Page 23 of Empire
The shipping issue through Trieste has resurfaced. Customs pressure, disappearing manifests, a dockmaster in Bari who’s either incompetent or bribed by someone not smart enough to cover the trail properly.
Every decision in this room now has one eye on New York, even when nobody says the city aloud.
My father handles it the way he handles everything: with restraint sharpened so fine it becomes its own form of violence. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t interrupt unless he chooses the exact second that will make the interruption feel surgical rather than rude.
When he cuts a man off, it lands like judgment from the mouth of something that already knows it’s untouchable. That’s how Italians like us perform power. Elegance first, brutality hidden in the seams.
The Russians do not care for seams. That becomes clear when the courier is dragged in.
It happens mid-argument over the Trieste route. One of Mikhail’s men enters through the side door without being announced, which alone is enough to irritate half the room, but he’s not alone.
Another man follows with a courier between them, half-shoved, half-carried, face already bloodied and one sleeve torn at the shoulder. He can’t be older than thirty. One of the floating intermediaries used by three families and trusted by none, the kind of man who survives by being useful to bigger predators until the day he stops being useful enough.
The room goes quiet at once.
No one asks what this is. They all know. The only questions now are how ugly it’ll get and whether they’re supposed to pretend to be surprised.
Mikhail doesn’t even turn fully toward the disturbance. He just says, “Bring him forward.”
The man is pushed a few feet from the table. Blood drips from his nose onto the carpet. Nobody rushes to help him. Nobody ever does in rooms like this. He looks around once, panicked,searching for somebody softer than the Russians to fix his mistake. There’s no one here for that.
“Tell them,” Mikhail says.
The courier swallows. “I—I didn’t know the manifests were altered. I was told the second ledger came from the warehouse itself. I was told—”
“You were told a lot of things,” Mikhail says. “Try telling the truth instead.”
My father says nothing. None of the others do either. They’re all watching now, because this is not just punishment. This is theater—public enough to make a point, strategic enough that the point matters.
The courier shakes his head too quickly. “I didn’t sell anything.”
Mikhail glances at Viktor.
That’s all.
Just a glance.
Viktor steps forward and drives the heel of his shoe into the back of the courier’s knee hard enough that something cracks. The man screams and folds sideways, clutching at the leg with both hands.
“Truth,” Mikhail says again.
The courier is sobbing now, words tripping over one another. Names. Payments. A second ledger was copied for someone outside the agreed circle. A contact through a Dragna-linked intermediary who promised easy money for harmless information.Harmless.Men always say that before the blood starts.
I feel my father’s attention sharpen beside me, though outwardly he remains still. The Dragnas again. Their name moves through the room like a rat in the walls, small and filthy and not nearly as hidden as they think.
Then Mikhail does something that unsettles me more than the violence itself—he looks at Ruslan.
Not at Viktor, who has just broken the man’s leg. Not at his guards.At Ruslan.
“Your assessment?” he asks.
That’s the second truth of their family that I learned from my father this morning: the youngest Dragovich matters in ways outsiders would miss if they were stupid enough to judge only by age and attitude.
The eldest protects while the youngest inherits. Still, knowing it and watching it play out are different things. Mikhail is not asking because he values a youthful perspective. He’s asking because the future Pakhan’s judgment needs to be heard in public. This isn’t only punishment. It’s education and positioning at once.
Ruslan flicks ash into the tray by his elbow and studies the man on the floor as if he’s deciding whether the courier counts as a person or just a problem.
“He’s already lied twice,” he says. “First, about the manifests. Then, about who he thought he was selling to. Men who think information is harmless are either too stupid to breathe or hoping we are.”
