by Box Set
“The rays. Is that the number of years?” I reach over and trace my hand down them individually.
“Three.” He places his hand over mine, and I feel his energy transfer into me.
“Yes. Not a serious crime then?”
“Theft. I went to prison when I was sixteen. I wasn’t in charge, so I didn’t get the longest sentence. I was just a solider in those days.”
“You’re the avtoritet, now?” I question.
“Yes. Second in command to the Pakhan.”
I nod and try to move my hand onto the next tattoo. He stills it, momentarily, but then allows me to slide it over to a cross. I run my fingers over the intricate carved pattern on the religious symbol.
“Your faith?”
He shakes his head.
“No. I don’t have faith. That died a long time ago. It represents the fact I’m a thief. I’ve stolen for the Pakhan on more than one occasion.”
I can’t help suppressing a little laugh that leaves my lips.
“Only caught once, though.”
“As I said, I wasn’t in charge of that particular operation. If I had been, I wouldn’t have the sunshine tattoo, I suspect.”
“You’re confident.”
“It’s justified.”
The flirting between us intensifies, and he moves his hand over to a spider inked on his right shoulder. I shudder, I’ve never been keen on creepy crawlies, especially as some of them in Mexico, I swear, are the size of small dogs. I pull my fingers off it, and he smirks.
“Not a fan.”
“No. What does that one mean? I can’t think of anything except you love Halloween.”
“No, it’s not a holiday I celebrate. Although I am scarier in the dark than most of the costumes you can buy. It means I’m an active criminal with a hand in lots of different areas.”
“Yeah. That sort of makes sense.” He allows me to trace back over to the skull, covering the sun tattoo.
“I don’t think you need to tell me what this one represents. You’ve killed.”
“A few times.”
“A few.”
“Hundred, maybe more. All for justified reasons.”
“Justified in whose head?” I purse my lips and try to pull my hand away as the thought of Oliver perched atop a pile of broken and tortured bodies enters my head. It brings bile to my throat, and I want to retch, but I know I can’t show disgust. This is all he knows.
“Justified in relation to the position I hold. The man today. He raped a fourteen-year-old girl.”
I gasp, and Oliver lets go of my hand, so I can clamp it over my mouth to hush the small whimper of remorse that escapes me for the little girl. I know what she must be feeling.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Broken.” He looks down at his trousers and flicks a piece of lint from one of the legs. At least, I hope it’s lint, given what was over his shirt. I think I need to clean this room when he goes. I don’t want to keep finding human body tissue for the next week.
“When was your first time?”
He asks me, and I can’t help but be shocked at the question.
“Why?” I question.
“I want to know,” he replies, and I can see the honesty in his eyes.
“Not much older.”
He doesn’t say anything, but turns around in his chair, and I see another tattoo on his back. This one is big and depicts the Madonna and child.
“But I thought you weren’t religious?”
“It’s nothing to do with religion in my world.”
“What does it mean?” I ask, but as soon as the question leaves my mouth, I fear the answer.
“It means I was a criminal from a young age. I told you I lost my parents at the age of eight. That’s the day I became a man. I’ve been doing this ever since, and it’s why I know nothing else. Twenty years. A lifetime for someone like me. I may have shot at my father, but I missed because my hands were shaking so much. I learned that day not to fail again, and I made my first kill at the age of nine. I was just a small boy. Hope and optimism died that day, and the monster you see before you is what replaced it.”
Tears fill me eyes when I realize what he’s telling me.
“What just happened between us doesn’t change anything does it? I’m yours – you’ve marked me, but you still won’t save me. I will die here as the Pakhan’s whore.”
“I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely remorseful, but all I can feel is anger rising within me. I’m his. I’ve fallen for this man, but he doesn’t have the guts to save me.
“Get out.”
“Amaya.” He reaches out for me.
“No.” I push his hand away. I can feel my cheeks heating with the anger. I allowed this man between my thighs. I can still feel him there, and the glorious ache of an orgasm so intense I thought I was losing my mind, but it means nothing to him. He can’t… no, he won’t save me from having to go to another man’s bed tonight if I’m ordered. He’s just like the Pakhan and my father. No, he’s worse because he lures you into believing he has compassion and is not the monster he claims himself to be. But I know the truth, now. “Get out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Get out!” I scream at him a third time. “You know what you are, Oliver Volkov. You’re not the big man, the great avtoritet you pretend to be. You’re nothing but a coward. You could stop this. You could change our fate, but you won’t because you’ve settled for the fact you’re one of them and will die a traitor’s death one day. I’ll never give myself to you again, no matter how much you say I’m yours, because it doesn’t mean a fucking thing. It’s all just words to disguise the fact that you’re the same scared eight-year-old boy they brought here all those years ago. Maybe your body grew up, but your mind didn’t. Time stopped that day, and it’s never re-started. You’re waiting for the day you die, but the reality is you’re already in hell.”
I turn away not wanting to look at him anymore. He’s not the man I thought he was, and the sight of him sickens me.
“Amaya.”
I don’t reply.
