Chapter 2
Artem
- present
Raised in a family that respected religion, I was forced countless times to accompany my parents to church. It was my mother’s way of trying to save our already ruined souls, the ones only she still believed in.
I only liked the place when it was empty, because during service, it bored me terribly and made me think of all the ways I could put an end to the moments I would have always preferred to spend doing something else.
Like taking my father’s gun – the one he always carried in the holster strapped across his chest – aiming it at the priest’s head.
And pulling the trigger.
I was only nine years old, but my morbid fantasy continued in the bloodiest ways, helping me create the perfect crime.
Release.
The silence that would come afterward inside my head.
I could feel myself suffocating, as if a withered claw were pressing down on my chest. My skin would grow hotter, and a tingling sensation would push me into restlessness, making me want more and more to turn my dream into reality.
I wanted blood.
I wanted to see that wonderful color, the one I dreamed of every night. I wanted to see the empty gleam in his shocked eyes. I wanted the panic that would follow.
Something inside my head whispered for me to do it. To take the gun, or any sharp object I could find within reach, and play in the blood of that man who had something about him I didn’t like.
When he smiled, he looked like a devil.
Apparently, I was the only one who thought so.
As if he knew what lived inside my head, each time my father would place his large palm on my knee, halting my restless movement. He never looked at me, but I am certain that in my agony, when I could no longer see anything around me, he had many chances to study me.
All I heard was his deep voice as he whispered words that, to anyone else, would have sounded cold and worthy of a ruthless Vor. But I knew him too well not to recognize the care he hid behind them.
“It's not the time yet, Voron.”
He was broad-shouldered, massive compared to other men his age, a build Yaroslav, my older brother, had inherited as well. His imposing stature made him look terrifying.
And he was.
Only his family ever received something special from him, something no one else even knew existed in the monster that haunted the dreams of many: love for those closest to him.
In the Bratva, feelings are weak links. The people you love are weaknesses. And you never want to appear weak before your enemies.
That is precisely why, in public, my father was colder than the frozen wind of a Siberian blizzard.
But I knew he would always be there beside me. His large hand gave me that single drop of calm, sealing the crack splitting open my mind, the one through which the inner voice demanded that I give it blood.
It was not yet time for the things I dreamed of, but the great Leonid knew how to quiet my impulses.
He gave my thirst a purpose and placed me in the hands of those who did this every day.
I was no stranger to my father’s occupation within the organization. I had even witnessed the execution of a traitor who had tried to abduct my mother and deliver her to our enemies.
But for someone to be directly involved in killing people at that age? That had not happened in the organization for a very long time.
I was proud of myself.
And I always knew I would be the best.
Except, at this particular moment, I think my mother would be a little disappointed. More than a little, perhaps. And I don’t mean because of everything I’ve accomplished so far, but because of the reason I am currently inside this Catholic church on the outskirts of London.
I am stretched out on one of the back pews, one knee bent, the other leg extended, my heel resting on a small cushion old women use to protect their bony asses.
My left arm covers half my face, as if I’m trying to take a nap.
In my other hand, I hold a suppressed pistol, stroking it slowly with my thumb while keeping it hidden from view beside my thigh.
At thirty years old, it has become a lethal extension of my agile body.
I breathe slowly, catching the scent of incense that dominates this place trying so hard to be holy. For the old women in the first rows, the eight of them who come every week to kiss the preacher’s hand, perhaps it is.
Surrounded by their fear of death, they ignore what is right beneath their noses.
The sinner preaching to them about salvation.
And Death itself, lying on a wooden pew, listening to every sound around him.
“Whoever carries the law in his heart, whether written or unwritten, does not stray from the truth. And blood spilled without right can never be hidden from the eye of the One above. Therefore, let the light touch our souls. Let us acknowledge our sins in silence and rise strengthened,
for when we are called, whether before God or before men.”
You got that part right, Father.
Honestly, I would stay a little longer just to hear this hypocrite talk about sacred things even he doesn’t respect, but my phone vibrates once.
