Chapter 3 The Pakhan's Successor

CIMITERO DELLA FAMIGLIA DE LUCA

Five days after Giovanni Bianchi's death, the De Luca family gathered at their private cemetery-rows of marble tombstones standing as monuments to their legacy. The mourners, dressed in black, surrounded the flower-draped coffin. A framed photo of Giovanni sat atop it, marking the grave of the man who had once been their consigliere.

The priest began solemnly. "We gather to honor Giovanni Bianchi-a man of loyalty, honor, and service to La Famiglia De Luca. His legacy lives on in those he touched."

The crowd bowed their heads in silence, the weight of grief heavy in the air.

Then the priest turned to Ivan De Luca. "Don De Luca, would you like to say a few words?"

Dressed in black, Ivan stepped forward, voice strained with emotion. "Giovanni was not only our consigliere, but also my friend, my brother. I often urged him to settle down, but he lived life on his own terms-fearless, loyal, irreplaceable."

His tone shifted, voice cold and fierce. "But his life was stolen-taken by the cowards of La Mano Roja. They will pay. We will not forgive. We will not forget."

He paused, then added with remorse, "I'm sorry. I failed to protect him. My heart is heavy, but justice will be done."

The grave was filled, the sound of dirt against the coffin echoing like finality. One by one, mafia leaders offered their condolences-Benito Morano, Capo of the Morano family, among them.

"Giovanni was a good man," Benito said. "May his soul rest, and may your strength guide you through this."

Others from the Esposito, Conti, and Rizzo families followed, each expressing respect for the fallen consigliere.

As the mourners departed, the De Lucas remained behind-quiet, grieving, but burning with purpose. Justice was no longer an option. It was a vow.

*********

As the mourners finished paying their respects, the grave was adorned with an array of flowers, candles, and other tributes. The Capo stood before the grave, his eyes fixed on the nameplate that bore Giovanni Bianchi's name. He took a deep breath, his chest heavy with grief and anger.

Ronan, who had been overseeing the burial arrangements, approached the Capo and nodded respectfully. "It is done, Don De Luca," he said, his voice low and somber.

The Capo's gaze lingered on the grave for a moment, and then he nodded slowly. La Famiglia De Luca's people dispersed, leaving only the Capo's closest associates and family members.

The Capo turned to his family and nodded again. Together, they turned to leave the cemetery. The atmosphere was heavy with sorrow, but also with a sense of respect and dignity.

The Capo walked slowly, his eyes scanning the faces of those around him. He knew that he had the support of his community, and that they would stand by him in the days ahead. The sound of footsteps on the gravel path was the only sound that broke the silence.

As they walked out of the cemetery, the Capo's thoughts turned to the future. He knew that he had a duty to fulfill, a promise to keep. Giovanni Bianchi's death would not go unpunished. The Capo's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched in determination. He would make sure that those responsible for Giovanni's death would pay for their treachery.

SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA(THE BRATVA'S EMPIRE)

The empire's headquarters sprawled across three acres of land, a testament to the organization's vast reach and influence. The meeting room was equally impressive, with high ceilings and walls adorned with intricate Russian artwork. The room was massive, easily accommodating over two dozen underbosses from various organizations and crime families within the Bratva empire.

Seated around the large, ornate table were leaders from different factions, each with their own distinct presence. Dimitri Vorobev, leader of the Vorobev organization, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Eli Romanov, leader of the Romanov organization, sat tall, his eyes fixed on Dimitri.

"What is holding the Pakhan from coming?" Dimitri asked, his voice laced with impatience. "I have a lot of shit to deal with."

Eli's eyes narrowed. "How dare you speak of the Pakhan like that? You have no respect."

Dimitri rolled his eyes, a smirk on his face. Before the situation could escalate further, the door swung open, and Pakhan Sergei Morozov entered the room. Everyone rose to their feet, greeting him in unison:

"Zdravstvuyte, Pakhan" (Welcome, Pakhan).

The leaders bowed their heads, showing respect to the elderly Pakhan. Sergei Morozov grunted, his expression stern.

"Da, da, da," he muttered, waving his hand. "Sadiytes', pojaluysta" (Take a seat, please).

The Pakhan sat down, his eyes scanning the room. His gaze landed on the three vacant seats.

"Oh, oh, oh, my grandsons are not even here yet."

Dimitri spoke up, his voice firm. "What a disrespect they have no respect for the Pakhan."

Eli shot back, his tone measured. "Some people seem to forget that respect is a two-way street." The other leaders nodded subtly, understanding the underlying message.

Pakhan Sergei Morozov leaned forward, his eyes scanning the room. "Davayte nachnem, my ne mozhem zhdam' ikh" (Let's start, we can't wait for them).

Dimitri Vorobev cleared his throat. "Well, we don't really have much going on. The drug exchange was successful, and as you know, we're already preparing for your seventieth birthday. We'll be doing this in the grand hall of the Bratva's empire. The distribution of the invites will take place starting from next week."

Marcelo Petrov, leader of the Petrovskaya mafia, spoke up. "La Cosa Nostra, I believe they're trying to give us a little bit of headache. But my men and I are already dealing with it, so there's no real problem."

