Papa’s dark, bushy eyebrows narrow as he glares at me. “It’s hard to believe, you know,” he says in an accusatory tone. “You and your brother share everything.”
“Ever since the womb, yes, I know.” I set my fork down and place my fists on the table, before taking a deep breath. “Of course, we talked about how excited he was at being drafted by Detroit, but he never once mentioned defecting.”
“America has stolen my son, the only one who brought joy to this family,” Papa muses, shaking the vodka bottle to get the last drops into his glass.
“He won’t forget us, Papa.” I assure him quietly. I’m used to the stabbing comments. Vanya has always had a higher place in Papa’s heart. He is my father’s only son. Playing for the CSA team brought pride to our family and Mother Russia. “He’ll contact us when he’s able.”
“Contact us? Why would he do that? He has money and fame. He doesn’t need us—not even you. He left like a coward in the night.” The dark circles under Papa’s eyes are so pronounced, it looks like someone painted grayish-purple crescents there. “You think I couldn’t hear you two talking at night? You think I didn’t know about your plans to go to America with him to get away from me?”
He shoves his plate at me angrily, sending potatoes and cabbage onto my lap. When he grabs a bowl and cocks his arm back, I jump up and raise my hands to shield the attack.
“Mikhail Grigorovich!” Babushka cries out.
“The joke is on you, isn’t it, Anastasiya?” he mocks, lowering the bowl as he watches me brush the food from my thighs onto the floor. “How does it feel to be left behind? To be left in a country crumbling more every day while your brother enjoys freedom in America.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Being hit or beaten hurts when it happens, but physical pain eases. The mental and emotional damage he’s caused has warped my mind in ways I’ll never be able to measure. Papa knows exactly what to say to cause the most pain. The things that penetrate like a hammer through my heart.
“Be sure to keep your emotions in check when the KGB comes for you,” Papa warns, grabbing the empty bottle of vodka. “They won’t be swayed by glassy eyes and a trembling lip when it comes to your brother’s desertion.”
My stomach tightens and I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the worst, but instead of throwing it at me, he leans down and sets the empty container on the floor.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me another bottle?” he sneers, relishing in the knowledge of how much he scares me.
Rather than answer, I rush past him and out the door. Once I’m in the hallway, I don’t stop against the wall and slide to the floor like I did when I was a girl.
This time, I keep running.
4
Kirill
Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, NY - 3 May 1989
The first time I rode the Q Train to the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn, I was nervous about missing the stop. All my worries subsided while looking out the window. Familiar Cyrillic letters are everywhere. Signage for stores and restaurants are all in Russian and English. Though nicknamed “Little Odessa” because of the Russian and Ukrainian immigrants who settled in this area, there’s no resemblance to Odessa—or even Moscow, for that matter. It looks like Brooklyn’s been translated into Russian. It feels like home, but not.
Exhausted from the constant adrenaline over the last few days, I grab a coffee to keep myself awake. I feel like a feral cat who got the shit beat out of him and dragged through an alley. And if I look half as exhausted as I feel, my mother will freak the fuck out.
Plus, I need my wits about me when I’m with my uncle. He may be like a father to me, but he’s still the leader of Russian organized crime in North America.
The walk to Brighton Peaks, the oceanfront complex building where my uncle and mother share a luxury apartment, takes less than five minutes. The boring faded, brick high-rise looming over the Brighton Beach boardwalk with ornate, white balconies jutting out of each floor couldn’t be more different than his home in Moscow.
After I graduated from university, my uncle let me move into his four-room apartment on Gorky Street. It’s located on the top floor of a beautiful building designed by Arkady Mordvinov in the 1940s in the Stalinist Empire style. Sure, the Peaks’ proximity to the ocean is a bonus, but if I want to live in an ugly brick box, I can do that in Moscow.
I wade through puddles on Brighton Beach Avenue before making a right at the corner with the Brooklyn Public Library. My head pounds and my nose starts to run, a telltale sign of Spring in New York. Flowers are blooming and trees are spewing shit I’m not used to inhaling.
