by Box Set
“The Pakhan trusted and respected you — you let him down. Nobody does that. You know what happens now.” I pull my gun from the back of my black suit trousers. They match the slacks that the man tied to the chair in front of me wears. I first wore a suit the day after they murdered my parents. It was this man who put me in it. A little boy of eight years old constricted by ill-fitting attire and stripped of the last remnants of childhood. I’ve worn little else since, except training gear when I work out, but I don’t think I even own a pair of jeans to lounge around in. My wardrobe comprises of dark colored suits followed by a row of white shirts. Where once they didn’t fit me, now, they are tailored to my muscular body and harmonize like a second skin. My uniform of destruction.
I hand him the gun, but he doesn't take it. He looks up at me with confusion on his face.
“I’m repaying the favor.” I snarl with my lip curled up into a malicious grin. He instantly knows what I mean and takes the gun and points it at his temple and pulls the trigger. The coward’s way out, or it would be if the weapon had bullets in it. He sags down and drops the gun with a metallic clunk onto the floor.
“I'll never make it that easy for you. No, I’ll enjoy every minute of this. I’m going to make you scream for death by the time I’ve finished with you. You once showed me no mercy, and that’s the favor I’m now repaying.” The other boyevik, or soldier, in the room steps forward and hands me an axe.
“Bit by bit.” He adds with his own malevolent pleasure. I don’t know his story – I don’t care for it, either. All I know is the condemned man in front of us has destroyed our lives in equal measure, and this is revenge for us both.
“Hold his hand out.” I order, being his senior following long years of service.
My compatriot does as instructed, and I bring the axe down on scarred man’s wrist and sever his hand from his body in one blow. He screams in agony, but it does nothing to me. It doesn’t penetrate the thick exterior I’ve built up around me over the years. Little brings a reaction out of me these days. It’s as if my heart stopped beating long ago – cold and dead.
My assistant’s holding the now lifeless hand within his own. He looks toward the fire in the corner of the dank room we’re in, which is at the bottom of my Pakhan’s house. It’s way down where nobody can hear us – buried beneath soundproofing and dug out from the foundations of the elaborate Russian palace he owns. It’s bitterly cold down here, hence the fire. Without it lit, then the mist of the cold day would evaporate from our mouths every time we breathed.
“Burn it,” I instruct, and he throws the bloody hand into the crackling heat. We watch it blister and begin to disintegrate into smoky ash before turning back and repeating the process with his other hand.
“No finger prints. It will make it a lot harder to identify what’s left of your body.”
My colleague steps forward with a branding iron he’s been holding over the flames.
“Let’s cauterize those wounds before you bleed out and ruin all our fun,” he states to scarred man. I don’t think he’s listening, though, for he’s already barely conscious. That’s easy to rectify. I go to fill a bucket full of cold water, and on my return the smell of scorched flesh informs me the flow of blood from the stumps at the end of our prisoner’s arms has been stopped. I throw the water over him, and he revives with screams of pain and suffering. But it’s not enough.
“Get the pliers and remove his teeth.” I tell the other dark man in the room what he needs to do next. I’m going to remove his tattoos. “Nobody will identify you once we're done. They'll bury you in an unnamed grave without recognition for your past achievements or privilege. The ultimate insult.” I pick up a knife, which I’d carefully laid out on a side table, and cut around the tattoo of a skull resting proudly over his heart. It means he’s a murderer. I have the same image. Next, I remove the sun with seven rays shining from the glowing star. It signifies his seven years in prison, three of which I spent with him. My sun sits behind the skull with the ray’s shining out through its hollowed-out eyes. I cut away a few other pieces of ink from his skin and burn it all. His body is now disfigured, and his blood flows freely onto the floor – I make a mental note to be careful not to slip on it. The dress shoes I wear don’t provide adequate grip in these sorts of situations. My assistant finishes pulling his teeth while I sit back on a comfortable leather armchair I installed in the room just for this purpose. Scarred man is barely conscious, again. I know he must be in agony, but it still doesn’t register through my thick skin. There will never be enough pain in the world for what he did.
A putrid stench fills the room, and I know that he’s fouled himself. The body’s natural reaction to the stresses it’s placed under. For an instant, I’m back in the room where my parent’s died – the smells of their death filled the room as I was dragged from it. I shut my eyes and inhale.
“You may kill me, but you’ll never get rid of the sight of their faces as they lay dead,” Scarred man mumbles through a swelling mouth. His last tooth pulled and placed in a box ready to hand to the Pakhan as proof of his death. It’s a tradition that goes back a long way. I don’t know what he does with them afterward. If he keeps them all, he’d need a large storage case, given the amount of death this room has seen. “This will be you in a few years when he grows tired of what you can achieve for him. He’s already given you away to others, and you’ve failed to protect them. The life we lead is a circle. We are nothing but pawns to our Pakhan’s wishes. Your time will come.”
In a matter of seconds, I’m on my feet and stomping across the room having grabbed a knife from the table.
“You know what else you can identify a man from. His eyes.”
I dig the knife into his eye, and he screams. I twist it and pull the ball from the socket.
