by Loki Renard
There is hunger in this woman; I just don’t know for what. What I do know is that she looks at me like a starving dog might look at a chained wolf. With some hope, a little awe, and an increasing amount of fear.
They are negotiating now. I can hear their voices through the plastic screen that bears traces of blood across the bottom. It has been cleaned badly since the last time someone was killed here. I have seen more cruelty and brutality in thirty days on American soil than I saw in a lifetime of service to the Russian mob.
“She wants you,” the man beside me says. I do not know his name. I have not learned any names here. These people are not real to me. I have one goal: to be free of this prison, and to make my way back to Russia, where unfinished business festers.
“Walk on!”
The guard yells the words, and a second later I hear the crack of electricity making contact with another unfortunate in the line. We are all covered in welts, burns, bruises. I do not feel them. Rage makes me numb. They could break every bone in my body and I would spit on them. The metal at my wrists and ankles is an inconvenience, but it is temporary. The heft of the chains and the thickness of the iron is the true gage of their fear of me.
“Stop!”
He screams the word even though I am only a few inches away from his bloated face. We stop, and they detach the links that join me to the rest of the line.
“Walk on!” another guard screams, and the eight men before me shuffle back to the hole we all came from.
“I’m going to uncuff you, and you’re going to get dressed,” he says. “You make one funny move and I’m going to tase you into next year.”
I don’t bother to reply. I just stare at him until he cracks. They always crack. Try to stare me down and instead end up glancing away or reaching for an electric rod to beat me with.
“Get dressed,” he says, pressing shoes, shirt, and pants to my chest. No socks. No underwear. No matter. I pull on the cheap shoes, feeling my feet pinch at the plastic toes. The pants are too short, and the shirt is too large. I don’t care. I am getting out of this prison. The world lies outside the heavy guarded doors and once I am alone with this woman, I can do as I please.
When I am dressed, he puts the cuffs back on and leads me through a series of doors. I find myself standing in front of the woman who decided to buy me. She is shorter than I thought she was, but I notice that she seems to wax and wane with expression and body language. In reality, she is probably no more than five foot five, but she seems taller and larger when she turns the force of her personality on me, the very corners of her lips turning into a smile.
“Your purchase, ma’am. But you’re under no obligation to go through with it...” The guard in the suit is talking to her again.
“I want him,” she says directly, turning her pale blue gaze on the man, who seems to shrink under her glare. She does not like him, I can tell. She thinks she is too good for this place and the people who run it, that much is obvious. But she is not. She is down here with her money, supporting a trade that destroys every human who comes in contact with it.
“Take the cuffs off. They’re ridiculous,” she sneers.
The guard looks at her, and then at me. “We would be more comfortable if you removed them yourself off the premises, ma’am.”
“You’re that afraid of him?”
“It’s a matter of risk management.”
“So, yes.” She rolls her eyes, exhibiting the same contempt I feel. I find myself warming to her for a second, before I remind myself that she is a woman who just purchased me. She is every bit as depraved as a man who would have done the same, and the fact she wants the handcuffs removed might only indicate that she is feeble-minded.
“I will give you the keys, ma’am,” he says. “You can unlock him in your vehicle. I advise having several others present. His capacity for violence is extreme, and he comes with baggage. Again, I advise you to reconsider your purchase.”
The suited guard talks about me as if I am not here, or as if I am, but not sentient. I am an unstable, aggressive shelter dog, being adopted to an unsuspecting new owner who will not listen no matter how much they tell her I have a tendency to rip faces off.
She ignores him completely and turns to me instead.
“You’re handsome. You’re going to scrub up well,” she says. Those are the first words she has addressed directly to me, speaking in a strong, feminine, rather husky voice. As if I care if I meet her aesthetic requirements. I think this woman is accustomed to getting what she wants. It was obvious they did not intend to sell me to her, but she insisted and she got her way.
I like will in a woman, or a man for that matter. Most people crumble when there are obstacles in their path, conforming to the world around them, squeezed by convenience and ease until they are empty people with no purpose or soul. I see purpose in this woman’s eyes. I see fire, and I see the cold anger of someone who has lost more than they ever had to lose. In a matter of seconds I know this woman. And I know something else too. I will find her weaknesses. I will exploit them. And then, I will be free.
* * *
Sophie
Now that he is closer to me, I have a sense of his size and power, which was lacking when he was behind the plastic shield. He is well over six feet tall, and he has an intensity to him that extends past his physical form.
I understand why they’re afraid of him. Those eyes are stunning not just in color, but in the expression they hold. I’ve had many bodyguards before. Usually they are watchful and serious, but this man is past serious. He is cold to the very core. I find myself wondering what produced that expression. Was he born like that? No. Nobody is made that way. The look he has is one that only a harsh life can give you.
He is perfect.
“Give me the key,” I say, holding my hand out to the salesman. He puts it into my palm reluctantly and I reach for my new man’s wrists, where the cuffs gleam.
“Ma’am!”
