Page 7 of Bratva Daddy
I left my desk and joined them at the conference table. The leather chairs had hosted a hundred family meetings, absorbed decades of plans and schemes and controlled violence. Ivan's laptop screen cast blue light across his angular face, making him look even more ghostlike than usual. Data scrolled past—bank statements, wire transfers, enough financial evidence to bury a dozen men.
"How bad?" I asked, though Ivan's expression already told me. My youngest brother might hide his emotions behind algorithms and spreadsheets, but fury radiated from him like heat from a forge. Someone had touched family money. In Ivan's world, that was the only sin that mattered.
"Bad." He adjusted his glasses, a tell that meant he was struggling to contain himself. "Six weeks of systematic theft disguised as bureaucratic process. He's been feeding the Kozlovs our bid information, our project timelines, our permit applications. They've undercut us on three major contracts because they knew exactly what we'd offer."
Dmitry's scarred fist clenched around his glass. The crystal creaked but didn't shatter—he had that much control, at least. "How much?"
"Two point three million in lost contracts." Ivan's fingers flew across his keyboard, pulling up more evidence. "But that's just the immediate loss. The damage to our reputation, our relationships with legitimate contractors who think we're losing our edge—immeasurable."
I studied my brothers, seeing our father in both of them. Dmitry had inherited his capacity for violence, Ivan his strategic mind. I'd gotten the burden of keeping them both aimed in the right direction. Sometimes I wondered if the old man hadplanned it that way, fragmenting himself across three sons to ensure the family survived.
"Show me everything," I said, settling into my chair. The leather creaked, worn to my shape from a thousand late nights exactly like this. "Every transaction, every communication, every fucking penny that rat has stolen."
Ivan opened his laptop fully, and the screen filled with a spider's web of financial corruption that would have impressed me if it wasn't stealing from my family. Bank statements lined up like evidence in a murder trial—which, if I was honest with myself, they might become. Each transaction was highlighted, annotated in Ivan's precise handwriting on the digital documents. He'd spent hours on this, probably days, tracking every dollar with the obsession that made him invaluable.
"Look at this," Ivan continued, pulling up a permit application. "March fifteenth, we submit for the Brooklyn waterfront project. Clean application, all requirements met, backed by three years of perfect safety records. March twentieth, Kozlov submits an almost identical proposal, undercutting us by exactly eight percent."
"Exactly eight percent?" I leaned forward, seeing the pattern. "Not seven, not ten?"
"Eight point two five percent, to be precise." Ivan's smile was sharp as winter frost. "The exact margin that makes them competitive but not suspicious. They knew our numbers because Petrov gave them our sealed bid. Then he sat on our permit for 'review' while fast-tracking theirs."
The Brooklyn waterfront project materialized on screen—architectural plans for a development that would have transformed six blocks of defunct warehouses into mixed commercial space. Twelve million in contracts. Sixty union jobs. Six months of steady work that would have carried our legitimate operation through winter.
"They're already breaking ground," Dmitry growled, draining his vodka and pouring another. His scarred hands shook slightly—not from fear but from the effort of containing his rage. "I drove by yesterday. Kozlov's signs are up. His men are working. Our men are sitting home, wondering why the Volkov family can't deliver anymore."
That was the real wound. Not the money—we had money. Not even the disrespect, though that burned like acid. It was the breach of trust with our own people. Construction workers who'd followed the Volkov name for generations, believing we'd always provide. Now they saw Kozlov crews working our sites, spending our contracts, laughing at our impotence.
"There's more," Ivan said, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that meant the worst was coming. "Petrov's not just feeding them information. He's actively sabotaging our existing projects."
New documents filled the screen. Inspection reports, violation notices, stop-work orders. All dated within the last six weeks. All signed by inspectors who reported to Viktor Petrov's office.
"The Gowanus renovation—shut down for 'asbestos concerns' that didn't exist in our initial inspection. Cost us forty thousand a day in delays. The Red Hook warehouse conversion—suddenly failed electrical inspection after passing three previous reviews. The Queens Boulevard project—" Ivan's voice cracked slightly, the only sign of emotion he'd shown. "Indefinitely postponed pending 'environmental impact review.' That project employed thirty-eight men, Alexei. Men with families."
I absorbed each detail, filing it away in the mental ledger where I tracked every debt owed to the Volkov family. Viktor Petrov's bill was adding up fast, compound interest accumulating with every revelation. But beneath the cold calculation, something else stirred. The photo of Clara laughingseemed to burn through the desk drawer, reminding me that Petrov had something more valuable than money.
"He's been playing us for months," Dmitry said, his voice thick with vodka and rage. "Acting grateful for our gifts while selling us to our enemies. Remember last month's meeting? He sat in this room, drank our vodka, thanked us for the donation to his campaign fund."
I remembered. Petrov's sweating face, his nervous laugh, his repeated assurances that our permits would be expedited. All lies. All performance while he counted Kozlov money behind our backs.
"The disrespect," Dmitry continued, struggling to keep a hold of hie temper. He stood, started pacing like a caged tiger. "The fuckingdisrespectof it. We've owned city hall for fifteen years. We've made men like Petrov rich beyond their dreams. And this is how he repays us?"
"It's not about repayment," Ivan said coldly. "It's about market value. The Kozlovs offered more, so Petrov switched sides. Simple economics."
"Simple?" Dmitry whirled on our youngest brother. "There's nothing simple about betrayal, Ivan. Nothing economic about honor."
"Honor doesn't pay bills," Ivan replied, unmoved by Dmitry's anger. "But you're right about one thing—this is betrayal. And betrayal requires response."
They both looked at me then, waiting for direction. This was the burden of being pakhan. Not just commanding violence but choosing its precise application. Too much, and we'd have federal agents crawling through our operations. Too little, and every corrupt official in the city would think the Volkovs had gone soft.
I stood, moving to the window that overlooked our Brooklyn territory. Lights sparkled across the borough, each onerepresenting lives that depended on Volkov strength. Legitimate businesses under our protection. Construction sites that should bear our signs. Communities that expected us to maintain order in a chaotic world.
"This isn't just theft," I said finally. "It's a declaration of war. Petrov didn't just steal from us—he gave the Kozlovs the blueprint to destroy us. Every delayed permit, every failed inspection, every lost contract weakens our position and strengthens theirs."
Dmitry sat down again, then leaned back. His scarred fingers drummed against the table as he worked through the logistics of violence with practiced ease. "We put a bullet in Petrov's head and dump his body in the Hudson. Clean, simple, sends a message." His hands carved the air, choreographing murder like a dance he'd performed before. "Maybe we do it public-style. Leave him outside City Hall with a note pinned to his chest. 'This is what happens when you steal from the Volkov family.' Let the Kozlovs see what their bribes buy them."
The enthusiasm in his voice reminded me why Dmitry was both invaluable and dangerous. He genuinely enjoyed the physical aspect of our work, found satisfaction in the crunch of bone and splatter of blood that would have haunted other men. It made him perfect for enforcement, less perfect for strategy.
"The body would be discovered within an hour," Ivan said, adjusting his glasses with the precision of someone who'd calculated exact timelines. "NYPD response time to City Hall is under three minutes. FBI involvement within six hours given Petrov's position. Federal investigation into our operations within forty-eight hours." He pulled up something on his laptop—crime statistics, probably, or response-time analysis from previous political assassinations. "The attention would cost us more than Petrov has stolen."