It’s a reminder of how different it is from Moscow. In New York, I worry about puddles from rainfall and melted snowbanks and plants that wreak havoc on my allergies. In Moscow, I’m less worried about that than the dead bodies that appear when the snow thaws.
I enter the building and take the elevator the thirteenth floor. I rap on the door three times, draining my coffee as I wait for someone to answer.
My mother whips the door open, greeting me with tears in her eyes. She looks more vibrant and beautiful than I ever remember. Healthy, blonde hair bounces above her shoulders and her once hollow cheeks are plump, with a natural, rosy glow. Though I miss her dearly, choosing to live here with my uncle, soaking up the sunshine and freedom, is the best decision she ever made.
I step inside and pull her into my arms.
“Kirya! My Kirya! You’re finally here,” she says, squeezing me as hard as she can. At barely over five feet tall, she’s not a big woman, but she’s sturdy and strong. Her embrace feels like it could crack my ribs.
“What is this ‘finally’?” I ask with a laugh. “It’s only been a few months since I was last here.”
“I’m allowed to miss my son,” she says, pinching the top of my ear. I bat at her hand.
My uncle strolls up behind Mama, greeting me with a cigarette hanging from his upturned lips. He plucks it from his mouth, letting out a stream of smoke into my face. I cough, waving the smoke away. He’s always got a way to remind me who’s boss.
“Kirya!” He beckons me to come further inside. “Come in.”
“Good to see you, Uncle Vitya!” I step into the large living room and kiss his cheeks before giving him a quick hug.
After ten years in America, Viktor is almost unrecognizable. When he left Moscow, he was as thin as the cigarette between his fingers. His rotund belly and chubby, red cheeks are a telltale sign of a life of excess. Still, even with extra weight and gray stubble dusting his jaw and upper lip, he looks younger than he did twenty years ago. Maybe Americans get their water from the fountain of youth. The only thing left from his harder days are his crooked, yellow teeth.
“Good flight?” he asks, closing the door behind me and taking the duffle bag out of my hands.
I nod.
“Are you hungry?” Mama asks. “You must be, after a flight all the way from Sweden,” she continues before I have a chance to answer. “I’ll make you a snack.”
“Not too much!” Viktor tells her. “I’m taking him to see the restaurant today.”
“Then I should make Kirya double! Not even a dog should eat the food at that place,” she mutters.
“What restaurant?” I ask, following him through a small, but extravagant living room.
If anyone ever doubted my uncle’s wealth, all they’d have to do is look at his apartment. Everything is antique and overly ornate. From the frames on the artwork to the beautiful Oriental rugs covering the gorgeous hardwood floors. It’s the same way in his Moscow residence, though the Oriental rugs hang like tapestries.
He looks over his shoulder and winks at me. “I bought you a present.”
When we reach his office, he nods at the brown leather wingback chair across from his mahogany desk as he stomps his cigarette out in a brass ashtray.
“You bought me a restaurant?” I ask, lowering myself into the chair. The tension leaves my shoulders as I sink
into the back, letting the wings envelope me, relaxing for the first time since I left Sweden. There’s still a massive pain surging in my head, but I’ll grab some medicine to take care of that.
He sets the duffel bag down and riffles through it, stopping when he finds the bulging envelope he’s looking for. “You look like shit,” he says, pushing the bag to the ground. Good thing I didn’t pack anything breakable.
“I feel even worse.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my forehead. “Fuck spring in New York.”
Viktor laughs. “It was bad for me at first too. Go to the banya tomorrow. Dry that shit up.”
There’s nothing I’d love more than to relax in a steam bath right now, but there’s no time. “My flight to Moscow is at six a.m. tomorrow.”
“Your mother’s going to be pissed.” He looks up from the stack of cash he’s counting. “She’s been waiting for you.”
