Though he might have only been twenty-one-years old, Mishca Volkov had seen many things in his short life, more than he should have really. Though it could be said, a few of those awful things had been committed by his own hand.
Since he was a boy, he had learned what it meant to lose someone you loved, learned that while his life may have been one of luxury and comfort for a spell, there was a price to pay for all of those things. He knew his family was different from others, not because of their financials, but because of the men that frequented the manor that had been his childhood home.
For as long as he could remember, there had always been men wearing suits and carrying guns coming to meet with his father in the dead of night, all of them treating Mishca with the same respect his father received.
He might not have known why this was at the time, but he had learned to accept it as his due.
By the time he was sixteen, Mishca had learned the true nature of his father’s business and the role that he would one day play. That wasn’t to say it would be handed to him freely.
It didn’t matter that his father was the Pakhan—the Boss—of the Volkov Bratva, an extension of the Vory v Zakone, or Russian Mafia. To earn his title as Captain, he had to work for it, and work in their world involved fear and bloodshed. He had quickly begun making a name for himself, though it was still closely tied to his father’s, but the day he turned eighteen, he was given a job that awarded him the stars on his chest and a second pair on his knees.
When he had entered that smoky basement, ready to accept the marks of the Bratva, he was not as eager as some would have been in his position. After all, these stars were like a birthright to him. No, by this point, especially with what he had needed to do to earn them, he had begun to resent the life he had been given, even if it had found a way to dig itself under his skin.
Since that night, he had acquired a small fortune and actually begun to manage his own crew of sorts, even at his young age. Some thought he would not be a good leader. He didn’t have their level of experience—namely the number of anonymous bodies left in morgues without fingers or toes or teeth—but they couldn’t help but respect him.
If there was nothing else he required of them, it was their respect.
In his lower Manhattan apartment, Mishca lay on his back in the king-sized bed, completely naked, a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair on her knees at the foot of the bed, expertly taking his cock into her mouth. His scarred fingers were entangled in her hair, helping her along though with her talents, she didn’t need it. Perhaps it was because he’d been drinking a bottle of Vodka over the last hour that this was doing nothing for him.
Naomi knew this, but she often liked to use sex to bend him to her will. He could admit that after their first encounter in the Manhattan Public Library, back when he was still in school, her charms had worked on him and he had soon found himself under her spell, but Mishca hadn’t been raised a fool. Soon he realized just what she was trying to get from him. He knew at some point he would have to be rid of her, but until that day came, he would enjoy her.
His Blackberry chimed incessantly where it lay on the nightstand. Though Naomi made to protest, pouting up at him, he ignored the look and grabbed his phone, answering as it was starting on its third ring.
“Yeah?” He spoke in Russian, never wanting to talk business when Naomi was in the room.
“We need a meeting…now. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Without saying anything more, Mishca’s driver and bodyguard, Vlad, hung up. For as long as Mishca could remember, Vlad had been in his life, acting not just as an employee, but as a confidante as well. And more recently, his second-hand. If he was calling a meeting, it had to be important.
Pushing Naomi off him, he headed into the closet, only stumbling once, dressing as quickly as he could. After punching in the combination to the safe, pulling out his gun, and closing it back, he reentered his bedroom.
Watching him from her new position on the bed, eyes glittering with awareness, Naomi was quickly over her sulking. Sometimes Mishca forgot she got off on that shit.
“I’ll call you after.”
That was all she ever got nowadays. The ‘I love yous’ had stopped a long time ago.
He took the elevator down to the lobby, not surprised to see Vlad already waiting for him next to Mishca’s pride and joy, a black S-class Mercedes. The man was nearly as tall as Mishca, but with broader shoulders and graying hair. Vlad was at least two decades his senior, and yet, he still hadn’t made it any higher in the organization.
In this, Mishca understood his privilege.
“What’s the problem?” Mishca asked as he slipped into the backseat, Vlad entering the front.
“I got a call—not sure from who. He only said to tell my boss, ‘his brother is dead,’ then gave me an address—hung up after. But when I had someone trace it, it had come from a payphone, so not a lot of luck there.”