I’d received a text an hour before from Enzo telling me the location and time for the meet. The address took me to a run-down part of Brooklyn where the old brick buildings had seen their day. Wealthy investors hadn’t yet seized the properties to revitalize the area, so the neighborhood remained much as it had been for decades.

I didn’t have to wait long before Gabe’s car pulled up followed by a second vehicle. He and Enzo stepped from his black Lincoln Town Car along with two soldiers, and four more exited from the other car. I joined them, shaking hands with Gabe and Enzo and nodding to the others—all of us equally stoic. Meets were supposed to be violence-free, but there were never any guarantees.

As we greeted one another, a large metal garage door slid open. A single soldier stood at the entry, inviting us inside. The building housed a typical mechanic’s garage that I would have bet was a chop shop. The little garage tucked away in Brooklyn would be the perfect place to take stolen cars and refurbish them to be sold on the black market.

We were led to the back of the building and down a hallway past a series of offices to a small conference room. Three men were seated at an oval table along with half a dozen soldiers at their backs. As we filed into the room, the three men slowly stood, and we all eyed each other warily.

“Gabe,” greeted the man in the middle in a heavy Russian accent. “And this must be the elusive Enzo Genovese. We appreciate you joining us today.” It wasn’t surprising the man was able to pick out Enzo. He was the oldest among us, implying higher rank, but he also had a commanding air that left no question about his powerful station.

“I appreciate you giving us the opportunity to discuss business and hopefully work through this little mess.”

“Yes, of course. These things happen. Please, have a seat.”

With our soldiers standing at our backs, we joined the Russians at the glass-topped conference table. The room was saturated with the stale odor of foreign cigarettes—no Marlboro Lights for the bratva. Between the vodka and tobacco, it was a miracle any of them lived past fifty. Their faces were weathered and harsh, hands dotted with old tattoos, and their teeth were stained a putrid yellow. These men were old-school bratva—the equivalent of our Italian Zips who came over from Sicily. They had yet to enter the modern age, still living under the archaic rules of the past.

The leader, Boris “Biba” Mikhailov, leaned back confidently in his chair. “I understand you have a traitor on your hands.”

“Yes,” conceded Enzo. “My underboss Sal has betrayed me and injured my reputation with a number of my associates, such as yourself. He’s on the run, but we’ll find him.”

Biba tsked, shaking his head. “Is not good for business to have such a trusted comrade turn on you. It does not instill … confidence in your operation.”