hospital dramas growing up.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” At his expression, I said, “Relax, Artyom. I have no intention to stop our own search for treatment.”
Though the search had been more fruitless than successful these past few weeks. Overnight, it seemed, Tatiana had fallen ill. Rapidly, she had grown sicker and sicker, now bedridden most days and unable to stay awake for more than a few hours. We had brought in the best physicians money could buy, flying them in from far and wide, and none had an explanation for all her symptoms.
Dmitri was growing insane as time wore on. Sometimes going days without sleep—only sleeping once Roman knocked him unconscious with a clock to the head.
The door banged open before Artyom could add anything else, Roman striding in with a bottle of vodka. Even after years of my trying to teach him better manners, Roman refused to knock before he entered rooms. He only knocked on Roksana’s door, which had started after he had walked in on Artyom and his wife, and nearly found himself brutally killed.
“We’re celebrating.” He held up the vodka. “We finally killed those fucking Falcones and took our territory.”
A smile played on my lips. “It’s a bit early to celebrate. The other families have not reached out.”
“They’re probably running scared.” Roman flashed his teeth. “We should take their territories, too.”
“No,” I said. We’d had this conversation before. Roman’s lust for blood clouded his rationality often. “No single family can rule New York City.”
“We’ll see.” Roman pulled out shot glasses, pouring the vodka. We clinked our glasses, Roman’s voice booming, “Chtoby stoly lomalis ot izobiliya, a krovati ot lyubvi!”
Artyom rolled his eyes but we both drank, the liquor running down my throat. A fine bottle from one of my more exclusive businesses, and one Roman would easily finish.
Roman fell into a spare chair, resting his legs on my desk and pressing the bottle of vodka to his chest like a pillow. “So, what do you think of the Falcone girl? Is she everything you dreamed of?”
“Only you dream of women, Roman,” came a cold voice. Dmitri stepped into the study, closing the door behind him, icy blue eyes sharpened with his mood.
Artyom grinned into his shot glass; Roman rolled his eyes.
“The Chicago Outfit gave their blessing,” I said to all three of them.
“So that’s dealt with.” Dmitri leaned against the desk, collecting my empty shot glass and pouring himself a drink.
Artyom shook his head. “Nothing’s ever dealt with. They may change their minds tomorrow.”
“Especially if that woman of his gets in his ear,” Roman added. He pulled out a cigarette.
“Don’t smoke in the house,” Dmitri said. “Tatiana is upstairs.”
Roman looked flabbergasted. “You’re not serious, man? I just spent the morning fighting soldati and dealing with Danika. I need a smoke.”
Dmitri did not back down. “Go outside–”
“No smoking inside, Roman. If you’re so stressed, have another drink,” I told him calmly. “Now, let’s talk business.”
With that single sentence, the three men focused. No more arguing, no more camaraderie. When it came down to business, there were no games. All of them were violent in their own ways—I wouldn’t bother with them if they weren’t.
Artyom Fattakhov was the highest-ranking member in the room, one of my Two Spies. In charge of security and intelligence, he was more commonly known as Obshchak. We had grown up together under the harsh leadership of our fathers, become Vory together, and we would most likely go to the grave together.
Dmitri Gribkov and Roman Malakhov were part of my elite group, both with their own respective roles. Dmitri was my krysha, an enforcer in every sense of the word. Whereas Roman was a byki, my bodyguard. For all his feralness, he took his job extremely seriously, his loyalty unparalleled.
My torpedo was missing. Olezka was busy on Staten Island but would be returning soon.
With the Falcones finally being dealt with, the time for the Tarkhanov Bratva to populate Staten Island had come. Over the next few months, my men and their families would arrive, cementing our organization and territory.
It had taken nearly a year to prepare to take down the Falcones. Not for lack of power. No, my men could easily take out every single Falcone mafiosi five times over. But being physically able to overpower someone did not mean you had won.
Few of my kind failed to consider the other types of strength in the world.
The Falcones had.
It had been easy digging my fingers into