“Please excuse me, Uncle. I don’t mean to offend you with this question, but this seems out of character,” I begin cautiously. “Doesn’t this business directly violate your rules?”
Viktor explained the vory code to me when I started working with him as a teenager. Since I’ve never been to prison, I can’t claim the title. It’s a generation of criminals that has impressive power now—especially with their influence on government officials, but they’re losing steam to the new gangsters, the ones who don’t follow any code at all. Rising up in organized crime under his wing means I’ve had his protection and his power. I earned my position, but I can’t deny I’ve had opportunities because of him.
“I’m no longer attached to the business, Kirya. It will be yours and you are not vory.”
After all these years, he is still providing for me. The father I never had.
He has given his family the best life we could possibly have, while still keeping us under the radar to the criminal activity he’s involved in and the company he keeps. We lived in communal housing assigned by my mother’s employer, but we had access to things no one else in our apartment could get.
When my grandparents got tired of living in the city, he moved them into an enormous dacha 130 kilometers northwest of Moscow. It was a beautiful two-story house with marble floors and columns. Not long after, I left the apartment to go to university, leaving my mother in a room that was once shared by four of us. For a few years, she felt like a queen.
“What if they don’t accept my services?”
“Don’t worry about that. We have a hundred Slavas and Igors we can send to change their mind.”
* * *
As the cab weaves through crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan toward the restaurant my uncle bought me, excitement builds like a balloon, getting bigger and bigger as we approach. As soon as we step inside, it deflates.
I spin around, taking in the bland, outdated décor and dilapidated furniture. Everything looks like it’s covered with a layer of dirt bleach won’t even wipe away. I can’t believe this restaurant hasn’t been shut down by the health department. “This place needs a lot of work.”
“I have faith that you can bring it back to its glory, Kirya.” He shoves a photo album into my chest. The cover is a deep red with The Russian Dining Room in scrolling gold script.
My jaw drops as I flip through the pages. Inside, photos capture a formerly breathtaking space, whimsical and bold, highlighting the excess and grandeur of Imperial Russia. It’s a complete one eighty from the boring, bland room surrounding us. It looks as if someone came through and stole every piece of rich Russian character. “This doesn’t even look like the same place. What happened to it?”
“It fell on hard times over the last few years. Someone bought it and did this.” He spits on the floor. “I believe their mission was to change it completely. But I couldn’t have them get rid of a historic gem like this, could I? When their financing fell through, I scooped it up.”
“We need a beautiful space like this to gather in the city. Think of the parties we can hold here.”
Despite having the historical proof in my hands, it’s hard to imagine this was ever a place people wanted to gather.
I toss the album on to the bar. “I’m not a designer.”
“True, but I know you appreciate a challenge. You’re smart enough to figure out how to bring it back. You have the kind of mind that can merge the most interesting parts of Russian culture and cuisine into a profitable restaurant. It’ll be a sparkling gem again.”
“I appreciate the confidence.”
“Plus, it’s another way to get you to New York.”
“You really want me here?”
“Want is not the right word, Kirya. I need you here.”
“I have business in Moscow.”
“You will phase that out over the next year while you are recruiting clients,” he tells me. Then he walks toward the door. “Come on. Your mother’s cursing us right now.”
I nod and follow him through the front door to West 57th Street. “When I was a boy, if you would have told me I was going to be a sports agent and a restaurateur in New York City, I would have laughed at you.”
“Why? I always told you that you could be anything you wanted to be.”
“I wanted to be like you.”
“Don’t strive for that, Kirya! You are a much, much better human than I will ever be.”
The entire course of my life changed in the last twenty-four hours. I never saw a future outside of organized crime—didn’t care about that kind of future unless I had freedom. Now, I’m the owner of two legit businesses. I’ve never been so excited to get back to Moscow so I can prepare to leave for good.
* * *
When we get back to Viktor’s apartment in Brighton Beach, Mama tells me I have an urgent message from Slava.
When I call back, he answers immediately despite the six-hour time difference.
“What’s wrong?” I ask without greeting.
“Kravtsov’s defection is big news, Kirya,” he says. “KGB is watching the family already. And Igor overheard one of Sobakin’s goons today at the market, talking about taking the sister.”
Fuck!
“I have the first flight out tomorrow morning. Have Igor get some guys to watch Sobakin’s men and Kravtsov’s family. But I want you on the sister, Slava. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“What about KGB?”
“Fuck those pussies!”
KGB is annoying, but not an organization I fear anymore. My main concern is Stasya. Before we parted ways at JFK Airport yesterday, I made Ivan Kravtsov a promise and I intend to keep it.
5
Stasya
Moscow – 7 May 1989
The Central Scarlet Army’s training baza is in the middle of nowhere. I’m not supposed to know where it is—not even player’s wives are supposed to know—but Vanya called me once after a particularly strenuous workout. He said he was worried that he’d die out there and he wanted someone to be able to find him.