“You think these see everything. They’ve been useless for most of your life – they’ve never seen the truth before them.” I pull the bloody orb from the end of my knife and throw it into the fire. “I’m not what you made me. I’m better.” I lean in closer, so he can see me through his remaining eye. “I’m deader in my soul than you ever were. I died twenty years ago along with my parents and my professional footballer dreams. You created a devil then, and that demon is finished with your power over him. It’s time for him to rise.”
I swipe my finger over the bloody knife and then draw a cross over scarred man’s head.
“See you in hell.”
I slit his throat. He gargles for a few minutes as the life seeps out of him, and he descends into the depths of the darkness below us. I look to my assistant – his face is pale, but he looks strangely at peace.
“Get some trainees to clean up this mess. Make sure everything is burned. Char him beyond recognition and leave him to rot in an unmarked hole in the ground. He doesn’t even warrant a grave.”
I grab the box of teeth and leave the room. I’m covered in his blood, my hands bright crimson red. I don’t wash them, though. I want to wear it as a sign to all who see me – if you fuck with me, I will get you in the end. People jump out of my way as I storm through the corridor toward the Pakhan’s office.
He’s standing there with the door open, waiting for me.
“I thought I felt an evil presence leave this place.” He smirks. “I hope he suffered.”
“You’re doubting my work?” I retort, before bowing my head and handing him the box.
“I knew you’d be the right man for the job.” He motions for me to enter the room. “Sit.”
I obey. The Pakhan isn’t someone you want to ignore. I’ve been his property since they brought me into this life. I’ve been loaned out to others, most recently to Maksim Markov, but when he died, I came back here. I still speak to my friend Blaire on occasion, but I can’t reveal that, because she’s not thought of in the best light by the Russian mafia, these days. Victor Ivanov has ruled over the Ivanov Bratva for several years now. His father, also Victor, had governed previously, but the Chechnya m
afia murdered him. They are our greatest rivals. I like Victor Junior as a Pakhan. He’s improved a lot of the conditions for the people in the lands he oversees. He’s got a thing for dominating woman with violence, which I don’t always agree with, but who am I to argue. He’s a big man at over six foot three, but he’s not as fit as the soldiers he uses. Over the years gluttony has expanded his waistline, and he sports a slight beer belly, now. It makes him slow, but that’s why he employs us to look after him.
“Take a seat. There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he indicates for me to sit, and he hands me a tissue to wipe away some of the blood from my hands.
“My apologies, I wanted to let you know the news straight away,” I offer by way of an explanation for my unkempt appearance.
“It’s fine.” He chuckles. “A sign you enjoy your work.”
“Thank you.”
“Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. With what has happened today, there’s a position available as avtoritet. It’s yours if you want it?”
“Captain.” I splutter, wondering if I heard right.
“You’re the obvious choice because you've done your time in the ranks. You’re a good organizer. The men respect you, and this”—he points to the box on his desk—“proves you have what it takes to extract punishment, when it's needed, without losing your mild manner. I can’t think of a better person.”
I’m dumbfounded. I never expected this. I thought I’d always remain a solider until I died. This is a shock, but an opportunity I won’t walk away from.
“I accept,” I reply without hesitation.
“Brilliant.” Victor rubs his hands together like an evil genius with a smug smirk on his face. “I'll have your belongings moved to the avtoritet house. Your pay rise will be immediate, and I’ll expect you to start as you mean to go on with the new position, first thing tomorrow. For tonight, though, I think a little celebration is in order.” He orders me up, and I follow him as he leaves his office, and we stalk through his house to the quarters where I know the women he owns stay. He has what he terms four ‘wives’. They are his owned whores. He can do to them the things he doesn’t do with his real wife…the one he purchased to produce his heirs. He enters the room without knocking, and the girls all stand to attention. I can’t help but see the fear on two of their faces. The other two seem eager and ready to please. They’re all covered in bruises and wear next to no clothing.
“Natasha,” he orders, and one of the two eager women step forward. “Mr. Volkov has just become an avtoritet. Why don’t you show him how much that perfect little mouth of yours likes his promotion?”
“Sir.”
Natasha sashays over. She lowers herself to her knees in front of me. I don’t want this. I’d rather go take a shower and sleep than use this woman like this. I’m not a prude. I have had my fair share of women, but she’s owned by the Pakhan, and having her mouth around my dick is something they can use against me in the future. She’s a gift, though, and I can’t say no. I nod down at her when she looks up at me, using her soulful brown eyes to request permission to undo my trousers. The Pakhan goes over to the other girls, and I watch him. He dismisses the two woman who looked terrified when we entered the room, and they scamper away. The remaining woman lowers herself to her knees in front of my boss, removes him from his trousers, and wraps her lips around his already hard cock. I feel my own trousers being opened, and my still flaccid dick being taken from my pants. If the girl is shocked by the extra adornments I have down there, she shows nothing. I need to get my head in the game. This may seem like a gift, but it’s also a test. The Pakhan is the main man. I can’t refuse his gift, but I also can’t show him up. I need to come down this bitch’s throat before he reaches his own culmination. He’s the best at everything he does. As the woman on her knees in front of me takes my dick in her mouth and tries to bring it to life, my mind focuses on the first time I had sex. I was thirteen at the time, a kid still, but it was a rite of passage that made me a man in the eyes of those I trained with. I struggled, at first, until I allowed the darkness inside me to surface. I forgot my naiveté and used the willing body that was given to me. I fucked her – I think I hit her a few times. I’m not proud of it, but it was what I needed at that moment, and she didn’t seem to care. I come back to the present, and my dick is hardening just at the thought of making this willing woman take me. I wrap my right hand around her hair and pull hard. She screams around my cock, and it jerks in her mouth. I groan when she wraps her tongue around the length and twists it up and down. I bring my left hand to her mouth and wet the dried blood that covers it before smearing it all over her face.
