“This who’s-the-pakhan business. Why the f**k does it matter?” He throws up his hands. “It’s the same damn family. Even if Slavik were to step back in, you’d get the title eventually.”
Shura’s hand strays towards his weapon. I caution him against it with the subtlest flick of my eyebrows.
We need answers right now, not bloodshed. Not yet, at least.
“Slavik fled and left us here to drown in his mess, Efrem. He took a personal jet, filled it with his men, his w***e, and most of the Kuznetsov money, and he f*****g ran.” I grip the edges of my desk to keep my hands from curling around Efrem’s throat. “Do you think this Bratva would have survived long without me? Slavik drained the coffers before he left. It took my leadership to salvage this Bratva.”
“Yeah, well, Slavik says otherwise,” he