“She knew this wasn’t a social visit.” It’s harsh but the truth. I love my mother with all my heart, but I know she’s safe here with Viktor. Maybe someday I’ll be in the United States full-time. Until then, I’m happy I get to see her a few times a year, even if the visits are short.
“You’re so much like me, I could be looking in a mirror.”
“Dear god, I hope not!” I pat the top of my head and run my fingers through my hair to make sure it’s still there, teasing my uncle about his balding dome.
“You’re a funny man today, yes?” Viktor says dryly.
I just smile and settle back into the seat, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankles. The old, worn leather is soft and welcoming, I could easily fall asleep right here.
“There is a lot of money to be made right now, Kirya,” he says. His hazel eyes glow green, the shade of the American dollars stacked in front of him. “You getting Kravtsov to Detroit is just the beginning.”
“Is that how we’re going to capitalize?” I ask. “I’ll be going back and forth, helping Russians defect?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not for long, at least.” He shoves his chair away from the table, puts his feet up, and lights another cigarette. “There won’t be many more athletes defecting. There’s too much money to be made on them. You think Sovietsport is going to let that go?”
Sovietsport is a State-run group of companies responsible for importing and exporting sporting equipment, negotiating sponsorships, and sending athletes to other countries. Soviet athletes are in demand—and the government knows it.
“No, but I don’t think they will give up their most prized workhorses either. What’s the catch?”
“Money. Money is always the catch. The state is strapped and they need to do something. They are selling players to the NHL.”
“Really?” I lean forward, interested in the new development. A few of the older guys on the Scarlet Army team have been to begging to be allowed to go to the NHL for years.
“If a player has been drafted, they are going to let him go to America”—he waves his cigarette around as he speaks—“or Canada. But the player will not get his full salary, you see. Sovietsport will draw eighty percent of it.”
“Eighty percent?” I laugh. “Who would agree to that?”
My uncle’s smile disappears. “Who wouldn’t, Kirya? You know how they live. Eleven months at that dilapidated training base in the middle of nowhere.” His face is stone-cold sober. “They can’t even get their dicks sucked. Not even the married ones.”
I nod, understanding why a player would go, even for such a shitty financial deal. They play in tournaments all over Europe and North America and see the freedom—the opportunity. They will do anything to get to the West. Twenty percent of a five hundred-thousand-dollar contract is still more than they will ever make there.
“So how does this benefit us?” I ask. Time to get to the point. And there must be a point if my uncle brought me in to discuss this opportunity. “If the money is going to Sovietsport, what sense is it to help them?”
“Well, it is always good sense to help—influence—those in power, yes?” His eyebrows raise with his hypothetical question. “It will not go through the sports committee for long, my boy.” He pauses and smiles. “Soon, there will be no Soviet Union. And when that happens, players will be free to go without paying anyone. The Americans and Canadians, they are not stupid. They know Soviet players will flee in droves.”
“And we will be there to assist them,” I finish the thought.
“Exactly.” Viktor takes another drag on the cigarette and slowly lets out the smoke. “By helping Kravtsov, you have gained a reputation, Kirill. Players trust him and he will recommend you.”
Ivan will recommend me even if he doesn’t want to. That’s part of our agreement.
“I can also approach them too, yes?”
“I expect you to. I can get you a list of players who have already been drafted by NHL teams. You will contact them in the order of who was drafted highest. Because those are the players they want the most. The ones they will pay big dollars too. You know the talent here, Kirya. Hockey is in your blood.”
He’s right. I grew up playing hockey with Ivan Kravtsov. But unlike Ivan, when the Scarlet Army selected me for the junior team, I refused. I was making too much money selling the things I bought off foreigners. Thanks to my uncle’s guidance, I was already living the life I wanted to live. Money over hockey wasn’t a difficult decision for me, and going back to being under strict Soviet rules and discipline wasn’t even an option.
