Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Book 0)

by London Miller

  VALON: WHAT ONCE WAS

  London Miller

  Valon: What Once Was

  Copyright © 2015 London Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Image Copyright © CDPiC

  Used under license from dollarphotoclub.com

  -

  Other titles by London Miller

  Volkov Bratva Series

  In the Beginning

  Until the End

  The Final Hour

  Time Stood Still

  Hidden Monsters (Out August 17, 2015)

  H,

  Because you saw me through my own darkness.

  -

  Author’s Note

  _________________

  Valon, or if you are familiar with my past works, you may know him as Luka, is not an easy person to understand. I had never intended to actually explore his story when he made his first appearance in Until the End. I loved him, yes, just as much as I loved Mishca and Lauren and Alex. It wasn’t until The Final Hour when he went to the bar and the subsequent events that followed, did I even begin to delve into who Luka really was.

  How could someone who seemed to care so deeply, be capable of what he did daily as an enforcer for the Bratva?

  That was the first question I asked myself when I made the decision to start from the beginning and see where it took me. Through the journey, I found myself questioning whether or not this was too much, whether it would be hard for any reader to truly understand the gravity in which Luka had suffered. Even I was a bit afraid to delve into the true horrors that my happy-go-lucky Luka had gone through…

  But to understand who he is now, I thought it was important to see it through his eyes. Not only did I acquire a better understanding of someone I thought I knew pretty well (hell, I’m the author), I now know that writing this, purging it from my system was worth every moment that I doubted myself and the pain I felt with each word.

  There are going to be moments in this story that will be uncomfortable, that will probably make you want to hit something, but if you make it to the end, it will be worth it.

  Trust me.

  LM

  -

  All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy;

  For what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves.

  We must die in one life before we can enter another.

  -Anatole France

  -

  1

  ______

  Racing through the sloping and broken cobblestone streets, Valon Ahmeti felt the cold air whipping through his curling blond hair, his bag slapping against the back of his legs as he sprinted. Not far behind him was another boy, Fatos, one year younger, who tried his hardest to catch up, but with his much shorter legs, it was a losing battle.

  By the time they reached the corner—in which Valon would turn left and his companion would continue forward to his own home down the road—both were out of breath. Despite the two being the best of friends, Valon couldn’t help but feel a small thrill at his victory.

  Fatos, understandably, didn’t look as happy, his already reddened cheeks darkening further as he kicked a pebble out onto the street, the small stone skipping a few paces before settling. It wouldn’t be the first—or last—time he had come second to Valon.

  Even at the young age of eleven, Valon knew all too well what disappointment felt like, and while he could have gloated as many children did when they won at something, he opted to cheer his friend up instead.

  “You were close.”

  Fatos nodded, but he didn’t seem to take Valon’s words to heart. “But close is still not a victory.”

  Shifting his bag to his opposite shoulder, Valon silently pondered those words, knowing without asking where they had originated. They both had their own battles, he knew, since Valon was not the only one who spawned from royalty within The Organization. The only difference was that Fatos’ father, Bastian, was still a welcome name in those circles.

  Not knowing what else to say, Valon clapped him on the shoulder. “I will see you Monday.”

  With a wave of his hand, Valon headed off. He glanced back when he was a short distance away and saw Fatos still standing there, looking dejected, before he too continued on his way. Turning back, Valon’s eyes roamed over the sky, taking in the fading hues of twilight as the large apartment building he walked toward loomed ahead.

  Already, he could smell the heavenly aroma of pastries drifting from the one open window on the third floor. The decadent aroma made his stomach pinch with hunger. Since he and his mother were poor, and he often went without eating—sometimes for days at a time—Valon often looked forward to Fridays when he knew old lady Baton baked her custards and pies, always saving some for him once he returned from school.

  Truthfully, she was the only friend he and his mother had in the building, if only because the others thought themselves better though they too lived in squalor. With paper-thin walls between the apartments, Valon often overheard the whispers and the names they called his mother, and just as often, though it did not have the same effect, the names they called him.

  Whore.

  Bastard.

  At one time, no one would have ever thought to speak so disrespectfully of Valon because of who his father was, but it was no secret that Ahmeti—as most referred to him—no longer had the respect of The Organization, let alone the community.

  Several years ago, before Valon was born, Ahmeti had the prestige he had always worked for with a crew of his own, but while he was reluctant to admit it, there were a number of mistakes on his part that contributed to his downfall.

  The first of which was his affair with Valon’s mother, Galina, a young Russian woman Ahmeti had met during his travels out of the country. ‘Met’ was a rather polite term when the truth was that Ahmeti had bought her time, and like many arrogant men before him, thought it was a good idea to bring his mistress back to his home country. Valon knew nothing about Ahmeti’s former wife, only that she was no longer around.