A sign that I need to hurry.
It vibrates again.
And again.
I feel my skin begin to tighten.
I know who it is, and he knows I hate when he sends me one short message after another.
I clench my teeth and pull the phone from the pocket of my trousers, lifting it above my head.
Sasha: You said fifteen minutes. It’s been twenty-five.
Did the priest convert you?
My older brother’s reply appears immediately, directed at the youngest of the family.
Yar: Did the old ladies jump you?
Are you in danger?
I would leave the WhatsApp group my little
brother created again, but every time I do, he adds me back, so the gesture has become useless.
I tuck the phone back into my trouser pocket and sit up with a silent sigh.
I look toward the altar, but no one is paying attention to me.
I don’t even think they noticed when I came in, and I probably could have slept peacefully for a few minutes if the irritating voice of the man dressed in garments stitched with gold thread hadn’t fed the thirst making my blood race through my body.
Kill.
Kill.
I smile.
It’s time, I tell myself.
I rise slowly, step out from between the pews,
and stop in the long aisle brides walk down when they go to sign a different kind of sentence. Like them, I move closer to the altar, because I want him to see me. I want him to look into my eyes and understand why I am doing this.
He knows the reason.
I know it too.
So do the two little girls he sexually abused over the past year.
I don’t even know how many there were before them. They are only the ones I found out about.
Last week, I came here with one of the girls, but I played the part of the good man who had made a considerable donation to his church.
Every trace of concern vanished from his face as he caught the expensive scent of my black suit, even though I was holding the hand of the eleven-year-old girl trembling beside me, terrified of the man trying to pose as a saint.
I stop behind the pews where the admirers of the priest, who isn’t even fifty, are sitting, so they won’t see me. By the time they understand what is happening, I will already be on my way to the door.
The priest sees me, and his brown eyes shine with delight. He probably thinks I’ve come to throw more money into the place where he carries out his sins with the girls chosen to be part of the church choir.
He keeps talking, but my solemn posture, my entirely black suit from shoes to tie and my cold eyes make him pay closer attention to me.
For one second, he stammers.
I extend my right arm, the pistol in my hand.
That is when he understands.
His face turns ashen, and the words stop completely. The air locks in his chest, and when I pull the trigger, I think that is the moment everything connects in his mind.
The reason why I came here with the girl.
Who I am.
And how much I know.
I wonder if his life flashes before his eyes in that half second it takes the bullet to reach his forehead. Were they pleasant memories, or a parade of the sins he committed?
His panic-filled eyes go empty. I don’t spend more than a second admiring the blood beginning to trickle from the hole in his forehead, and I turn my back, before the old women can see my face.
There are no cameras inside the building, but even so, I know very well that I took a risk by coming here in all my glory, ignoring my brothers’ advice to cover my face with the balaclava printed with a white skull.
But today, I wanted the priest to see the face of his executioner clearly.
To know that Death forgives no one and comes when you least expect it.
Death has one gray eye and one half-brown eye.
The red shade of the sinner’s blood still haunts me like a ghost, my mind ravenous for that color.
At last, there is silence again after the monster has been fed.
Now I wait for dessert, which comes after barely two steps, with the dull thud of the priest’s lifeless body hitting the floor.
The first scream.
Let the symphony begin.
One second later, the shrieks and panic take over. But to me, it sounds like a slow song, one that steadies my heartbeat and gives me the calm I crave.
Who said perfection doesn’t exist?
Blood and screams.
Color and music.
Death is an art, and I am very talented, thank you very much.
Outside, the light rain from earlier has stopped, and my brothers are waiting for me beside the black Range Rover like two guardians of hell.
The contrast between them is striking. While Yaroslav stands out because of his massive build and thick arms covered in tattoos, Aleksandr is the beautifully made one, but leaner, the only one with golden hair like our mother’s, while my older brother and I inherited our father’s black hair.
“I thought some little old lady had seduced you in there,” the youngest grumbles, opening the driver’s door.
