“Of course not, my captain,” Stanislav spoke up, the three men seated at the table as six other gunmen lounged around the club. “Our only hope would be that you rewarded the loyalty of the crew under Suvarov.”
“What you must keep in mind,” Fetisov downed a shot of Grey Goose vodka, “is that these are Sergei Karpov's crews, my crews. Suvarov works for me, just as Belov did, just as you do. And I answer to no one but Karpov.”
“Of course not,” Miroslav agreed, then snapped his fingers overhead. “Boy! Another shot for the captain.”
Tamerlan Chekhov dutifully scampered over to the table with the $800 magnum, pouring shots for the three men before returning it to its place behind the bar. His street connection Evgeni was hanging around and was getting ready to leave when the two boys were cal