Just then, Nikolai Morozov, the first grandson of the Pakhan, walked in nonchalantly, greeting his grandfather in Russian: "Zdravstvuy, dedushka" (Hello, grandfather).

Nikolai took his seat, and Eli Romanov faced him, his voice stern. "You have no right to come in like this."

Nikolai threw Eli an annoying look, pointing to the remaining two vacant seats. He shook his head, shrugging, as if to say, "I'm not the only one."

Next, Alexei Morozov, the third grandson, walked in, greeting his grandfather in the same way: "Zdravstvuy, dedushka" (Hello, grandfather). Alexei sat down, his expression jovial. "Okay, so what am I missing out on?"

Dimitri spoke up, his tone critical. "It seems like the time you spent in America has really changed you. You have no respect for your elders around you."

Alexei looked at Dimitri, a hint of amusement on his face. "I don't think you have respect for the Pakhan either."

The Pakhan raised his hand, his voice firm. "Enough, let's get back to business."

He switched to a jovial mood, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Okay, so I'll be seventy years old in three weeks' time. We need to start preparing for my birthday party. I want it to be very classic, nothing too modern. Even the Prime Minister of Russia, Denisovich Volkov, will be coming for my birthday party. I personally will invite him myself."

The room fell silent, with all the leaders impressed by the Pakhan's influence.

Carlos Kuznetsov, leader of the Kuznetsov crime family, spoke up, his voice filled with pride. "I mean, come to think of it, we haven't really had much issues lately. That's because we're not just called Bratva for nothing. Our name is synonymous with ruthlessness, with power. We instill fear in the eyes of men, and our reputation precedes us. In fact, I am honored to be a part of the bra-"

Carlos Kuznetsov was interrupted by the swinging of the door opened, and Mikhail Morozov, the second grandson of the Pakhan, stepped into the room. His presence was like a cold wind on a winter night, sending a shiver down the spines of the other leaders. He was tall, imposing, and radiated an aura of menace. His eyes were piercing, like ice picks, and his face was chiseled from granite. He wore black trousers and a black shirt, his body honed to perfection. As he walked, the room seemed to darken, as if the shadows themselves were drawn to him.

Everyone turned to meet him, and Nikolai's face contorted in a mixture of surprise and annoyance, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he had just smelled something foul. The Pakhan stared at Mikhail with pride, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Ah, here comes my grandson."

Mikhail's voice was deep and low, like thunder on a summer day, as he greeted his grandfather in Russian: "Zdravstvuy, dedushka" (Hello, grandfather). The words seemed to rumble through the room, making the other leaders feel like they were in the presence of something ancient and powerful.

Mikhail sat down next to Alexei, who grinned and hit Mikhail's knuckle with his fist. "Good to have you back, bro."

Mikhail didn't even glance at Alexei, his gaze fixed on the Pakhan. "So, what am I missing out on?" His voice was as cold as his face, devoid of any emotion.

The Pakhan chuckled. "Nothing, nothing. We were just planning my seventieth birthday, and I was saying I will be inviting the Prime Minister myself."

Mikhail nodded, his face expressionless, and shook his head in approval.

The Pakhan nodded, his voice steady. "So, just like Dimitri has said, the distribution of the invites will start from next week. Make sure this birthday becomes the best of the best in the whole of Russia. We have a lot of big men and rich men coming over for my birthday party. Make sure you plate it very well. I don't want any nonsense or rubbish to occur."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room before coming to rest on Mikhail. "Everyone can go, except Mikhail."

The room erupted as everyone stood to their feet, their faces a mix of curiosity and respect. Nikolai's eyes lingered on the Pakhan, his mind racing with questions about what his grandfather wanted to discuss with Mikhail.

As the room emptied, Mikhail turned to face the Pakhan, his expression neutral. "What do you have to say, Dedushka?" he asked, his voice low and measured.

The Pakhan's eyes locked onto Mikhail's, his voice filled with a sense of purpose. "Mikhail, I might not be around forever. Anytime soon, I'll be gone, and you'll have to take over. A Pakhan must have a wife before he becomes Pakhan. It's tradition."

Mikhail's face remained impassive, but a hint of annoyance flickered in his eyes. "But Nikolai is the first grandson, Dedushka. Originally, he's meant to be the heir. And he's married, although he hasn't had a child yet."

The Pakhan's expression turned stern. "Nikolai isn't fit to be a Pakhan, Mikhail. He's too soft, too emotional. He'd let his personal feelings cloud his judgment. You, on the other hand, have the makings of a great leader. I want you to consider getting married, Mikhail. It's time you settled down."

Mikhail's face darkened, his eyes flashing with anger. "I'm not ready to have a wife, Dedushka. Women are weakness, and men like me don't need such weakness on our side."

The Pakhan's voice remained firm. "I know all that, Mikhail, but I still think you're the better fit. And I want you to consider getting married."

Mikhail stood up, his movements fluid and controlled. "I don't want to ever discuss this with you again, Dedushka. For the sake of respect, I'll let this slide." He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the Pakhan watching him with a mixture of frustration and understanding.

The Pakhan sighed, shaking his head. "He's so hard to convince."