Anatoly's Retribution: Book One (The Medlov Men 5)

by Latrivia Welch

  Anatoly's

  Retribution:

  Book 1

  The Medlov Men Series

  Latrivia Welch

  Anatoly’s Retribution: Book One

  Copyright © 2017byLatrivia Welch

  RiverHouse Publishing, LLC

  1509 Madison Avenue

  Memphis, TN 38104

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All RiverHouse, LLC Titles, Imprints and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising and educational or institutional use.

  www.latriviawelchbooks.com

  www.riverhousepublishingllc.com

  For Liam

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be possible without God’s strength and protection, my family’s love and understanding, my team at RiverHouse Publishing, LLC and their passion for publishing, my editor and dear friend, Karen Moss, and intern editor, Lisa Terry, for their attention to detail, my design team lead by Kandace Tuggle, my talent agent, Tracy Christian and her motivation, and our social media team and their skill at Welch Public Relations. A special thank you goes to my husband, Bruce Welch, for all of his perfect affection I would also like to thank the Red Door Retreat on Facebook, all of my members of the Quill Pen Newsletter and my die-hard fans across the world. God bless each of you.

  Table of Contents

  Author's Statement

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Books by Latrivia

  Contact Latrivia

  Author's Statement

  H uman trafficking has surpassed the sale of arms around the world. Our families – men and women, boys and girls - have become slaves to an underworld $23 billion industry. We must fight back against it and reclaim their lives in order to reclaim our souls and our futures. This is not a rich or poor problem. This is not a race problem. This is not a religious issue. No one is safe from the effects of these atrocities. But you can do your part.

  Call 1-866-DHS-2-ICE (1-866-347-2423) to report suspicious criminal activity to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) Tip Line 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, every day of the year. The Tip Line is accessible outside the United States by calling 802-872-6199.

  Submit a tip at www.ice.gov/tips. Highly trained specialists take reports from both the public and law enforcement agencies on more than 400 laws enforced by ICE HSI, including those related to human trafficking.

  Dear Reader

  T here is nothing more fun that writing about the first Russian Mafiya Crime Family of Romance – The Medlov Men. This installation is about Anatoly, the oldest son of Dmitry Medlov, and his internal growth and struggle when dealing with family.

  I wrote this book with the Medlovian in mind. For those who have read all the books, this piece will answer many questions. For those who are picking up the book with no background knowledge, I promise you won’t be loss, but you might be hooked.

  As usual, I can’t wait to hear from you after reading the book. Make sure to reach out using the contact information. I’m always interested in learning more about what you want to see in our characters.

  Well, let’s get started and remember, there is part two coming on November 1, 2017.

  With all my love,

  Latrivia Welch

  Chapter One

  Anatoly’s Baptism in Blood

  Moscow, Russia

  Kapotnya District

  Winter 2008

  A fter a few minutes of torturous, quiet, reflective thought, Anatoly Medlov had a depressing epiphany as he flicked his menthol cigarette down into the dirty snow by his scuffed leather boots and forcefully pushed the smoke out of his lungs against bone-chilling winds.

  Without a trial, he had been, charged, convicted and sentenced to a miserable life of clandestine incarceration. He must have been. What other explanation made sense?

  The entire district of Kapotnya was a fucking prison without bars for criminals and innocent alike, because everyone who lived here was guilty of at least one thing – being dirt poor.

  Poverty was a sentence all in its own. Little food. Little shelter. Little life. They lived off the scraps of the world, eating down crap and begging for more, while the rich looked down on them from their high-rise apartments, pissing on all their heads.

  So, his question was simple, why not be a criminal? At least in being a crook, there was a chance at getting rich. Being a hump had not seemed to get anyone that he knew anywhere. All the pitiful squares working 12-hour shifts to put food on their tables and living by the law of the land still had nothing to show for it, including his blessed saint of a mother.

  At least being a criminal gave him some sort of gratification.

  And what about the scenery or lack thereof in this place?

  There was not one decent apartment in the entire district.

  Just a bunch of towering, shit-stained ghettos built with the sole intention of blotting out the sun.

  It was as if the person who created this place wanted it to be as depressing as humanly possible – void of hope, joy or peace.

  Well, that person – that mad architect- had succeeded. This place was shit, and Anatoly was thoroughly depressed.

  Had he been a weaker man, he would have put a bullet in his head years ago, but despite his gloomy future and his disheartening path, he dared to have a small bit of hope. And where hope failed to be sufficient motivation, there was an innate familial responsibility.

  Anatoly had younger half-siblings to help his mother raise, people who were counting on him every single day. His mother couldn’t do this alone, even if she had hinted at it before. She worked long hours at the Moscow Oil Refinery and toiled all night when she was home, cooking, cleaning and worrying. The only other person that she could depend on in this life was him, and he refused to let her down.