The squeak the salesman makes causes a laugh to rise to my lips. I am not afraid of this man. As dangerous as he may be, the forces moving against me are far more dangerous. To protect me, he will need to be savage and instinctual. He will need to detect threats before they appear, and he will, even if he doesn’t want to.
I unsnap the cuffs and take him by the hand, drawing him from the selling place to the elevator that leads to the world where my death is imminent. He follows like a large puppy dog. When I glance back over my shoulder, his expression is impenetrable. Do I trust him? Of course not. But trust doesn’t matter. All I need to know is that he is a survivor.
I take him into the elevator without a word and let his hand drop.
The door closes.
The elevator rises.
I look over at him, and...
Bam!
My back hits the wall as he slams me there hard, his big hand wrapped around my throat tight enough to show me that I could be killed, but not so tight I cannot breathe. This is a threat, but he is not hurting me.
He glares down at me, his lips inches from mine, his entire body tense with aggression. He wants to hurt somebody, but not me, I don’t think. He is battling with the desire to unleash all those powerful male instincts, all that anger and rage and fear, and whatever code he has that no doubt makes him reluctant to hurt a woman who is no threat to him.
“If you’re going to kill me, be quick about it,” I murmur with as much breath as he allows me. “You have two seconds until the doors open.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” he growls, his voice thick with aggression. “But you are going to let me go. I will not work for you, woman.”
“You don’t work for me,” I say, breathing a little easier as he releases his grip. “I own you.”
He lets out a short bark of utter non-amusement, and his fingers wrap tighter. I don’t think he understands how badly I want him to simply squeeze. If he kills me here and now, he will save me the trouble of surviving through all life has yet to d
o to me.
Of course, he relents. This was plainly about intimidation from the beginning. I have seen enough killing to know that if it is going to happen, it usually happens before you’re aware of it.
His fingers uncurl from my neck and he takes a step back. “You are a strange woman.”
“The strangest,” I tell him. “And if you ever lay a hand on me again, I will have your balls removed, deep fried, and served to you.”
I expect a flash of anger, but instead he smirks. “Do you have Russian blood?”
“Only yours, if you ever try to hurt me.”
He smiles again, broader this time and his face transforms. He likes brutality in deed, but also in word and spirit. I think, judging by his expressions, it is the only thing he has liked about me so far. I am well aware of how dangerous he could be to me. It is simply the fact that there are worse people in the world than this man, an outcast from his tribe who clearly lusts for blood of his own.
The elevator doors open into the secured car park. My vehicle is waiting, along with my secondary driver, Jeeves. He’s a British man with no tongue. I once inquired as to how he’d lost it, and he noted down on a piece of paper that he’d been careless. If that was the truth, then he has only been careless once. I have been impressed with him since I engaged him over ten years ago. His loyalty is unquestioned at this point. If he were more able to handle a weapon, I would not have this big brute sliding into the car behind me.
The second we are in confined space it becomes very apparent that he needs to be bathed. He smells like sweat and man, that musky odor that has a way of creeping into one’s nostrils and setting off a base reaction that I cannot afford to have.
“Home, Jeeves.”
We set off in mutual silence, and as we do, I can still feel my new man’s hands around my throat, as if he still had hold of me now.
“Name?”
“Vlad,” he says without looking at me.
“Vlad? That’s a ridiculous name. Your mother didn’t call you Vlad.”
“My mother called me Vadim.”
Solid Russian name. I spent some time in St. Petersburg in the past. I like Russia, but the climate was too harsh and business drew me home again. I traveled the world when I was young, a teenager looking for respite from the horror I was born into. I found none. It followed me wherever I went and in the end I discovered it was easier to build a fortress and defend it than flee constantly.
My mother is dead. My father too. My uncles, aunts, cousins, all passed on. I am quite literally the only left of my line, and there are those who will see the life snuffed out of me yet. The reason is simple: a blood feud that began hundreds of years before I was born, followed my family out of Eastern Europe, all the way to the new world.
My father didn’t believe in it, though his brother died when he was a teenager, and they had been orphaned as children. He got married and had me, knowing full well what would happen. I loved him, but moments like these make me think he’s the most selfish bastard who ever lived.
“Have you heard of the Vristok?”
Vadim looks at me blankly, as most people do. There are very few truly secret orders in the world, but that is one of them. Their members are legion, sworn to secrecy on pain of immediate, swift execution. Once upon a time, those who spoke of their truth were hunted by assassin. I believe the modern methods are more barbaric and more effective.
I don’t usually talk about the Vristok. I talked about it when my father died, and I found myself in a hospital being asked very patronizing questions, unable to leave for forty-eight hours, when I was no longer regarded as being a danger to myself. But I have never been a danger to myself, or anyone else. All I have ever tried to do was live.
I am not sure why my continued existence is tolerated. Every moment of every day, I expect the bullet to come that will end it all. Perhaps that is the point of the punishment. It is not enough to wipe a family out. Better to let it live in intergenerational terror.