  No sooner had Ahmeti brought Galina to Albania that his fortunes began to dwindle. Law enforcement picked him up for one of his many crimes, but unlike the other times, he wasn’t able to skate by on a technicality nor were the police bullied into releasing him. The evidence had been overwhelming, and as a result, Ahmeti had spent ten years in prison, leaving Galina to care for herself and their unborn child.

  Ahmeti had always prided himself on being a good soldier, never revealing his secrets to those who meant them harm. So after serving his sentence, he expected to be accepted with open arms by the same men who watched him go away, but as the years passed, power shifted, and those who he had once considered his allies were no longer at the top of the chain. A group of men who were far less disciplined and cared not for the incarcerated men who could no longer serve a purpose were taking over.

  Arrogance was the downfall of man, and that could definitely be said of Ahmeti. He could not bring himself to beg, would never lower himself to that position, so he resigned himself to a life of solitude with his mistress and a son he did not know. Rumors spread of this quickly enough, and by the time they got back to Ahmeti, the truth of the situation had been warped to something that made him feel like
less than a man. Since there was no way for him to retaliate against them, he sought out a bottle instead.

  And with the alcohol came the anger, anger in which he aimed at Galina, blaming her for his troubles. He did not shy away from using his fists to make his point, sometimes brandishing the small pistol that he still owned, a token of the past he still clung to. If Valon had the misfortune of crossing his path while he was in the throes of his anger, then he suffered under the onslaught as well, though his mother did her best to shield him.

  Valon was quite small for his age, a fact that Ahmeti constantly reminded him of, and he didn’t have to be told this to know how weak he was. He wished he could protect his mother as she protected him, but when he tried, he was batted away like a pest, making him feel all the more ashamed of what he couldn’t do.

  To say the least, the last year of his life had been filled with agony, and most days Valon wished he and his mother could steal away into the night. But he knew that without the resources, that day would never come.

  Resigning himself to another night of hell, Valon headed upstairs, stopping by old lady Baton’s apartment first to speak, accepting the pastry she shoved into his hands as she complained about how thin he was. When he reached his own home, fully expecting Ahmeti’s booming voice to echo into the hall—as it did many days and nights—he was surprised to find it quiet.

  Walking inside, he found his mother scrubbing dishes in the kitchen, singing an old Russian song she was fond of. Since the time he was a child, she had taught him her native tongue, always the patient one as he stumbled over words and meanings. Now, he was as fluent in Russian as he was in Albanian, a fact that made her proud.

  Hearing him enter, she turned with a ready smile, her blond hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wiped her damp hands on the front of her apron, coming to him with open arms. While she might have been smiling, even Valon could see something was off in her eyes.

  “You’re home early, then,” she said in smooth Russian, never speaking in anything else unless Ahmeti was around—when she spoke it, it only set him off.

  “Yes.”

  He hugged her tightly, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin. What Valon lacked in strength, he made up for in height, as he was nearly as tall as she was.

  “Come,” she said turning him toward her bedroom, taking his bag along the way and setting it on the couch as they went.

  In the room, she set him down at her vanity, a place that was a comfort to her. Despite her less than ideal life, and even the one she had left behind, Galina was rather fond of her various makeups, not to mention the vintage pair of hair combs that she’d managed to hold onto after all these years. Valon could not be sure what they were worth—though he assumed they were worth a lot. He doubted the monetary value was more than how much his mother cherished them.

  Picking up one of her brushes, she smiled at him through the mirror, slowly moving the bristles through his hair gently, as though she were afraid she might hurt him. Though he normally only washed his hair and let it fall how it wanted—never putting forth much effort when it came to it—Galina always enjoyed brushing out his hair, humming softly as she did it. Most days it made him feel like a boy, oftentimes reminding him of the hateful words Ahmeti spewed at him whenever he was around. But for his mother, he would endure her ministrations, if only because she took such great joy in it.

  “My sweet boy,” she murmured, using her fingers to sift through his hair once the brush passed. “I wish great things for you. One day you will not know this life of pain. You will have everything you ever want, I promise.”

  Valon didn’t like the defeated sound of Galina’s voice and only wanted to cheer her up. “I will buy you a house one day, nënë, when I am not so small.”

  She laughed, the usual light and airy sound seeming more forced. “Not for me, but for the girl you give your heart to.” She crouched to his level, turning him around so that he was facing her. “And as you are honest with me, always be honest with her, yes? Show her the real you even if you hide from everyone else.”

  “Nënë, what bothers you?”

  He knew, without her having to say, that something was wrong. She was speaking of a future as though she would not be in it with him. He did not intend to leave her with Ahmeti, not if he could help it.

  “I love you, Valon, my precious boy. No matter what your father says, you were the best thing to ever happen to me.”

