Page 139 of Vendetta Crown

They'll wait until the crown is firmly on my head before deciding how deep their loyalty runs.

But it's not these men who concern me. My eyes keep returning to the gates, watching for Gregor's arrival. The old bastard knows exactly what he's doing by making me wait. If he doesn't show, the formal coronation becomes impossible—the transition of power incomplete.

Minutes stretch into an hour. The pakhans grow restless, checking their watches, making calls.

"Belov's absence speaks volumes," Voronin mutters, too close to my ear.

I don't respond. Let him wonder if I'm worried. The truth is, I'm not. Gregor's absence doesn't weaken my position.

It only confirms what I already knew.

The old order was already dead. The jungle had already torn itself down.

It simply hadn’t acknowledged it until now.

Finally, a sleek black Maybach drives through the gates.

Gregor has arrived.

The old bastard takes his time climbing out. His driver rushes forward with an umbrella, even though there's not a cloud in the sky. Just another symbol of status, another reminder of his position.

No, I remind myself,what used to be his position.

The crowd parts for him without prompting.

Even now, these men can't help but show deference to the architect of theZapadniye Vori.

But me?

I feel anger surge through me like a physical wave. This man negotiated with Semyon behind all our backs. This man sanctioned the death of my brother and nephew.

He lied to my face and implied that Tamara would've been fine with the death of her own daughters.

And now he has the audacity to pretend that he still deserves respect.

His eyes, sharp despite his age, lock with mine. There's no fear there, not even concern.

"Ruslan Vitalyevich," Gregor greets me, his voice carrying across the entrance. "What an impressive gathering. One might almost think you were attempting some sort of coup."

"A strange choice of words from a man who secretly negotiated with Semyon against my own brother," I reply, my voice level. "Welcome, Gregor Iosifovich. I'm glad you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."

Gregor climbs the steps, the end of his cane clicking with each deliberate slow motion. The other pakhans become statues, watching, waiting.

"I understand what this is about," he says when he reaches me and eyes the four pakhans standing behind me. "I've known the moment you sent those four to rally the rest for your foolish war. But a war won't crown you pakhan of pakhans, boy."

Boy. He uses that word as if it's an insult. But I'm not much older than he was when he brought the warring pakhans under his heel thirty years ago.

I hold his gaze, and keep my face still.

"Then why not ask the rest of theVori?We're all here now."

Around us, the gathered pakhans shift uneasily. They can feel it.

The transfer of power is happening before their eyes.

"Now?" Gregor's eyebrows rise slightly. "On your doorstep?"

"Why not?" I gesture to the men around us. "Everyone who matters is already here."

---