“Are they Russian?”
“Moldovan,” I say.
“So you do have Russian blood.”
I cast a look over at him, trying to figure out why he is so insistent on Russian heritage. Perhaps he is lonely, being an exile from his land. Finding another person of his bloodline, even one who owns every beat of his heart, might be some comfort to him.
“No.”
We fall silent again. I try to think. Getting him is one thing. Maneuvering him so he is in a position to protect me is another. Many of my previous guards were killed off, one at a time. It is likely that will be his fate too. I am looking into the eyes of a dead man walking, and for the first time I feel a pang of something like remorse for that.
“Listen,” I say. “You will have a short life, but I will be a generous owner.”
He lifts a brow at me in a silent question that I do not intend to answer. I tell nobody the full details of the tragic circumstances of my life, certainly not those I have purchased to become a brief part of it.
We fall silent for a long time, as long as it takes to return to the one place in the world where I am safe.
“This is your house?” He speaks as we pass through the outer gates guarding a road that winds through several acres of bare land. He is perked up like a dog, getting his bearings.
“Yes,” I say as we approach the main house. It is an imposing building, constructed with security in mind.
“Is fortress,” he observes. His English has been good until now, if heavily accented. I suppose the sight of twelve-foot-high walls topped with barbed wire is enough to surprise the grammar out of him.
He’s right. It is a fortress. It is also monitored twenty-four/seven by more than a hundred cameras, so there are no blind spots. This is the one place in the world I am safe. I look over at Vadim, knowing that he is a wildcard. When I swallow I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. There is so much anger in him. He must hate me. I shouldn’t bring him into this place. But I have to.
* * *
Vadim
This woman is terrified. I do not know what this Vristok is, but I can see she has created a near windowless building that is more like a prison than a home to live in.
There would be no views at all, if not for the fact that it is perched on high ground, the very top of a hill. And even then, the only view is from the third story. The first two look out onto bare lawn. Trees and flowers might have grown here once, but they have been removed in case anyone hides in them. As we pass through the main gates, five large German Shepherds come bounding toward the car in full voice. They are all wearing vests, which I know from past experience are likely bullet- and stab-proof.
I am used to the brutalist aesthetic of Russian construction, but this woman’s home would win awards from Soviet designers for the misery the building emanates.
“I own the surrounding land,” she explains, without question from me. “It is monitored by dogs and drones. I do not advise escape. If you do make it, you will likely be picked up by my enemies, tortured, and killed.”
She says it with a straight face, but I find myself unable to believe that a woman this young, with so little life experience, has the kind of enemies who torture and kill. But how else to explain this fortress on the hill?
“You’re surprised, aren’t you,” she says with a sad smirk. “And maybe you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”
I am already beginning to understand. Her world is a barren little place and I have been purchased to become part of these defenses she has wrapped around herself. She is a princess in a tower of her own making. There is something romantic about it, in the tragic, very Russian sense—even if she denies sharing any blood with my people.
“I believe you.”
“Nobody believes me, and usually they die before they learn the truth,” she replies as the car sweeps into an internal access garage fortified beneath the house. We emerge into what I can only describe from the cartoons I saw in my youth as something r
esembling a bat cave. It is more than a garage. It is underground, I can feel the heaviness of the earth all around me, and more than that, the weight that is her sad little soul. She draws all light and mass toward her, a little black hole of a woman.
She gets out of her side, the driver opening the door for her. I get out the other. The garage door is already closed, shutting me inside her world. I feel something wrap around me, some long held, perhaps even ancient misery that hangs about her.
She turns to me with sharp eyes.
“Come.”
I do not care for the way she speaks to me like a dog, but I follow as she steps toward the exit, which is double-gated with two iron doors that create an impenetrable airlock. It might be possible to break through with a blowtorch or similar, I suppose.
Every security measure she has, I look for a workaround. The security is impressive overall. I have been inside many Bratva strongholds, and this place makes most of them look like an open air tent.
We wind through the house, which was clearly purposely constructed for defense. I see small portholes in doors and halls here and there. They look like vents, but they’re not. They’re for shooting through. Anyone in any of these rooms can protect themselves from anyone coming through the halls. I’m sure there are other features I can’t see and don’t know about yet.
What she doesn’t know, and what I can hardly admit to myself, is that this place is compelling to me. Most would not like it, I think, but I’m fascinated by each and every corner, how the walls aren’t hard angles, but are instead rounded to allow for better line of sight. Much harder to hide behind a sharp wall here; everything is opened up so it is more difficult to be taken by surprise.
There is a stark elegance to this place. Few windows, but plenty of lights and cameras. I doubt there is an inch of this home that is not covered by them. If the power were to go out, this place would turn into a pitch-black warren, and likely be more to her advantage than any attackers.
“I have a small security detail of handlers and gunmen,” she tells me as we walk. “You will be my personal guard. You will stay close to me at all times. You will attend functions with me. You will escort me when I leave the house.” She turns to me. “I do not leave the house often.”