CHAPTER 23
M eanwhile, Dmitri was in Sunny Isles Beach, a small town outside of Miami known as “Little Moscow,” because of its large Russian immigrant population.
Two weeks before, he’d gotten bad news.
His uncle had died. That’s sad news for most people, but for a mobster it can mean much more.
Dmitri didn’t have time to mourn his uncle’s loss. He had work to do. In a family business like the mafia, death of one person means more responsibility for those who live, and often imminent danger for everyone involved.
Dmitri’s uncle was gunned down in Russia while visiting the city of his birth, the place he had lived most of his life, Saratov.
Vladimir Veselov died the way he lived, for he was the boss, or Pakhan, of one of the largest Russian Mafia syndicates in the world, and he had ordered the murders of countless others during his reign.
And when he was young himself, he had killed rivals, dirty cops, and people who betrayed him as he rose to the top rank of the Saratov Syndicate. From there, he expanded his empire, taking over other Bratvas and making them part of his own organization.
It was through his teaching that Dmitri had been named a Brigadier at the remarkably young age of 22.
This position made Dmitri captain of the entire operation run by his uncle’s Bratva in the Tampa-St. Petersburg area, one of the many regions Vladimir controlled, but also one of his most profitable.
Several other more experienced Boyeviks - the soldiers of the Russian mob - thought they should have been promoted ahead of Dmitri. They said he was given the job only because of his uncle, that he hadn’t earned such authority yet, and they resented the brash young man for his new rank.
It’s true Dmitri’s uncle had raised him as though he were the boy’s father - a harsh, brutal father - since Dmitri’s real father was murdered when he was a child.
And Vladimir wanted the best for Dmitri, as any father would. But he was too wise of a man to appoint someone based only on familial affection. Maybe he would have given a simpler, low-level job to some clueless family member, but not a crucial, dangerous position like Brigadier.
Mistakes cost lives and money in this business, so Vladimir was always selective about the men he chose to oversee his territories.
He knew Dmitri was qualified because he had personally trained him in the dark arts of mafia life since he was only a small boy. And he knew Dmitri had leadership and ferocity in his blood. Vladimir’s brother - Dmitri’s father - had been one of the most feared Russian mobsters in the world.
Once Dmitri had taken his position as Brigadier, his new crew soon lost any doubt they’d had about his abilities. He was a fair, smart leader, yet when someone betrayed him, he doled out swift justice.
Those who didn’t work with him, on the other hand, continued to be suspicious and envious of his strength. Even though they feared his uncle, they sought to undermine Dmitri.
It wasn’t just about age and experience. The older mob veterans didn’t like Dmitri’s personality, even if most of them hardly knew him. They knew only that besides being Vladimir’s nephew, he was a pretty party boy.
He was known for getting in fights with civilians at clubs, which can bring unwanted attention to the Russian Mafia if things get out of hand, especially in the US.
Dmitri also dated women that weren’t Russian, making it more likely the FBI could set him up with an undercover agent, a “honey pot” who would get him to confess during pillow talk or snoop around his papers and cell phone when he was in the bathroom.
That’s what they said, anyway.
The truth was, every Russian mobster gets in his share of fights with random people and chases any girl he sees.
Mostly, they just didn’t trust someone as handsome and fashionable as Dmitri to be as ruthless and intimidating as a man with his job needed to be.
They thought rival black and Latino gangs would laugh at him, disrespect him, and even doubt the power of the Russkaya Mafiya.
Add that to typical envy and competitiveness, and the young Brigadier had a target on his back the size of a Russian bear.
Dmitri knew this, yet he lived recklessly.
He often left home without his bodyguards, who are called Bykis. Sometimes, he didn’t even bother to carry a gun when he went out.
Yet it was not Dmitri who got killed first, as many expected and even hoped for, but his uncle. Nobody saw that coming.
Vladimir was a respected Pakhan who had helped keep the peace between rival Bratvas for several years.
Well, everybody knew the peace wouldn’t last forever, but it was still a shock to see the old man die in such a gruesome way and with no warning signs of trouble between warring syndicates.
And in Saratov, nobody could have gotten to Vladimir except for fellow Russians. That ruled out Greeks, Italians, Colombians, and everyone else. The hit was a power play for the Veselov throne.
Vladimir was the older brother of Dmitri’s father, and at 70 years old was more the age of a grandfather to Dmitri.
He had reached a rare age for a man in his deadly profession, and it seemed he might even die of natural causes. But perhaps for a Russian mafioso, murder is as natural as a heart attack.
However, this wasn't about just one man. When a Pakhan is killed, more bodies soon follow. Many more.
First of all, there’s revenge to be had. Some of it’s personal. And some is psychological, to show that a family won’t back down even when they lose their leader.
But more so, every faction of the organization is vying for power now that there’s an opening at the top, while other crime families, both Russian and outsiders, try to take advantage of the chaos to claim new territories.
Vladimir was a tough old fellow, and the hail of bullets that sliced through him as he knelt beside his mother’s grave in an ancient cemetery outside of Saratov didn’t kill him right away.
He died later that night in the hospital. The assassins who shot him hadn’t even thought to send someone to the ICU to finish him off.
They never imagined that he’d leave the cemetery alive, not after they cut him down with a flurry of lead. But he lived long enough to talk to his most trusted advisor - his Sovietnik, as these men are called who provide calm council to Pakhans.
Vladimir’s Sovietnik was Sergei Laborov. They’d known each other for more than 50 years, since their days together as teenagers fighting against Nazis in World War II, then during decades of communism in the Soviet Union.