“I should also go after the new kids, the ones coming up in the system,” I say, already mulling over ideas. The opportunity to represent Russian hockey players in North America is exciting. It’s also an easy sell, since they’ll need someone to help translate and negotiate their contracts. Who better than me—someone who understands hockey, business, and the language.
“You must focus on the best ones, Kirya. Get to them before someone decides to do the same thing. If you have a relationship established, it will be harder for others to squeeze in.”
“Well, I’m sure you have a plan for the people who try to poach our players anyway.”
Viktor laughs. “I’m trying to get you away from that, my boy.”
“It’s hard when I’m in charge of collections at the market, Vitya. If something has to be taken care of, I do it.”
“Yes, I know. You take after me.” He looks up at me as he extinguishes his cigarette. “But I’d still rather you let Slava and Igor do that part. Keep your hands relatively clean for now.” He continues, “You know how different the media is in America. They aren’t spewing government propaganda. They have freedom to write whatever they want. And Soviet hockey players leaving is international news.”
I nod. While in America, I witnessed the media’s bloodlust for a story firsthand. I’m still surprised Ivan made it to Detroit. Reporters tracked his every move on TV and in the newspapers. They were even at the airport when he arrived, with cameras and video recorders catching every move. There was a press conference about the ordeal the next day. It was an absolute circus.
My uncle has been one step ahead of the curve his entire life. He’s got a brilliant mind, hundreds of relationships and agreements with members of the highest levels of Soviet government, and zero morals. All of which explain how he’s risen so high in organized crime.
At five years old, he set me up with a personal English tutor. When I complained, he told me it was one of the most important languages I could ever learn. Despite my initial hesitance, I speak the language almost as well as a native. My studies served me well as a young entrepreneur, trading Russian things for American goods—records, clothing, food—anything. Being able to converse gave me the upper hand over other kids trying to do the same thing. It’s a lot easier to trust a Russian who speaks the English language than one throwing out random words and phrases.
“They’ll link me to you. There’s no doubt.”
“Yes. That’s why when I say Slava and Ig
or will handle things like collections, you will listen, you understand?”
I nod again. As an Avtoritet, or “authority” in the Bratva, I may be a high-ranking soldier, but I’m still a soldier.
“How will we get paid?” I ask.
“Legally,” Viktor answers. “You remember that business I started with Vashnikov?”
I nod.
A year ago, my uncle opened a sports and entertainment company, with Sergei Vashnikov. A few days later, a sniper gunned down Vashnikov as he left a bathhouse. And just like that, Viktor become the only owner.
People like my uncle have seen the end of the Soviet Union coming. While many citizens live in fear, we’re counting down the days. Once the country breaks apart, those of us who formed relationships in the West and started businesses here early will become even richer.
“I’ve split the companies into two. From this moment on, you are the owner and CEO of New World Management. Being a sports agent is a perfectly legal career all over the world. You negotiate contracts and communication between the players and organizations and you get paid. We get paid.”
“Eighty percent?” I smirk, though I’m floored at Viktor’s ability to think ahead again. Someday, I hope to have the same strategic brilliance.
“No. But it will be enough. An old friend is drawing up contract documents now. A lawyer I know from the zone.”
“A lawyer you know from prison?” I ask. “That’s who I’m trusting to come up with a legal and legitimate contract?”
“He wasn’t in prison with me, Kirya.” Viktor laughs again. “He helped many of us get out.”
For someone who’s killed more people than I can count, he seems as normal as any man walking down the street. Once his clothes are off, the tattoos adorning his body tell the story of who he is: vory v zakone, a professional criminal with a high-level position in organized crime and authority over lower-level members.
He follows a strict code, which, among other things, says they are never to marry or have children. But family is extremely important to him. I’m sure that’s the reason he’s always doted on my mother and I, providing us everything we needed and anything we wanted, even after he moved to the United States. Which is why I’m slightly surprised he’s offering me legitimate work. The code also states they are never to participate in legal work, but live only on what they’ve gained through criminal means.
SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1 Page 4