  Valon didn’t respond. He just watched Galina as she climbed back to her feet, smoothing out the front of her apron. Years had passed, he thought, since the last time he’d returned that sentiment, always finding it too soft for him to acknowledge his emotions, something that Ahmeti always told him was important.

  ‘Never reveal your hand,’ he would say during one of his short bouts of lucidity, ‘lest someone cuts it off.’

  With Galina back in the kitchen, Valon retrieved his book bag, reaching inside for a comic book that he’d been able to buy from a vendor on his way home from school many years ago. Before Ahmeti came back into their lives and used every spare cent to buy booze.

  It was American, the words written in foreign letters that his mother had told him was English. She’d translated as best she could, and what she couldn’t, Valon had made up.

  Valon was so absorbed with the pictures, imagining a life outside of his own personal Asgardian hell, that he hadn’t heard Ahmeti’s return. At least, not until he heard plates smashing in the kitchen.

  Galina had always told him to stay in his room if he ever heard them arguing, always wanting to protect him, but there was something different about this time. He could tell from the steely calmness in his father’s voice as he spoke to her. Though she wouldn’t like it, Valon cracked open his bedroom door, peering through the slight space to the kitchen where he could just make out his father, his back turned in his direction.

  He was drunk, that much was clear from the way he swayed, but when he moved, Valon could see his mother on the floor, surrounded by the broken shards of plates, her hands up as though to ward off blows.

  Except… this time she feared the small silver pistol that his father had aimed at her, not his fists.

  Valon hadn’t seen him with that gun in a while, and just like then, he refused to stand idly by.

  Valon swung the door open, preparing to run to his mother’s side to protect her when he saw Ahmeti’s hand tighten around the gun, his arm no longer shaking.

  “Look!” He shouted down at her, his voice rising. “Look what you made me do!”

  In slow, excruciating seconds, Valon watched helplessly as his father squeezed the trigger, a bullet speeding from the chamber. It hit Galina in the chest and blood instantly spilled from the wound.

  With blood rushing in his ears, Valon did not register that he was screaming, his feet bringing him closer to the chaos before him. Ahmeti turned, glaring down at him with hate in his cold black eyes as he once again raised the gun. Valon was ready for it, had anticipated the day that his father would kill him.

  He had longed for it, knowing that it would be a mercy to finally be away from him.

  But even now, with rage in his heart, Ahmeti would not give even that peace to Valon.

  Ahmeti, eyes bloodshot, stared him down as he turned the gun on himself and said, “I’ll see you in hell.”

  With the barrel tucked beneath his chin, Ahmeti once again pulled the trigger, sending this new bullet up through the bottom of his jaw. It exploded out the top of his skull, brain matter splattering the walls, some chunks hanging. He crumpled to the ground and didn’t move again.

  Valon was too shell-shocked to move, to do anything at all besides stare at his father’s dead body. He watched the blood seep into the carpet and drift over the old hardwood floors. He stood frozen there until he heard the slightest of noises, then his eyes cut to the side, seeing his mother fighting to live.

  The spell of death broken, Valon rushed to her side, kneeling in her blood
as he tried to cover the wound on her chest as he had seen people do on television. He wanted to push the blood back inside of her, knowing that she needed it to live, but she grabbed hold of his hands, squeezing them with what little strength she had left.

  “Be free of this place, Luka,” she whispered, a river of blood spilling past her lips, painting them red. “Be free.”

  That was only a name she called him when they were alone, just the two of them. A special name she had always reserved for when she was telling him something important.

  “Nënë, I don’t know how to do that.”

  Her lips turned up at the corners as she reached up with one hand to cup his cheek. “You will.”

  Valon could not know then what he was witnessing, though the haunting scene was already plaguing his young mind. Galina’s hand fell away as her eyes lost their shine, her lips parting on a single gasp as she stopped moving entirely. He did not want to believe that she was dead, even as he continued to kneel by her side, his knees aching with the effort as he shook her gently.

  He called her name repeatedly, tears falling down his cheeks as he continued to try to rouse her.

  No, he did not want her to be dead because, in her last moments, he had never gotten to tell her that he loved her.

  -

  2

  ______

  Hours passed, maybe an entire day, as Valon sat beside his mother, his arms wrapped around his knees as he stared out at nothing. He refused to look at the frozen, haunted look on her face. Despite the gunshots heard, in his neighborhood, it took the police a while to respond, if anyone had bothered to call. Valon knew, though he was fighting an internal war, that he would have to be gone by that time.

  No matter that he knew the truth of the dead bodies in his home, he would be treated cruelly, and would probably end up in one of the homes that were so prevalent in this part of the country. That, he felt, would be worse than anything the police could do to him.