It’s early afternoon when I reach the base. I left work after lunch because I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take me to get there after I got off the metro. It ended up being a mile walk, then another half-mile up a long, grassy road to the complex. My feet hurt and I’m completely out of breath when I reach the gate.
“I need to speak to Lieutenant Morozov,” I tell the guard. “It’s an emergency.”
“Emergency? What kind of emergency?” he asks. His dark eyes assess me under his military cap. A red Soviet star with a yellow hammer and sickle in the middle sparkles like a gem.
I bite my tongue. I can’t divulge that I came to ask Dima about Vanya or I’ll be hauled off for questioning.
“It’s a personal matter,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes locked on nothing in particular over his shoulder, averting his gaze. Slowly, I bring my hands to my belly and cradle it with my hands.
His eyebrows furrow as he shifts his gaze from my face to my stomach. Then, as if a lightbulb goes off, he grunts and nods. “I’ll get him.”
If there’s a law about lying to an officer, I’m definitely getting locked up. But I couldn’t care less at this point. Life in Russia without my brother is a jail sentence anyway.
A few minutes later, I hear Dmitri’s footsteps coming fast and loud as he runs toward the gate. “Anastasiya!” he calls out. He’s breathing hard when he gets to me. “What’s going on? Peshkov said you’re—”
“Dima! What happened? Where’s Vanya?” I ask desperately.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down, Stasya!” He glances over his shoulder as if he’s being followed, but the guard is nowhere in sight. “What are you doing here? Peshkov said you’re pregnant.”
“What else could I say that would allow him to let you out here to talk to me?”
A wave of relief crosses his face, but then he seems worried again. “You can’t be here, Stasya. It’s not safe. They’re que
stioning everyone.” His eyes implore me to leave, but I can’t—I won’t—until I find out what he knows about my brother.
“Everyone is so worried about my safety—and I’m worried about Vanya. What happened?” I plead. “Where is he?”
“He’s gone!” Dmitri says harshly.
“Did you know?” I ask again, balling my fists at my side as I fight back the tears. My voice gets higher, sorrow filling every word. “When we were all waiting for the train, talking like it was any other day, did you know that I’d never see my brother again?”
“You being here is dangerous, Anastasiya!” he pleads with me. “Not just for you—but all of us.” He presses a finger to his lips and tilts his head, as if listening for something or someone. “If they see me talking to you—” He trails off.
“How can you be so cold?” I ask, grief cracking my voice. Rage pumps adrenaline through my veins and I pound on his chest until I collapse against him, my forehead falling onto the silver zipper of his red training jacket.
“Take your hands off me this minute.” He grabs my wrists and pushes me from his chest. “Ivan Mikhailovich is a traitor to his country. I have nothing else to say about the deserter. Now please leave the premises before you are escorted away,” he says through clenched teeth.
A large, uniformed man hurries toward Dmitri and I. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant,” I mock Dmitri.
Swallowing back anger and tears, I spin around and run as fast as I can. My heart pounds, pumping anger through my veins.
* * *
Dmitri Sergeyevich Morozov is dead to me.
Considering our personal history, it’s an easy decision to make, but today’s interaction sealed my hatred.
I rush down the stairs of the metro to catch the next train with tears streaming down my face. The platform is so congested, I have to elbow my way through the doors. There will be another one in a few minutes, but it’s Friday night and waiting won’t make a difference. Either way, I’ll be fighting the crowd; the people wearing drab, gray work clothes, on their way home for the day, or those with slight pops of color, dressed up to go out for the evening.
Maybe that’s what I should do. When I get home, maybe I should get dressed up, call my friend, Svetlana, and ask her to meet me at the discotheque. Maybe dancing to Victor Tsoi’s latest song is just what I need to help me drown away the pain of Dmitri’s cold indifference when I asked him about my brother’s defection to America.
The train jolts abruptly before heaving forward as it leaves the station. I plant my feet firmly for balance and tighten my grip on the bar overhead. I haven’t stopped crying since I left the Central Scarlet Army training base. Thankfully, anyone who’s glanced my way has quickly averted their gaze. I close my eyes and take deep breath, wiping away tears with the back of my free hand.
All I wanted was some answers. My twin brother, Ivan—Vanya—who has shared everything with me since the womb, defected to the United States after a tournament in Sweden. Despite being so close, he never uttered one word about it before he left. I thought going to Dmitri, his best friend on the CSA hockey team, would help me understand how Vanya could have kept such a huge secret from me. But the arrogant coward refused to reveal he knew.
They were roommates. Friends! Was he not concerned or, at the very least, inquisitive when Vanya packed his bags and left?
Dmitri said he’s scared. He’s scared.
My family is being treated like criminals—being followed and questioned by the KGB—because of Vanya’s desertion, and Dmitri is scared.
To be afraid is normal, but when a lieutenant in the military is a coward? That’s unacceptable. Those in a position of power who have the ability to help must rise up. Despite any feelings I had for him previously, I have no use for a chicken like him in my life.