The room goes silent except for the sound of the shoes he’s wearing as they clip across the marbled floor. He stops, and I know he’s picking up his shirt. I hear my bedroom door open.
“Amaya. Please.”
I struggle to hold back the sob, threatening to erupt from me, but I don’t move.
The door closes, and I don’t need to look to know I’m alone in the room. The energy and life he filled me with has gone and with it the part of me that wanted to survive through this.
9
OLIVER
I lean casually against the wall behind me and watch as my soldiers train for combat. We’re in the gardens of the Pakhan’s home. A special area set up for this purpose. Some men are on the outside gym, lifting weights close to their body masses as they laugh and joke around in Russian. The jokes are lewd and concern the women they’ve been sleeping with, recently. Other men complete an assault course set up to test their physical prowess. They don’t laugh. No, their faces are etched deep with concentration. Each man tries to outdo the one next to him to prove he is the most elite solider. The one who’ll be at the forefront of any battle the Pakhan sends them into. I know it’s the prestige, but why anyone would want that is beyond me. A death in the line of duty for a rich and sought-after man will ensure that their families are provided for forever. In Russia, mothers and fathers push their young children into this life as a means of escaping the poverty amongst the lower classes. Nothing has changed for us since the war. Promises of a better life have not materialized. We’re still controlled by the powers in government, and they’re owned by the mafia. That’s why my family fled. They knew a better life only existed away from the walls of communist dictation.
The rapid fire of an AK-47 draws my attention to where a final group of soldiers are carrying out target practice. I somehow feel this weapon of choice is a ‘cop-out’. It requires more skill to take a man out with
a single shot, which is something I’d perfected before my tenth birthday. I always remember that particular kill. I was woken late at night, having fallen asleep the same way I always had, crying until my tiny body was exhausted from the grief it felt. I was dragged out of my bed by the now dead man who’d originally taken me. He told me I had another chance to be a man. I told him I didn’t want it and was slapped hard across the face. Another man was brought into the room who was sniveling and pleading for his life. The Pakhan’s father had brought him in and told me he had sold secrets to a rival group, and the punishment was death. It was then I realized they meant me to kill him. I shuddered at the thought but accepted the gun when it was placed into my hand. What other choice did I have? I was theirs, now, with no hope of salvation.
Scarred man and the then Pakhan both shouted at me to kill him while the other man babbled at me in Russian. I still wasn’t fluent at that stage so couldn’t understand half of it except for the words ‘I don’t want to die’. The noise flooded my head, and all I could think about was silencing it. I pointed the gun, and keeping my eyes open this time, I pulled the trigger. I didn’t miss, and the room fell silent as the condemned man died along with my humanity. I was so young, eighteen years ago. It seems like a different life. Amaya was right. I died that night alongside the man I killed. Hell on earth wasn’t just created for those around me, it also darkened my door.
Amaya – my heart starts to hurt at the thought of her and the anger radiating from her. I want to take the pain away, but I don’t know how to. They found me once. They will find us if I run with her, and the punishment will be much worse for her. They’ll hurt her beyond anything I am able to prevent them from doing at the moment. If we stay here, I can protect her from that kind of shame and agony – the type of cruelty my father couldn’t shelter my mother from. I’ve heard those sounds so often since. Every time I freeze and allow it to happen because I know nothing can stop it. I wonder if the Pakhan would allow me to buy Amaya for myself. I have more than enough money to buy her. In his eyes, she’s always been soiled goods because of what her father made her do. He keeps her for her beauty, but I don’t care what her past is. I want her for the person she’s shown to me. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Buy her and make her mine. I won’t be able to stop the Pakhan from demanding her when he wants her, but at least she’ll be safe from others.
I can feel a migraine settling in at the back of my temples. It throbs as a warning that I’m in way over my head, and I’ll be lucky if I can continue to tread water before the day is out.
“Oliver.” The Pakhan’s voice calls out across the field where he strolls toward me with a young boy at his side. The child can be no older than ten by the looks of him. His wide eyes are darting around taking everything in.
I stand up taller and greet him with a bowed head.
“Sir.”
“This is my wife’s nephew. He’s decided after recent events he wants to become a man and learn our way of life, so he can better protect his family.”
I look down to the little boy standing next to his uncle. He’s trembling like a leaf that’s dancing in the autumn winds. I know instantly this isn’t his decision. He’s been told this is what he will do. His sister’s attack has been used to drag another child into the inevitability of his future. My stomach turns in disgust, but I know I can’t voice my opinion that they should return this boy to his parents and allow him the childhood I never had.
“Of course.” The words falling from my tongue leave a bitter taste like salt before a tequila shot.
I get down on my knees in front of the child.
“Hello, my name is Oliver Volkov. I’m the avtoritet. Do you know what that means?”
He nods his little head.
“Yes, sir, it means that you’re in charge of all the men. You answer only to my uncle…um… the Pakhan.” He corrects his mistake of referring to the Pakhan as his uncle with a petrified look up at the man himself.
My boss rubs the hair on the top of the little boy’s head to show he’s proud of him for knowing how to show respect.
“I am. While you’re here, you’ll call me sir, and do as I say. Do you understand?”
The boy stands up a little taller.
“Yes, sir.”
“Show him how to shoot,” the Pakhan orders and walks over to a bench to take a seat on it. He’s wearing a full suit and looks out of place among all the soldiers in their workout clothing. I’m in black track pants and a black t-shirt. The muscles of my arms strain around the tight fabric. We must seem intimidating to the small boy. I remember my first introduction to these training fields, and the knots in my stomach from how everyone looked like giants who could squash me with a simple look in my direction. Shooting a gun was my introduction to this way of life, and it seems the boy will be inducted in the same way. At least, he doesn’t have to shoot his father…well, I hope he doesn’t.
I collect a G22 Glock from a selection of weapons and show it to the boy.
“Have you ever seen one of these before?”
He nods.
“My father has one and some of the other men who live with us.”
“Have you ever touched one or fired one?”
“No, sir. My mother doesn’t allow me near the weapons. My father calls her a typical worrying woman.”
I laugh at the comment because I can see it happening. Right before the boy’s father punches his mother in the face for smothering the boy and making him weak. It’s the way of things in this life we live. Men are vicious beasts who dominate woman with sex and violence even if they are married to them. Tender love isn’t something we indulge in.
“Your mother is right to worry, but if you’re going to protect your sister, you’re going to have to learn to use one.” I ensure the safety is on and hand it to him to hold. I know that it will be heavy in his little hands. They’ll barely stretch around the weapon. He cradles it in both hands like it’s a precious child, only, it’s not. It is a weapon that can destroy lives with one pull of the trigger.
I take it back from him, stand up, and prime it. Without looking, I point it at a nearby target board and pull the trigger. I watch him the entire time. He covers his ears at the sound of the bullet exploding from the gun and stares wide eyed when it hits the center of the target. I don’t need to look to confirm that I found my mark. I know just from the sound of the bullet penetrating the wood. It’s different in each section of the target boards. I’ve learned the sounds so thoroughly over the years. It’s the same with a bullet piercing a human. In the center of the skull is the worst. It cracks with an eerie echo that still sends shivers down my spine every time I have to unload.
“Wow!” the little boy exclaims. “No wonder you’re the avtoritet. That was amazing. I want to learn to do that. Shoot the bad guys who try to hurt my sister and mother.”
I place the gun carefully onto the table. The first thing I learned is to always consider the weapon as loaded, which most of the guns on this table will be, having been prepared by the lowest ranked soldier at the start of the training practice. I survey the collection of weapons and pick up a Glock 19. This is very much a starter gun, and I know the kick back of it shouldn’t bother the boy too much if he’s prepared for it.
I hold it out to him, but when he goes to grab it, I pull it back. He looks at me fearfully.
“Did I do something wrong, sir?”
“Rules first,” I inform him. “First, never aim it at a person you don’t want to shoot. Any weapon you hold must be treated as loaded and ready to fire. If you were to point it at someone you love, and you make an error of judgement, there is a risk that it could go off. Second, keep your finger off the trigger, unless you are preparing to take a shot. Someone spooks you, and you accidentally press down on it, then bang. You could make a large dent in the skull of someone you didn’t intend to. Finally, consider not only your target but also what is behind it as well. Bullets can go through bodies if they are shot at the right an
gle and don’t imbed in bone. You shoot someone standing in front of your sister, and it could go through your target and into her as well. You don’t want that.” The little boy gulps and stares at the weapon like it’s suddenly grown hairy wings and sharp teeth and will bite him if he gets too close.
“Yes, sir,” he stutters, and I’m pretty certain if I listened closely I’d hear the sound of his knees knocking together with terror. I’m back in his shoes, remembering the fear I felt, how much my hands shook, and the noises my stomach made as it gurgled and protested at what I was about to do. I shift my gaze over to the Pakhan. He’s staring intently at the interaction between us.
“Would it not be better to build his muscles up a little bit, first?” The question leaves my mouth before I have a chance to register I’ve asked it. I know instantly from the furrowed brows on my boss’ face that he doesn’t appreciate me examining his judgement.
“Do as instructed, Oliver,” he replies tersely, and I dip my head in acknowledgement.
“I promise I’m ready for this, sir,” the little boy pleads with me and schools the worry from his face.
“Of course, you are. You have a great uncle who has instilled the need to protect what is yours into you.” This time, as the words leave my mouth, I know I sound like a creep, but they come naturally. It’s been programmed into me. In a few years, this boy will be the same. I inwardly smirk, who am I kidding? He’s that way already, which is why, at eight years old, he’s out here playing with real guns instead of fake ones on computer games.
I hand him the weapon, and he plants both of his feet solidly on the ground before taking aim at the target. He looks.
“Nothing behind the target, sir,” he advises.
“Good,” I reply and show him how to prepare the weapon to fire. He goes to put his finger on the trigger but remembers the rules I gave him, at the last moment, and rests it elsewhere. “The weapon will give kick back. It’ll shock you, at first. Try to keep your feet planted to ensure your aim stays true, and you don’t fire in the wrong direction.
