Chapter 6
SIX
IGOR
PRESENT DAY
“You look more morose than usual, today, bratishka. What’s crawled up your ass?” Misha asks without looking at me, too busy surveying his new assets being unloaded from a container ship docked at Saint-Petersburg harbour.
A faction of Misha’s men, who were on the boat to surveil this new batch of people who’ll wish they’d died during transport, flanks the rows of men and women—and fucking children—as they are guided towards the doctor’s office.
I grunt.
The answer is the same it’s always been for the past three years every time he’s asked something like that.
Something I never voiced, because it’s useless.
Misha isn’t interested in my mood swings and well-being.
Money’s his vice, his king, his God. I’m…
I don’t know what I am to him anymore. Accessory to the worst of mankind is what it feels like.
If he’d pay attention, he would have noticed I’m always in a mood when we toy with the lives of real people like they’re livestock.
My brother steps forward, yelling orders over the balcony railing to his team below. They start to rush the prisoners. Whimpers and wails rise from the crowd. My jaw aches with how hard I grind my molars not to vomit.
I eye the railing. Calculate the distance between me and the ground. I could step over so easily. The warehouse is a wide, grey building with high ceilings where pain echoes and penetrates the cement walls. We must be ten meters above the agitation down below.
If I jumped, head first, I’d be killed on impact.
A mercy. Salvation. The only redemption I’ll ever get.
But it’s too soon. They are not safe, yet.
I refocus my attention on the man I used to call my brother. His body radiates the strength and ruthlessness he projects. The first month I lived with him again after being separated for more than ten years, I thought it was a ruse. A mask. He proved me wrong at every turn.
As he glances over his shoulder at me, his dark eyes shine with the only emotion left in his blackened heart. Sadistic greed.
“Boss, we have a problem,” a soldier calls out from below, his head popping out of the medical office set up on the ground where his assets are sorted into different categories.
A slight inclination of his head is all I get to order me to follow.
Misha and I descend the stairs leading to the prefab room.
Inside, the waiting room is crowded with people, mostly young women.
Their fear smells acrid, their eyes are hollowed out and tears have dried on their cheeks.
I do my best to ignore them, to retreat to that place in my mind where I don’t exist.
Not long now, my longing for death whispers in the confines of my shame.
The soldier stands at the entrance of one of the two observing rooms. We both step into it, not bothering to close the door behind us.
Privacy is a thing of the past. None of the people here will be granted any in the future.
They’re not humans to be afforded care and dignity to Misha and his followers. Just chattel.
“She’s not a virgin,” the doctor says without ceremony, brow frowning like that displeases him. The girl on the medical bed swallows, head already dropped, shoulders caving in.
I want to tell her that making herself smaller won’t help. But nothing will.
“What?” Misha’s face contorts with rage. “What about the others?”
“It’s already the fourth recorded impure item.”
Only years of training prevent me from retching at their casual tone and dehumanising language. Even after everything I’ve seen, it still hits me.
It can’t hit me.
The more I show emotions, the harder my punishment will be.
“Test ten more.”
And the two doctors do. In front of all of us.
I force myself to watch.
It’s my fault.
I’m too weak to stop it.
I’ve chosen to protect him rather than them.
When they’re done, the doctors’ faces are sombre. They shake their heads, sweat beading at their temples.
Misha motions for his soldier to leave. Then, he turns to me.
“Kill everyone.”
“What?”
The word escapes me before I can think better of it. And so does my brother’s back hand to my nose. It stings, but it’s just physical pain. I can take that. His order is something else.
“Did the Moretti make you deaf on top of a weak, emotional bitch? Someone sampled my products, and now they’re useless. Kill. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.”
Then, he shoots both doctors point blank, and walks out of the warehouse. Women yell and cry around us. None of his soldiers bat an eye.
The detached, icy armour of dissociation settles over me, taking me under.
I’m conscious but barely as I direct the men to gather towards the middle of the warehouse and keep an eye on the assets.
I don’t hear the unintelligible sobs and weeping prayers of people who already understood their life ends here.
I find comfort in knowing that the prisoners’ lives would have been worse than the death I’m about to offer, and that I’m getting rid of some of the worst of Misha’s men.
His disregard for human life doesn’t spare anyone, including those loyal to him.
For some reason, the only one he wants to keep alive is me.
I’ll take that pleasure from his hands with satisfaction, soon.
I signal for three soldiers to follow me.
“Yes, grobovschik,” they answer in unison.
They were not on the ship. If anyone was abused, at least it wasn’t at their hands. They’re guilty of enough sins, I’m sure. But for now, they’ll be useful.
We close all exits and entrances, the men guarding the assets giving us suspicious looks as we move around the warehouse but too well-trained to contest a direct order from me. The Petrov family name I carry is enough for them to obey.
There are no windows in this space.
And now, no escape.
It takes us a few more hours to secure what we need.
A fire will get the Petrov’s Bratva insurance money. Misha will be pleased. Maybe enough that he’ll forget my second of hesitation. That I questioned a direct order.
I light the match.
And die a little more inside.
It’s late when I enter Misha’s office in his Saint-Petersburg flat.
“A fire?” he asks with amusement. “Smart. It’ll help recover the cost of that lost cargo.”
“What do you want to do with the bodies?”
He waves a hand and focuses again on the documents in front of him while plucking a grape out of the bowl on his desk. He chews loudly, takes another. And says nothing.
I turn to leave.
“Igor?”
His voice has me bracing.
“Da, Pakhan?”
“Hesitating makes us look weak.”
“It was a massive shipment. A few of the assets could have been… salvageable.” The words taste acrid in my mouth, like I’ve swallowed sand.
Misha leans back into his chair. He’s the picture of unbothered.
From the pocket of his impeccable suit jacket, he takes a silver case and lines a cigarette on his lips, flicking the case side-ways to reveal a lighter.
The item was custom-made for him. I know because he gave me the same two years ago, for my thirtieth birthday.
Our name is engraved on it. I don’t have it anymore.
Silence stretches. The volutes of blue smoke take on sinister shapes between us as he blows them my way.
Finally, he speaks, his voice kind. He’s placating me.
“Do you know why I’d rather lose that whole shipment?”
“No, Pakhan.”
“Not much of a strategist, now, are you?”
I shake my head. It’s another point of contention between us I would rather not dwell on. He believes the Morettis kept me undereducated on purpose. That they made me this muscled beast to diminish his power.
The truth is different. But he’s not interested in it. He’d probably see my love for books as another weakness.
“I sent a message. A powerful one.”
“That life has no weight.”
“No, Igor. That we are to be feared. I want every one in the entire world to sweat when they hear the name Petrov. We’re unpredictable.”
His grin is wicked, that same shine turning his eyes almost obsidian.
“We are Gods. We decide who lives and who dies. No one will ever try to come after us. Will ever try to come between us.”
He stands then.
I’m taller than he is but his aura takes up the remainder of the space in the room, coiling around my throat to choke me. His hands, clean yet bloodied, frame my face, and his forehead touches mine. Misha almost trembles.
“We’ll never be apart again. Everyone will fear us. Obey us. We are above the law. We are the law.” He raises his head again, meeting my gaze. “I’m doing this for us.”
I search his eyes. Eyes I used to know better than my own.
The conviction in his voice and his entire being settles like a shroud above us. I thought I was marked for death. I’ve been marked for suffering.
My brother is dead.
And Misha Petrov is beyond redemption.