Today, he wants to play with the car.
“Jealous you didn’t come in to meet them?” I ask him dryly, walking around the vehicle to climb into the passenger seat, while Yar takes his place in the back, choosing to sit there comfortably.
“I don’t really have a thing for geriatrics.”
“Did anyone see you?” Yar cuts in, his voice deep and stern from the strong cigarettes whose scent follows him everywhere.
“Only him.”
“That was your whole idea,” he says, a note of dissatisfaction in his voice, because he also supported my younger brother’s balaclava suggestion.
“That’s all we needed, for some little old lady to see you and for us to add ‘old-lady killers’ to our resume,” Sasha huffs as he quickly disappears into the traffic of the crowded streets.
“It’s handled,” I cut them off, closing the subject. “Now let’s move on to serious matters.”
“Killing a priest in broad daylight, inside a church with witnesses present, isn’t serious?” my older brother mutters.
I restrain myself from giving in to the irritation he causes me.
“No. It’s a hobby,” I reply as calmly as possible.
He lets out a frustrated growl, while beside me, I hear the other one’s muffled laughter.
“You know very well I’m a big fan of this hobby,” Yar says, “but I always prefer a good plan that saves us from extra headaches.”
“The balaclava is necessary in many situations, but today it could be avoided. I assessed the situation properly,” I inform them both.
“I’m glad you’re the smart one,” Yaroslav mutters sarcastically.
“Let it go, Yar,” Sasha tells him. “We all know about your fantasies with that balaclava.”
This time, Yar grins.
“And actually, you know nothing.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. Sometimes I get the feeling you’re crazier than Artem,” the playful blond chuckles.
I listen to their conversation, but I prefer to check my phone for new information about a shipment that is supposed to reach us right in the center of London, where chaos is the key to our success.
That is the magic of the city.
It is full of tourists fascinated by buildings and locals who ignore everyone. So versatile and chaotic that no one finds it strange when a luxury yacht docks beside others just as expensive at St. Katharine Docks and transfers several boxes from one deck to another.
With our system for jamming the cameras, no evidence exists near the meeting point, and the transfer runs smoothly every time.
“But compared to you two, I’m much more fun.”
I ignore Sasha’s comments, even though both of them are probably expecting a cutting reply from me.
Instead, I pull my pistol from the shoulder holster where I hid it after turning my back on the altar splattered with the priest’s brains, and begin unscrewing the suppressor, which makes the weapon uncomfortable to carry.
For a second, silence falls around me, and I glance at Sasha from the corner of my eye as he stops at a traffic light.
“Bro’, are we stopping somewhere else?”
His slightly irritated tone makes me huff.
“And if we were?”
“I’ve got no problem with it,” he says, “but Polina promised she’d make pelmeni3for lunch, and I’m dying for some.”
He complains like a spoiled child being denied what he wants.
If anyone heard him, they would never suspect the dark and dangerous thoughts living inside his brain, which, at first glance, seems to belong to a twelve-year-old boy.
But at twenty-four, the youngest of the family has proven he loves getting covered in blood, and he always does it with a satanic smile on his face.
3Traditional Russian food. Dough dumplings filled with meat, boiled or fried, served with sour cream or butter
“We’re going home,” I announce calmly, almost bored. “We need to discuss the final details for tonight with the team.”
Then I half turn toward the one in the back. “Yar, did you speak with the krisha4?” “He confirmed he’ll keep his people away from
the area. We have three free hours during the agreed window.”
“More than enough,” Sasha says, his tone completely changed now, responsible, the one he adopts when the conversation is truly serious.
“Unpleasant surprises can happen at any moment. London is not entirely ours yet.” I say, giving voice to the thought that haunts all three of us every day.
“Yet.”
I smile, because the answer comes from both my brothers.
Maybe my mother wouldn’t be proud that we live this life, or that I just killed a pedophile priest. But I am certain she is proud that she raised the three of us to stand together until death, no matter what happens.
4Nickname used by Russians for a corrupt police officer