  There was no man in their little twisted picture. His father was just an urban legend, and the man who had donated sperm to his mother for his other siblings had long since run off with some other woman who had fewer obligations and much more money.

  Now, they were all alone.

  Dependent upon each other.

  So, if he gave up on his family, where would they be? It was a question that he didn’t dare want answered.

  Even now as he stood on this corner peddling crack cocaine, trying to make ends meet, he wished for a better life, one closer to the city’s Garden Ring and further from the only place in the world he had ever known – Kapotnya.

  Regardless of his mid-day fantasy, for now, he had to take things day-by-day or in this place, hour-by-hour.

  Instinctively rubbing a hand over the stolen gun inside of his shabby leather coat, he shot a glare down the street as a familiar car approached.

  Time to work.

  Casually, Anatoly made his way to the edge of the street as a battered, rusty Honda Accord
with three regular tires and one worn-out donut pulled up to him and rolled down its driver’s side window.

  It was a girl he used to go to senior school with before he quit in the ninth grade to be a drug dealer full-time.

  Back then, this girl was a real looker. He even remembered having a slight crush on her – okay, maybe more than slight.

  Now, she was just another dope fiend looking to get over.

  It was a damn shame what drugs did to the female persuasion – made them old and haggard before their time, much like working in the oil refinery.

  The sad thing was that no one knew which lifestyle had the shortest life expectancy – crackheads or humps.

  Hell, this bitch could possibly outlive them all.

  With cracked thin lips and spacy gray eyes, the girl stuck a balled-up wad of Russian rubles out of the car window and placed it in his hand.

  “It’s all there,” she said, irritated that he began counting it in front of her.

  “Da, da. We’ll see.” Quickly, he shoved a small baggy in her hand and nodded toward the road. “Alright. Get out of here,” he said, not making eye-contact. He didn’t want her hanging around too long. It could cause trouble.

  “What can I get from you in return for a little head?” she asked, raising a brow suggestively at him.

  In need of a bigger, better fix, the girl’s hidden desperation began to show. She remembered a time when her charms worked, and they still did on some men, just not always on ones as beautiful as Anatoly. Still, she had to try.

  Anatoly sucked in a breath through his nearly frozen, red nostrils and looked down into the car at the eager woman. Oh, the offering of fellatio.

  It was a classic crackhead move.

  What happened to self-respect? He might have been a drug dealer, but he wasn’t a bum. Getting a blow job from a crackhead was one thing he would never lower himself to do.

  Besides, his boss respected him more than dealers, because he always came through - never short, never late - and everyone knew that he never, ever accepted favors in exchange for product.

  “So, what do you say?” she asked again when he did not answer immediately. She needed that hit right now. She needed him to say yes.

  Anatoly let out a sigh. “I say that you’d have to pay me to give me head; now get out of here before you piss me off, eh?” He slammed his hand hard on the top of her car and startled her.

  “Go. Ubiraysya otsyuda,” he ordered.

  Immediately, she took her small foot off the break and pressed down hard on the accelerator. “Fuck you!” she screamed as she sped off in a junky-rage.

  Anatoly wasn’t surprised or offended by the girl’s outburst. He knew that she’d be back tomorrow to buy more crack like nothing had happened, because the high was always more important than anything else. He could hear his favorite movie, Scarface, in the back of his head as he moved away from the corner.

  “She’ll love me in the morning.”

  ***

  A glance at his watch confirmed that it was time for Anatoly to head back to the apartment for his daily routine.

  His siblings would be home soon, and he had to put something on the stove for dinner and start doing their homework with them before his mother got home.

  Slipping his balled-up fists into his jacket, he hiked through the snow to his small apartment building and dashed up the garbage-littered concrete stairs, past winos and prostitutes, to their tiny flat on the fourth floor.

  To his surprise, he heard chipper little voices as he approached the door.

  Evidently, his brooding clan had already arrived from school.

  It normally took them longer to get home after a heavy snow, but sometimes the chill in the air would serve as its own motivator.

  He closed the front door behind him and pulled off his coat, scanning the small living room to count the children.

  Immanuil, his littlest brother - a short, skinny, dark-haired boy on the verge of puberty and pimples, with jet black hair and big brown eyes, sat in front of the television Indian-style with a box of off-brand cereal, eating it by the handfuls and making a mess on the floor.

  Arseny, his middle brother, was perched on the sofa with the cordless phone pressed to his ear, talking to his little girlfriend. Already in puberty with a squeaky voice, a brown crew cut that brought attention to his less-than-flattering bony nose, thin lips and bug brown eyes, he was just a little taller than his smaller brother, but still very petite in stature for his age.

