In a fist-fight, Jonas might have the advantage because he’s heavier than me. In a knife-fight, I’m usually faster. But I’m not fast right now. My right arm is heavy, and my body is exhausted. I try not to show those injuries, but I know I’m not moving as smoothly as usual. Jonas smiles, scenting blood.
We weave around each other, Jonas making a couple of feints in my direction. The key to knife fighting is footwork. You have to keep the right distance from your opponent. This is tricky, because Jonas’ reach is just a little longer than mine.
Imagine two boxers facing off in a ring. Then think how many times Muhammad Ali gets hit, even though he’s the best in the world at dodging blows. You can’t afford to take that many cuts from a knife.
So I keep a wide space between us. Jonas keeps trying to dart inside that circle, slashing at my face and body. I narrowly avoid his cuts, though I have to jerk aside to do it. I feel stitches opening up, on my belly and down my back.
I’m not trying to cut Jonas open. I’m aiming for something different—his knife hand.
Jonas slashes at me again. This time I’m too slow. He opens up a long gash on my left forearm. The blood patters down on the dancefloor. Now I have to avoid that, too, or risk slipping in it.
“Come on,” Jonas grunts, “Quit ducking away. Come on and fight me, suka.”
I pretend to lower my guard. This means I have to actually lower my guard for a moment. Jonas rushes in, slashing his knife right at my face. I duck, again just a little too slow. I feel a burning cut down my right cheek. But Jonas has come close. I slice the back of his knife hand, cutting through muscle and tendon. We call that “defanging the snake.” The effect is immediate—he can no longer grip. His knife falls and I catch it out of the air, so I’m now holding a blade in each hand.
Jonas stumbles backward, his feet slipping in my blood. He goes down hard and I jump on top of him, ready to cut his throat.
Andrei and Franciszek know what will happen if Jonas dies. They rush forward to help their fallen leader.
Dante Gallo intercepts Franciszek. He clasps his fists together, still cuffed, and sends his arm swinging upward like a hammer, crashing up under Franciszek’s chin. Franciszek’s head snaps backward and he sails off in the opposite direction, smashing into one of the empty booths.
Andrei is still running at me, yanking his gun from his coat. I’m holding Jonas down. I’ve stabbed one knife into his shoulder to pin him in place, like an insect on a mount. The other blade is right at his throat. I’ll have to let him go, to jump up and meet Andrei.
Before I can do that, I hear the crack of a shot.
Andrei stops running. His gun drops limply from his hand. Then he sinks to his knees and tumbles over.
I look back where Nero Gallo was hiding, thinking he was the shooter. Nero is standing by the bar, mouth open, his expression as dumbfounded as mine.
I turn the opposite direction instead, to the front doorway.
Sebastian Gallo lowers his gun. He shot from all the way across the room, hitting Andrei in the back of the head. I guess Aida was wrong about his aim.
My other men seem frozen, unsure of what to do. They don’t know what’s happening, there’s no precedent for all this.
I know one thing for certain.
There can only be one Boss.
Jonas is still struggling and spitting beneath me, one arm useless from the knife in his shoulder, but the other fist trying to swing and hit every part of me he can reach.
“I should have been boss,” he spits. “It was my right by blood . . .”
“You’re nothing like Zajac,” I tell him. “You don’t have his brains, or his honor.”
“Go to hell!” he howls, as he writhes and struggles.
“I’ll see you there, brother,” I tell him.
I cut his throat from ear to ear.
The blood pours out in a sheet, dousing my hand. I wipe it off on Jonas’ shirt, and the blade of my knife as well.
Then I stand up, refusing to wince.
My face is throbbing, my arm too. Blood is seeping through the front of my shirt where my stitches pulled out. I stand tall, regardless. I can’t let my men see weakness.
They all stare at me, shocked and guilty. Unsure of what to do.
It’s Marcel who acts first. He strides over to me and kneels in front of me.
“Good to have you back, Boss,” he says.
Olie and Bruno follow close after him, kneeling in front of me so Jonas’ spreading blood soaks the knees of their pants.
“Forgive me, Boss,” Bruno says. “They told me you were dead.”
The rest of my soldiers rush over to kneel. This is the position of penance. Whatever punishment I want to mete out, they will accept.
If I were Zajac, I’d take a finger from each of them.
But I’m not Zajac. The guilty have already been punished.
“Uncuff Dante Gallo,” I say to Marcel.
He unlocks the cuffs, and Dante, Nero, and Sebastian stand at the edge of the dance floor, shoulder to shoulder. My men eye them with wary looks, some still angry.
“Our dispute with the Italians is over,” I tell my men. “The same with the Irish.”
“What about Zajac?” Olie says, quietly.
“I’ll put a monument on his grave,” Dante Gallo says, in his rumbling voice. “In honor of the new friendship between our families.”
Olie nods his head once.
“Get up,” I say to the rest of my men. “Clean up this mess. You had your fun—now it’s time to get back to work.”
As my men start putting the club back in order, I head back to my office with the Gallo brothers.
“What the fuck was that shot?” Nero says to Sebastian.
Sebastian shrugs.
“I told you,” he says to Nero. “I’m the athlete in the family. I’ve got the fastest reflexes.”
“Like hell,” Nero scoffs. “I just had a shit angle.”
Dante puts a heavy hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?” he asks his brother.
“Yeah,” Sebastian shrugs.
His face looks troubled. I’m guessing that was the first man he ever killed.
I’m not happy about it, either. I’ve known Andrei for six years. He lived in my house. We played pool together, and Chaturanga. We ate at the same table. Laughed at the same jokes.
But in our world, you’re brothers or enemies. There is no in-between.
Once we’re inside my office, I call Kolya Kristoff. He answers after a few rings, his voice thick with sleep, but his brain as sharp as ever.
“I didn’t expect to see a dead man’s name on my phone,” he says.
“You picked up to see what it’s like on the other side?”
He laughs. “Enlighten me.”
“You’d have to ask Jonas.”
“Ah,” he sighs. “His reign didn’t last long.”
“I’ve made peace with the Griffins and the Gallos.”
Kristoff chuckles softly.
“So little Nessa Griffin put the collar on your neck, instead.”
I won’t rise to the bait.
“Our agreement is off,” I tell him.
“An agreement by two can’t be broken by one,” Kristoff says.
“Do as you will,” I tell him. “Just know that the Griffins are expecting you. If you try to take Callum and Aida, you’ll be slaughtered.”