“Fuck.” I exclaim and then hold her head rigid, so I can punish her mouth. She’s no longer in control of this. I take over and thrust my hips furiously. She gasps for air every time I hit the back of throat and push my dick down it. I can hear my Pakhan’s breathing getting ragged, and I know he’s close. I need to hurry it the fuck up, so I drop my left hand to her neck and squeeze tight around the slender column.
I pump harder and harder. Natasha is struggling against my strength and ferocity. She’s kneeling there and taking it like a willing victim – a hole to fuck because that’s all she is in this world we live in. I feel the explosion start at the base of my spine and shoot out from my balls up to my dick. Just as I come, I slam deep into her mouth. I shut off her ability to breathe with my dick down her throat and my hand around her neck. I allow my orgasm to rip from my body, and she takes every bit because she has no choice. A second later, I hear the Pakhan coming with his own loud groan. Damn, that was close.
I pull out and Natasha gags and splutters, trying to draw air into her lungs. I don’t offer her any kindness, because that’s not how things happen around here. I put myself back in my pants and motion for her to go back to her ‘husband’. He nods approval my way. I bow my head and leave.
I’ve felt calm all day, even when killing the man who murdered my parents, but now the unease cascades through my body and settles deep within the pit of my stomach. This is my life, my future, and nothing’s changed. I’ve simply buried myself further in. Fate decreed this – it’s impossible to fight it.
2
AMAYA
I’m standing naked in front of a group of men. All I have to shield myself is my long dark-black hair. I should feel shame and an overwhelming sense of fear, but this isn’t the first time my father, Manuel Ortega, has used me like this, so I stand there and wait for the inevitable to happen. We’re in the house of a man I’m told is the leader of the Ivanov Bratva. He’s an associate of my father’s, and we’re here so my father can beg for his mercy. Or rather, barter me off like some toy, again, for his needs.
“Mr. Ivanov, I can’t thank you enough for seeing me. I hope you like the present I offer in exchange for you listening to what I have to say.”
The man named Ivanov casts a disinterested eye over me, and my father turns and frowns at me in the hope that I can make myself more seductive and appealing to the man he wants to give me to. Somehow, I can’t find it within me to want to be seduced by the harsh faced Bratva Pakhan. I want to go back to my home in Mexico, but it’s not possible now, not after how we left. I don’t think we’ll ever be able to return. So many men running through my village, slaughtering and destroying everything and everyone. The screams and smells of death and burning will haunt me forever. Not that we stayed around to witness the full brutality of it all – my father had us in his helicopter and flying away from the murder scene before they could catch us. After that, we flew straight here to Russia where my father is hoping to prevail himself on Pakhan Ivanov’s mercy, given their past business relationship. Something in the man’s narrow eyes and leering grin tells me we’ll not meet with much generosity though.
“It’s pretty enough, I suppose. Is it pure, Senior Ortega?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, sir and say she is when I’m afraid my daughter is used.”
I want
to scream at them about the fact I’m standing in the room with them as they talk derogatorily about me. In my world, though, woman are tools to be bartered with. We don’t have voices, opinions, or even rights. My own mother was married to my father as part of a business deal, which allowed him to take over the southern branch of the Sonora Cartel, and when she was no longer of use, my father discarded her without care.
“Why would you offer me something which is beneath me?” The rough Russian accent draws me out of my reflection.
“I’m not beneath anyone.” I can’t stop the words falling from my mouth.
“The bitch is disrespectful as well.”
I hold my tongue at the Pakhan’s comment. I know to say anything, now, will result in a beating. He motions to a man standing over at the side of the room. I dare to take a look at the tall stranger. He must be six foot five at least and is dressed in a sharp black suit, which molds to his broad frame like a second skin. His shirt is a crisp white, and the top button is undone with no tie around his corded neck. My gaze travels further up his body to the square jawline and full lips. I lick my own because I like what I see. I flick my gaze to his eyes and find them staring back at me. The pupils are dark with only the hint of a mocha-color in the outer rim of his irises. He twists his lip up into a knowing smile, and I fluster and look straight back down at the floor. However, I can’t escape him because I hear his designer shoes click on the marbled floor as he walks closer to me. He stops directly in front of me, and his black loafers cover the spec of dirt I’d been desperately trying to focus on whilst trying to alleviate my embarrassment at being caught checking him out.