“Yes.”
Alberto weighed his options, and the Russian’s actions. Vasily had accepted the offer to meet. He’d followed all the rules—came alone, brought his son, and was amicable.
Even respectable, to a point.
Vasily hadn’t needed to do any of that. His organization was slightly smaller than the Gallucci syndicate, but as both families had already proven, they were more than capable of making the streets of Brooklyn a living hell. It needed to end.
Alberto finally found a Russian who seemed like he might be willing to do just that.
“No problem is unfixable,” Alberto said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Vasily agreed. “And I know, being the Sovetnik that I am to my brother and our organization, that not everyone is happy with his … choices.”
“One more dead man might correct all of that.”
Vasily shrugged. “It could, as long as it didn’t create problems within the Bratva.”
“And how would that work?”
“Don’t you already know, Don?” Vasily asked.
That time, Alberto could hear the snideness in Vasily’s words. The man hadn’t even tried to hide it. He let it go.
“You want me to pave your way to the top, is that it?” Alberto asked.
Vasily grinned. “Win-win, Italian.”
Would it be?
The fighting would stop.
No more dead men.
Alberto found his daughter sitting beside Vasily’s son, ruffling the tulle layers of her pink dress under her long coat.
He would be able to breathe when his children left his home.
“I will still take the blame for it, despite the fact you’re asking—without really asking—me to do it,” Alberto murmured. “And that concerns me, because that leaves me open to retribution when you suddenly decide that your brother’s death needs avenging. Isn’t that how the mafia goes? An eye for an eye.”
Vasily barked out a laugh. “You do not have very good insight into the Bratva, comrade. We are not like the Italians and sometimes the one death is enough to end it all. We don’t feel the need to keep spilling blood after it’s already stained the ground.”
Well, then …
“I want a guarantee, if I agree,” Alberto said.
“I’m listening.”
“The Markovic Bratva stays out of Brooklyn, barring Little Odessa, of course. Even your businesses and your men’s businesses. I know you simply use Little Odessa as the home base to your operation. You don’t need territory, being an arms trafficker, Vasily. Most of your work is done out of state and country.”
“I’m fine with that demand,” the Russian said. “As long as Coney Island can remain a no man’s zone. No one owns it, so to speak. And while Brooklyn remains your territory, I want a guarantee we can still come and go for personal reasons … safely.”
It didn’t escape Alberto’s notice that Vasily hadn’t confirmed or denied his hand in the arms trade, but he didn’t bother to call him on it.
“Of course, I’ll steer clear of you and yours, and this,” Albert said, and gestured around them, “will never have to happen again.”
A nod from the Russian.
What Vasily was asking for, would be no easy task to complete. Alberto knew firsthand the level of protection one needed as the boss. If Gavrill were half as smart as Alberto thought he was, the man would be surrounded at all times. It wouldn’t be easy, what Alberto was agreeing to, but if it meant his city would finally sleep, he was willing to take the risk.
That, and more.
Alberto also knew that no one could ever know about what had transpired between him and the Russian in this cemetery with their children playing just feet away. It would look shameful for an Italian Don to work with a Russian for any reason, even if it was to his benefit. And he strongly believed that Vasily would feel a similar shame from his people, should it come out that he had worked with an Italian to have his brother killed so that he could take the man’s spot in his organization.
No one could know.
“I’ll see it done,” Alberto said.
Alberto extended a hand, waiting for Vasily to accept and seal the deal between them. With the slightest of smiles, if the dark amusement on his face could be considered one, Vasily gripped his hand. For the first time, Alberto noticed the spider inked on the back of his hand.
It was only a second before Vasily was pulling his hand away, but the sight of it sent a shiver of apprehension through him.
Along came a spider …
Alberto had only heard the saying once, but it had never resonated in him the way it did just then. Some spiders were innocent, but others ... others were deadly. The Russian’s chiming phone had him stepping off to the side.
Alberto quickly made his way off the path and strolled toward his still-animated, happy daughter. She was kicking her legs to and fro, her head tipped back, and her smile was so wide it could outshine the sun. The boy at her side was smiling, too.