When the train stops at Aviamotornaya station, I feel so numb and disoriented, it’s as if the crowd is carrying me out the doors and up the stairs. I’ve walked home from here so many times, I do it on autopilot.
Vanya used to scold me for walking home alone because the streets have gotten colder and darker over the last few years. Not because of the weather, but because of the criminals and the violence they bring.
Mafia is everywhere, but I’m not scared. Gangs kill for money, power, and greed—they want something that someone else has.
I have nothing.
Besides, the Bratva—brotherhood—is the least of my concerns. I have more to fear right in my own home. Ever since Mama died, I’ve become the lone target of my father’s anger and violence. Up until today, we had Vanya’s hockey accomplishments to talk about and celebrate. Bright stability in the chaos. Now, we have nothing—just the bleak reality that he left us all behind.
For years, my brother swore he’d take me with him if he ever got the chance to live in America. He promised me again just a few weeks ago, minutes before he left for his most recent hockey tournament.
And now he’s gone. And I’m here, stuck amid chaos and instability unlike anything I’ve ever lived through before in Russia.
At least life under communism was stable—boring, but stable.
The KGB has already harassed Papa, Babushka, and half of the other families who live in our apartment, asking them what they knew about Vanya’s defection. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.
The thought of a KGB interrogation makes my stomach lurch. Though I rarely drink, I may join my father at the table with a glass of vodka tonight. I need something to numb the anger, betrayal, and heartbreak stewing for Vanya.
The concentrated gasoline smell permeates the air. With the influx of vehicles over the last few years, I don’t usually notice, but anxiety makes my sensitive stomach bubble with every inhale.
I’ve just crossed Aviamotornaya Ulitsa when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a rusty Vaz creeping up the street. My jaw twitches involuntarily. Feeling a bit stupid for being nervous of an old car, I nuzzle my chin into my scarf and keep my gaze forward until it passes.
The loud rev of an engine makes me jump. A shiny, black sedan speeds past and screeches to a stop a few meters ahead of me. My legs shake and I stumble over an uneven crack in the sidewalk. Vaz is a common brand here, but black BMWs are only driven by mafia. Being stuck in the middle of crossfire between two gangs was not how I expected the day to end, but it makes total sense, considering how the rest of it has gone.
I hold my breath, watching intensely as the sedan’s driver and passenger doors fling open at the same time, and two men covered in black head-to-toe jump out and sprint toward me. My heart thumps in beat with their heavy footsteps pounding the concrete, getting louder as they get closer.
Swallowing back fear, I increase my speed and move to the side, giving the men space to get wherever they’re going. Suddenly, the taller of the two clasps his thick arms around me and starts dragging me toward the car. The other crouches down, grabs the bag I dropped, and sprints to the driver’s side.
“No!” I scream as I kick my feet and fight to free myself. “Stop!”
It’s a futile effort. There’s no one on the road other than the Vaz, and the people inside know better than to try to stop mafia.
I stretch my legs to the ground, dragging my feet in an attempt to slow him down, but instead of have any effect, my shoes scrape against the sidewalk and one falls off. He tightens his grip and lifts me into the air.
When we get to the car, he yanks the door open and shoves me in face-first before slamming the door shut. It jars my feet, propelling my body forward and sending my cheek sliding across the seat.
“Please!” I cry out. “Please don’t do this!” My clammy palms slip on the leather as I try to claw myself upright.
Instead of respond, the passenger spins around and leans forward. Cold sweat beads on my forehead as I scramble backward, pressing my spine against the seat. He wedges himself between the two front seats, grabs a fistful o
f hair, and pulls me toward him. I shake my head violently, but it his grip doesn’t loosen, and my jerky movements enhance the pain.
With skill, he wraps rope around my wrists, pulling it tight before making a complicated knot. When he’s finished, he looks up. Icy blue eyes peer at me through the opening of the black balaclava masking his face.
When I gasp, he slams a foul-smelling rag against my mouth and I involuntarily ingest whatever’s on the cloth. Only one thought runs through my head before everything goes black.
I know those eyes.
6
Stasya
Despite there being no light in the room, it burns to open my eyes. Blinking isn’t any better. My head pounds. My throat stings. My eyelids flutter shut.
The next time I wake up, my head still hurts, but at least I can keep my eyes open. I lift my cheek from the freezing floor and struggle to sit up. I’d started to wake from the effects of whatever drug was on the rag they stuffed in my mouth when the tall man shoved me into the room. I slipped and fell face-first. Because my hands are tied, I couldn’t properly brace the fall. Bashing my head on the floor is the last thing I remember.
Maybe it wasn’t mafia, as I originally thought. Maybe it’s KGB, taking me in for questioning about Vanya’s defection. But why would they be wearing masks? KGB don’t have to hide. They think it’s within their authority to haul people away, no face protection necessary.
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 5
