bratva can not sustain a lack of leadership any longer. Already our infrastructure suffers from a lack of guidance and authority, guidance and authority that correctly rests with the pakhan. In spite of your infractions, we believe the organization is best served through your leadership.”
Lyon forced himself to remain still, to keep his expression blank. But it wasn’t easy. This was not what he’d imagined. At best, he’d hoped to walk away with his life, a consolation prize he would have accepted only as he continued the fight to attain the role that was rightly his.
It had never occurred to him that he might step into that role with the blessing of the Spies. Not after all that had happened. Not after all he’d done.
“Am I to understand that you are appointing me pakhan?” Lyon was careful not to sound incredulous, careful to sound unsurprised, as if it had been a foregone conclusion he was simply confirming.
“That is correct,” Fredek said.
Barely a second had passed when Pavel Yelchin spoke. In his late forties, he was the youngest member of the Spies. Lyon had pegged him as someone desperate for validation and had thought Viktor foolish for appointing him to the Spies two years before. “However…”
Lyon met Yelchin’s eyes. “However?”
“The problem of Musa must be addressed,” Yelchin said.
“So my appointment won’t be official until I neutralize Musa Shapiev?” Lyon had no idea where the man was, but if his own appointment was contingent upon finding and killing his rival, find and kill him Lyon would.
“Not exactly,” Yelchin said.
“After this night, you will officially become pakhan.” Ivan voice was soothing, and Lyon looked with relief at his mentor. “But I think we can all agree leadership will be in name only as long as your primary rival, the man who murdered the former pakhan of this organization, a member of your family, is allowed to remain alive.”
Family. The word had been utilitarian when he’d proposed the arranged marriage with Kira Baranov, but during the weeks they’d been together, it had moved to the forefront of his mind. He’d begun to imagine them as true family, Kira, his wife in more than name, the mother of children that would fill the big house in Lake Forest he’d purchased for her.
And Viktor, the benevolent grandfather, bestowing kisses on Lyon’s children, looking upon Lyon with fondness and even admiration.
But that was before Kira had made a mockery of his dreams.
Now he saw the word for what it was: an albatross. Allowing Musa to live would be a challenge to Lyon’s leadership in any scenario, but the fact that Musa had murdered a member of Lyon’s family — albeit by marriage — made it even more imperative that Lyon deal with him, preferably in a way that would make it clear to the soldiers on the ground that Lyon was in charge, that any man who challenged him would meet the same fate.
Lyon stared defiantly at the Spies lined up before him. They had the power now, but once he took control — once he really took control — they would answer to him.