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For a moment, a thought flashed across his mind - he wondered if his son had survived, would he have become such a cautious capital sage for the peace and life of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren? Instead of fighting - the warmth of the fireplace, a small toddler on his knees, clinging to his beard... The Prince shook his head, driving away the warm image. It was not his destiny to check.

"You have robbed me of my son, and I will rob you of everything," he said quietly, his lips parted, staring angrily at the cluster of giant towers in the center of the city.

He had no fear of eavesdropping - the windows on the other side looked like a solid mirror, and the efforts of those who used the window-surfacing equipment were blocked by a tiny mechanism glued with a dozen rubber claws to the inside of the window pane, which barely visible produced a soundless rhythm. The master of the office touched the cool smoothness with his fingertips and listened. No, not a sound, only a slight shiver tingled his fingers. But the observers across the street had the legendary long bass thundering through their headphones: What a wonderful world. A little hoarse, it must be the interference... Perhaps it is even better, like an old record with a turntable needle sliding across it. At any rate, it felt more vivid than the colorless conversations on this side of the window.

"The rival has no strength to break the blockade. Given the lack of substantial food supplies, analysts predict capitulation within a month..."

"No. Withdraw the troops, apologize to the Oster family, and pay the contribution. Do they have casualties?"

"Three wounded, sir."

"Provide medical care, allocate a healer. Offer to rebuild infrastructure and a few lucrative contracts on my behalf."

If the Oster family shows a modicum of cleverness, they will prosper, and Pankratovs will have a new fighting clan. Fighting against an army and managing to retreat without a loss was worth a lot. They were to be spared, unhurriedly linked by kinship and business, for there were no corpses between them - hence no wall of spite.

"Yes, sir. By your word."

"Is that all?"

"No, sir." The referent hesitated slightly, flipping back a page, and mimicked reading from a sheet of paper - implausible, with his perfect memory.

So there's more trouble.

"The head of the Kolobov family insists on meeting you in person."

Prince half-turned, casting a questioning glance at the servant.

"Financiers, bankers, a bit of a loan shark. Residing as a family in the capital, they moved to the Karl Ritz Hotel two days before the conflict began, under the protection of the Emperor of Germany. Previously serviced the clan's accounts and all its payments."

"He will demand special conditions," Pankratov said affirmatively, turning to the window again, "but we don't need a duplicate financial structure."

"If the families who have joined the clan move their assets to us, they will go bankrupt, sir," the servant prompted softly.

"Are they going to obstruct?"

"Already have, sir. They have already exchanged their bank's live money for the junk papers of a dozen shell companies around the world. A reverse exchange is only possible if the Kolobovs are willing. That will be the subject of the bargain. Otherwise, all your new vassals will become paupers."

"Does he think he is immortal?" snorted the Prince.

"We can't get to his family, and his guest status will protect him," the servant said judiciously. "In any case, we need the money more than we need his life."

"Reputation is more important than money," grumbled Mikhail Vikentyevich, rocking from heel to toe, pondering the decision. "We must prepare him for the conversation, put pressure on him, get him off-balance."

"Accident on the way, sir?"

"No way, he's a guest! As long as he is coming to us and from us, not a hair shall fall from his head! Tell you what: put a beggar in front of him that you don't feel sorry for. Put them together, let them bore with each other, and get used to each other. Then we'll drag the body in front of Kolobov. Preferably open the aorta gently, clamp something, and at the right moment yank the body so that the blood gets on Kolobov's trousers and shoes."

"Sir, there is a suitable candidate!" The referent's face brightened, and the plastic pages screeched again. "Maksim Mikhailovich Samoilov, nineteen years old, a petty bourgeois. He is the director of a contracting company that services our hospital in Yelniki."

"Is he stealing from us?"

"Analysts write that no. Costs have fallen by a third. Samoilov has a conflict with the new head of the hospital, who wants to take over the business. Nevertheless, the request for an audience comes from the director. We checked it out: the hospital office doesn't know anything about the letter. The guy forged the letterhead and signature."

"Or slipped it to the headmaster unobtrusively, by tricking him."

"Nevertheless, he wishes to waste your time, sir, on solving his own petty problems. That alone is worthy of death."

Pankratov felt some internal discomfort - it appeared the boy was promising and was bringing money to the Clan. He was very disapproved of the waste of such a valuable resource.

"Besides, the boy is gifted," added the referent cheerfully. "He is able to die colorfully and for a long time, even with large lacerations and missing limbs! We can make him look Kolobov in the eye while they drag him past."

"Good, get to work. And make it look nice - our guest will not be impressed by the death of a crude pauper."

"We will do our best, sir," the referent bowed respectfully.

Chapter 1
Thirteen years earlier

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http://notabenoid.org/book/85284/546593

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP