Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7)

by Latrivia Welch

  Right out of the gate, Dmitry swung, his blade making a swishing sound through the air as its shiny tip aimed toward Yuri’s bald, sweaty head. But Yuri dodged the swing and countered with one of his own, barely missing Dmitry’s exposed abdomen with his knife.

  Seeing the move before the man could even make it, Dmitry jumped back, sucking in his abdomen, feeling the heat of the crowded bodies behind him and the missed blade in front of him.

  As he moved away from the weapon, Dmitry relaxed his lithe body, used his narrow hips to generate enough force and then swung a powerful, perfect right hook, connecting with Yuri’s leather-like, most-unattractive face. His rigid knuckles shattered the brawler’s glass jaw, breaking bones and creating permanent damage as he followed through with his sculpted right arm.

  The crowd gave a collective moan. That had to hurt!

  Yuri’s head suddenly spun around, brain rattling around in his skull from the trauma. Fighting his body’s natural urge to go into a temporary state of paralysis, he tried to push back the doubts that suddenly emerged in himself about his chances of winning. After all, fortune favored the bold!

  But the young Dmitry had seen the same response a thousand times in his adversaries when he unleashed the fury - denial. They all ignored the hemorrhaging of their brains and the concussions he had caused, all ignored the physical warning signs their bodies gave before he mentally broke them and finally killed them. No one wanted to accept that a boy of his age was capable of such treachery. But it wasn’t his fault that they were foolish. One should never underestimate the person standing in front of them. It wasn’t a new concept – Master Sun had taught that. ‘He who exercises no forethought but makes light of his opponents is sure to be captured by them.’

  Consider yourself captured…

  Dmitry’s evil smirk widened in satisfaction, even as he bobbed and weaved like a seasoned boxer, awaiting Yuri’s next amateur move. What next? Scratching? Such an inexperienced brawler used to other inexperienced opponents should not have talked so loud to Boss Popov, a man whose life’s work had been to perfect the act of violence.

  In the sparsely lit room drowning with stench and noise, Dmitry diamond blue eyes sparkled like a wolf stalking his prey. In this place, he was truly at home – in his element, comfortable and relaxed. He could have pounced right then, or he could have landed a temple blow just a few seconds before to knock the desperate man out before he dispatched him forever, but Dmitry felt it would be poor sportsmanship to end the bout in the first two minutes. His audience deserved a show courtesy of the Vory v Zakone. So, he’d give them one they’d never forget.

  Knocked backwards a few feet, Yuri spit out two bloody molars and shook off the pain as best he could. Fucker! He quickly squared his shoulders again, fists up in front of him in a protective stance and vision tunneled on the giant. His adrenaline spiked as he planted his feet, determined not to look like an ass in front of all his peers. Death would be better than that.

  “That all you got boy?” Yuri taunted in mock indignation, biting down on his bruised bottom lip.

  Men huddled body-against-body in the small space, excited for the fight that many had bet on throughout the day, waiting to see who would reign as the victor. But tonight was not an underdog success story in the making. Most came knowing who would win before the towel dropped. Others would soon learn.

  I have to get in his head, Yuri strategized, realizing the boy’s strength was beyond his own. His dark brows furrowed in thought. “How does it feel to know that you’re going to die for a feeble old man who isn’t strong enough to fight for himself?” Yuri spit another mouth-full of blood on the floor. Blade tight in his hand, neck muscles protruding out, he tried made another unsuccessful swing. Still, he continued with his taunting. “I bet you’ve never even had your first nut, and you’re going to die for a man who has no balls!”

  Dmitry’s right eye twitched, but he didn’t bother with words. The energy he would spend to form a complete sentence to insult Yuri would be better spent killing him.

  “Back up!” the trustee screamed at the crowd, pushing men away from the fighters. “Give them some fucking room, or I’ll run every one of you through!” he screamed, pulling a knife from his pants.

  Yuri had already sized Dmitry up. He was a tall boy, still growing even though he was already obscene and because of that, awkward in his movements. He knew it was impossible because of Dmitry’s size to reach his face with a lucky jab, but the boy’s long, carved core was another thing all together. There, he could put in work and possibly break the giant down.

  With each unsuccessful punch that was not landed in front of the dick measuring crowd who commentated from only a few feet behind him, Yuri learned Dmitry’s unorthodox fighting style. There was no rhythm to the teen’s madness. He was a Southpaw, quick on his feet, even quicker with his hands. His weight didn’t hold him back, and he seemed to have no fear. In all, it was best to take him by surprise.

  Yuri hated the boy, hated him for his beauty, for his youth and his allegiance to Alexander Popov and all his kind. He hated being here in this infested, disease-ridden hell hole away from his family. Hated the food he was forced to suck down along with his pride. Hated the oppression not only by the guards but by the gangs. Hated not being able to smell the wind off the shore, hated not being able to make an honest day’s wages, hated not being able to breathe in fresh air, free air. Hated the control he had lost because of ONE FUCKING NIGHT!

  Killing Dmitry would be the ultimate victory. Killing this symbol would prove that he and the other men were no less than the Vory v Zakone brotherhood. Emotions consuming him, Yuri’s face reddened more as his thoughts assailed him. Snarling like a dog, he lunged wildly toward Dmitry, knife pointed, ready for anything.

  “Aghhh!” Yuri screamed as he barreled toward Dmitry in a sprint. His battle cry rumbled like the thunder outside beating at the walls of the prison, mingling with the jarring cheer of the men.

  Dmitry’s eyes widened, realizing he would have to take the impact of the man’s blow. His body tensed, making his muscles more elastic has he planted one foot forward, the other squarely behind him.

  Yuri crashed into Dmitry with the force of three men – determined to take him out quickly. “Now I’ve got you, you son of a bitch!”

  Dmitry looked down, watching Yuri’s wild eyes, his teeth clenched together, sweat pouring from his bald head as they fell backward. Still, he did not say a word. Although, they both grunted loudly in the struggle.

  The crowd parted, afraid of the retaliation from the trustee and his men. No one dared touch the pair.

  With all his barbaric strength, Yuri pushed Dmitry into the wall behind them, knocking the air from Dmitry’s lungs. Pinning the boy against the shower, he tried to press his knife into Dmitry’s tender flesh in between his muscled abs and his belly button. If he could just get him there, he’d own his ass.

  Trembling as he held Yuri’s weapon at bay only inches from his stomach, Dmitry caught Yuri’s wrist before he could follow through and pulled the man’s knifed hand away from his belly out into the air, extending Yuri’s arm and rendering him useless until he was forced to drop the weapon.

  Seeing an opportunity, Dmitry buried his mouth into the column of Yuri’s exposed neck. No rules. No mercy. His teeth clenched down as hard as he could on Yuri’s sweaty skin. Hearing the man scream out in broken agony, he took a large chunk from the man’s flesh and snatched it away. Spitting the mass on the floor, disgusted by the rank taste of hot blood and iron that mingled on his tongue, Dmitry watched as Yuri’s eyes, as big as grapefruits, flitted in surprise.

  Instinctively, Yuri stepped back with blurred vision, putting his hand over his gaping wound. Blood from his injury dripped from the young boy’s mouth as he advanced. Suddenly, Dmitry took on his true form, a killer without restraint.

  What kind of monster is this? Yuri thought to himself.

  Quickly, Dmitry raised his right leg and kicked Yuri squarel
y in his chest, sending him backward onto the hard, dirty floor. The thud was audible, even above the men’s cheers.

  Yuri slid across the slick tiles, blood gushing from his neck. He could see the faces of men above him who screamed for him to get up and others who screamed for Dmitry to finish him off. His hands were covered in his own blood, drenched the warmth of his life as it exited his body. Oh God, I’m going to die, he thought to himself in fear.

  With eyes intense and lips pursed, Dmitry strode over to the man, his heavy foot falls echoing. He picked up Yuri’s knife, grabbed Yuri by his bare foot, raising him to a 90-degree angle like a pig for slaughter. And in one quick motion, without the slightest hesitation, he swiped the serrated blade across Yuri’s Achilles heel, cutting through tendons and flesh and preventing him from standing. The blood from the wound spirted out over Dmitry’s chest.

  “Mercy!” Yuri screamed out, realizing for the first time, that he was truly unmatched. Bile rushed up from his empty stomach, grasping that in all the chaos that he had not heard the killer’s voice even once. It was a horrid thing to die in such a way, to be defeated by someone so cold. And in that moment, he was regretful of killing the two men at the bar. He was regretful of everything. He just wanted to go home, he wanted a do-over. He wanted to take back the words he had said to Alexander Popov.

  Yuri choked on his blood and at the same time looked up at the boy who held him in his clutches. Pushing a palm against the cold surface, he fought to get free, but Dmitry used his injured foot to flip him over on his chest.

  It was clear that the fight was nearly over before it could start. The crowd’s roar lowered to an uncomfortable grumble as Dmitry planted a knee in Yuri’s wide, meaty back. Without theatrics, he gripped the man’s bald head with one hand and pulled it back.

  Eyes averted to the men who stood only feet from him, Yuri accepted his fate, but begged again. “Have mercy…” he managed to gurgle. He wondered if the men he had killed had begged for the same.

  But Dmitry was as numb to the man’s words as he was to his own actions. This was his job – nothing more. He leaned into Yuri’s ear allowing him to hear his voice for the first time.

  “You mean like you were going to have mercy on me?” he asked Yuri. Mechanically raising his right hand up in the air, he came down and planted the sharp blade in the back of Yuri’s neck where his spinal cord started and where Yuri’s pain ended once and for all. Just to make sure the deed was done per the rules, he pulled the knife from Yuri’s back and sliced his throat. Blood splattered on the floor, making a crimson mess.

  The small room fell completely silent as Dmitry rose from the corpse. He cast a glare out at the spectators, face and body covered in his chaotic sin. As far as he was concerned, they were as guilty as he by bearing witness. His blue eyes blazing with years of fury. His chest swelled with each heaved breath. Stepping away from Yuri’s body, he wiped the blood from his hands and nodded toward the other Vory in the room. They could get word now to Popov that his will was now done.

  The referee emerged from the corner and called the fight. One man had died. One man had lived. “The butcher has won again!” he screamed.

  Everyone cheered, except Dmitry. He looked down at the limp body on the floor and felt bored. He had been killing for years now, and not once had it brought him any joy. This was simply the work that he had been forced to do, because he had no other skills.

  The referee raised Dmitry’s bloody hand like they were in an arena fit for gladiators and to many, this was the closest they would ever get to the real thing. They cheered him on while Dmitry thought to himself that, yet another man had met his untimely fate at his hands, not because of the conflict between them, but because he was the best the brotherhood had to offer. That grim reminder was slowly killing him inside. He didn’t want to be this for the rest of his life. He was more than just THE BUTCHER.

  News arrived to Alexander Popov and his younger brother, Peter, of their newest success before Yuri Orlov’s mangled body could be properly disposed of – a process which included hacking up the remains into tiny pieces and feeding them to the guard dogs in a special gravy stew.

  Dmitry Medlov, in all his glory, had won yet another bout in the name of the bratva, and he had done so flawlessly – with barely a scratch on him. Right now, his name was on every convict’s lips in the prison, and their stories would elevate his rank even higher than it already was. It was a dubious distinction to be exalted, especially when the act that led to that praise was commissioned by such high-ranking officers of the Vory.

  After the guards had left upon delivering their message, the two brothers sat quietly, relishing in the fact that they remained on top of the prison food chain uncontested by the larger mass of commoners who outnumbered them.

  Both men were pleased. It was hard enough to manage their own men, but to lose the favor of the commoners and thereby their collective fear, would place the older members of the Vory in a compromised position. However, they had little time to enjoy their triumph.

  Along with the news of the fight had come word of a more disturbing development outside of the prison walls. The Popov territory in Kopotnya, one of the poorest areas but most profitable of their Moscow purview, was being poached by another crime family. If something was not done soon, all they had worked for would be threatened, and all the money that they still depended on would be gone.

  It was what every imprisoned crime lord feared – to be dethroned by absence of presence. And a war over territory was never good. It pulled too many soldiers off their posts on the street and disrupted normal business, thus impacting cash flow, which was why the Vory v Zakone looked down on internal conflict. Plus, few men would enlist to fight for the Popov empire now that they were incarcerated. What would be the incentive?

  Alexander had sent a communication to his men in Moscow via the guards to expect orders soon, but he knew that his message would have to be just as powerful as the one he had sent to Yuri Orlov – maybe more powerful – in order to keep his respect. Weakness could not be tolerated – not at any rank, not at any time.

  In an overcrowded prison filled with cells packed with double occupants forced to sleep on the floor or makeshift cots, the Popov men were assigned a clean, quiet cell to themselves. Listening to the radio, they mulled over their situation and shared a tray of mini-breads and pickles, nearly immune from the horrific treatment and rigors of prison life.

  “I have an idea,” Alexander said to his brother as he clipped his toenails. How he wished for a pedicure after so many years inside this place. The sound of thick alpha-keratin cracking under the pressure of the stainless-steel clipper filled through the room with its distinctive clicks. He wiggled his toes and curled his legs inward to get a better view of his feet. “About that situation we have with Sacha.” He clipped again, this time releasing a sigh when the middle nail appeared jagged. There was a time he had a girl to do this. She would handle all his hygiene needs, among other things if so ordered, but now he was relegated to doing his own tasks; and the older he got, the harder it was.

  “I’m listening, brat,” the salt-and-pepper haired Peter answered in a serene voice from the top bunk as he inwardly snarled at a picture on the front page of Gorbachev kissing the German hardliner Erick Honecker at the 40th anniversary celebrations for the G.D.R.

  It was heresy as far as Peter was concerned. The Popov men had always been old school. They still remembered World War II and Nazis soldiers trying to storm the country. Time had not healed that wound. The Germans were mad dogs in need of muzzles, and Mother Russia was falling apart under its premier’s leadership.

  The only reason he and his brother were here in this rathole was because of the KGB – fucking government, fucking police. The KGB had first offered the Popov brothers a chance to leave the country with exit visas to Israel under the guise of releasing Jews (even though they were not), which then would allow them to immigrate the U.S. – a land of milk and honey unprepared for the
likes of their brotherhood.

  It was all part of Gorbachev’s scheme to rid the Soviet Union of their organized crime element. The deal would allow them to start anew as long as they allowed a Soviet spy to go with them, pretending to be a cousin, in order to advance the country’s other pursuits.

  But neither of the men wanted to leave their country or the businesses that they had built. And neither of them wanted a spy embedded with them for the rest of their lives – reporting back to the Kremlin like the snakes that they were. It violated their very principles and more than anything else, their code.

  After all else failed, the KGB found a way to bring them up on charges, ironically convicted for the same practices that had helped keep the country viable for years. Alexander was sentenced to life for his part in the organization. Peter received twenty years. Ten were still left on his bid.

  Clueless to his brother’s silent agitation, Alexander continued with his hygiene regimen, even as a discarded toenail shot across the room and landed on the floor. He grunted. “What we need is a real show of power, something that others think to be impossible,” Alexander said, a grin tugging at his lips. “It’s clear that some of our brothers and most of our enemies feel we are out of sight, out of mind. But if our name is to ever carry the power it once did, we cannot allow this to happen.”

  No shit. Peter was not in the mood to hear the obvious stated and prayed his brother had more to offer.

  “Tonight’s victory has given me great revelation,” Alexander said with hope.

  With sudden animation, Peter sat up against his pillow and closed his paper. “Go on,” he urged, giving his full attention.

  “It’s clear that Dmitry Medlov has promise, but if he does every year that the Kremlin has given him, he’ll be an old, used up man by the time he sees anything outside of these bars. And let’s be clear, by then, he won’t be of use to anyone – not even himself.” Alexander stopped cutting his nails and averted his eyes toward the top bunk. “What if we arranged for him to get an early release and go take care of problem in Kopotnya. We would prove to those who might question our authority that we still have the power to rule and to those who would move against us…”