  “Get to your homework now,” Anatoly urged, headed for the kitchen to put on left over soup from the night before. “And turn that television off.”

  Kicking off his boots and throwing them in the closet, Anatoly looked around the messy room again. Wait. He was missing one kid. “Where is Anastaysia?” he asked.

  “Relax. She’s on the swing set outside,” Arseny answered, begrudgingly hanging up the phone before his girlfriend could hear him get screamed at by Anatoly. He swore his big brother hated him for having a life outside of this stupid family, but he hated them more for having to be a part of it.

  “She’s outside alone?” Anatoly asked. The scowl on his face said that he didn’t approve. “You left her alone?” He had just had this conversation with Arseny last week.

  Arseny shrugged in indifference. “Yeah. What’s the big deal? It’s a bunch of kids out there?” He rolled his eyes, tired of his big brother’s ever-constant protective attitude of their little sister.

  “I told you not to take your fucking eyes off her,” Anatoly admonished, grabbing his boots again. He shoved his feet into them forcefully. “The playground is getting too bad for her to be out there alone.”

  “It was good enough for me at that age,” Arseny yelled.

  “You’re still that age, you big fucking baby,” Anatoly scoffed. “I asked you to do one thing, and you couldn’t even get that right.” He knew the insult would wound the small manhood Arseny had.

  “I can do stuff right!” Arseny snapped.

  “I’ll go with you,” Immanuil offered, putting on his coat. He always loved spending time with his big brother. It was better than being home with Arseny.

  “No,” Anatoly said, holding up a hand to Immanuil. “Go do your homework. Both of you.” He shot Arseny a glare. “When I get back, I’m going to kick your ass, Arseny.” And it wasn’t just an empty threat. He meant it.

  “For what?” Arseny yelled. “Like I said, she’s on the stupid swing set in the courtyard.” Crossing his arms, he rolled his eyes as the door slammed behind Anatoly.

  There was history there…

  It was quite easy for Arseny to simply dismiss Anastaysia. He had never been held responsible for anyone except himself, even though he was second to the oldest. The fifteen-year-old brat had always hidden under the shelter that Anatoly provided and did so with a certain air of privilege that irritated everyone around him. He shucked his chores, pushed the blame off on everyone else and whined excessively to his mother about all of them.

  To boot, Arseny had always held a grudge against his big brother for his good looks and the apparent favor their mother felt for her oldest son.

  In Arseny’s defense, Anatoly was exceptionally beautiful, more so than any of his other siblings. At six-feet tall with a blocky, muscular frame, thick neck and capped shoulders, brooding ice blue eyes, a wide set rose-colored mouth, a strong square chiseled jaw and wheat blonde hair, Anatoly stood out in a room and had done so since he peaked at age sixteen.

  He was angelic in his physical features, like God had carved him from the most beautiful clay in His entire collection. It was clear that he was superior genetically to his brothers, who had thin, almost non-existent features and frail forms, but Anatoly was also mysterious, never saying much to anyone, keeping his own council always. His demeanor only made his mother love him more – love him best, in Arseny’s opinion. Not only did their mother love Anatoly best, but so did Anastaysia.

  Their bond was unmistakable, a
nd it was clear that the only reason that Anatoly stayed around was for the women in the family.

  So Arseny let them have their blonde-haired savior. He didn’t lift a finger for them, and he didn’t worry about their needs. That was Anatoly’s job, and he seemed to take it on with great pride and possession.

  ***

  Anatoly had that bad feeling again – the feeling of a bad omen coming to fruition. He couldn’t get his coat on quick enough. Dashing out of the door, he headed down the long hall to the staircase that led out of the back of the building to the courtyard. It seemed like a million miles away, but it was barely around the corner.

  Son of a bitch!

  He had told that spoiled-rotten brat, Arseny, a million times before not to leave Anastaysia alone out there, but it was like talking to a brick wall. The boy never listened. He was too caught up in his own life and much too selfish to think of anyone but himself. Anatoly was certain that Arseny had gotten that stellar trait from his worthless father.

  Anastaysia was small for her age and was too friendly around strangers. He always worried about her, especially in a housing project full of degenerates and former prison hounds.

  At twelve years old, Anastaysia was starting to be too old for toys but still too young for boys. Her little breasts had started to bud and her hips had started to form, which in Kapotnya loosely translated into trouble.

  Biologically, Anastaysia was his half-sister, but in Anatoly’s mind, he was her father, even though he was only six years older than her. At least, he had been the only father that she’d ever known. Her father had left before she could remember him and in his absence, Anatoly had taken up the role, doing everything from walking her to school and doing her homework with her to chasing away the boogey man. He had been there for her first steps, for her first lost tooth, for her first day of school in the absence of their mother and so many other things until he could no longer count them all.