Page 3 of Beautiful Lies
Inside, a man is strapped to a chair, his face already bruised and bloodied. It seems my brother, and avtoritet, or second in command, has made a start. Eastern European Bratva structure is more fluid than a lot of the organized crime circles, making our organization more adaptable. For us, influence is earned through loyalty, reputation, and connections, rather than hereditary titles. A lot of our syndicates splintered after the fall of the USSR, reforming into more regional territories, like our own Ukrainian organization here in the new world, and we operate a little less traditionally and more like the other crime families in New York. But while I still see advantages in the old ways, I like having my brother by my side. I know I can trust him unequivocally. Either way, the secret of staying on top is being able to adapt and not staying mired in the past. Many of the old-world bratvas don’t see that, to their own detriment.
Not us, though. We made the decision to expand from the Ukraine here to America where the trade in weapons is prolific. It’s a decision that has stood us in good stead since this is another way we can support our brothers back in the motherland in their fight against tyranny. By supplying money and weapons, and sourcing whatever else our comrades need. That’s why discovering who’s behind the disappearance of these particular arms shipments is so crucial, because they were bound for Ukraine. If there was a Russian syndicate here in the city, that’s where my suspicion would lie… but there’s not.
Darian stands with his sleeves rolled up and his knuckles already raw. Looks like he’s been enjoying himself. Between the two of us, he’s definitely the more bloodthirsty. It works for our dynamic. He grins when he sees me, a predatory glint in his eyes.
"Ah, Pakhan, You’re just in time for the fun part." He’s always careful to address me formally, even though we’re siblings. No point in advertising how close we are, though. There’s always someone who will use anything they can find against you. And in this world, family doesn’t always mean loyalty, even though I trust my brother with my life.
I approach slowly, studying our captive and his eyes widen in recognition and fear as I draw closer. He's one of Petrov's men, part of the Mutri. In the past, they haven’t stepped outside their homeland of Bulgaria, though they’ve expanded into Europe in recent years. Petrov’s been trying, unsuccessfully, to gain a foothold in the US, but his organization lacks manpower and cohesion. But this one was caught snooping around our latest arms shipment destined for Ukraine, so it’s put him on our shit list.
However, one of the things that consistently throws me off track, is that the recent troubles have not been limited to just us. Other organizations like ours - Irish, Italian, Albanian, and even the Latin crews up in the Bronx - have felt the interference of some unseen hand, a ripple coursing through the underbelly of the city. Everyone’s on edge. Arms deals collapse at the last minute, shipments go missing from supposedly secure docks, and lieutenants speak in lower voices, always afraid there’s another rat in the ranks. No one knows who’s pulling the strings, but everyone’s guessing, and the guessing is getting people killed. Sometimes the wrong people. It’s pitting organizations against each other. Making everybody suspicious of one another where we’ve previously existed in a careful kind of harmony.
Unfortunately, the svolota everyone suspected, Vito, the Viper, Rossi, is dead. I’d think that a lie, a ruse to cover his tracks, if I didn’t know it from an absolutely reputable source who witnessed his death firsthand.
My own organization has been hit twice in as many weeks. Petrov’s men are too clumsy for the kind of precision we’ve been seeing, and the Colombians are stretched thin after the last bloodbath on Coney. The Italians have bigger problems since the Viper was one of theirs, operating on his own agenda without authorization. Now they’re having to clean house, which leaves me to suspect that either there’s a new player none of us are aware of yet, or someone has decided to take up where Vito Rossi left off. Maybe a combination of the two; someone using the unexpected chaos and disruption to mask their own intervention amid the confusion. You cut off one head, there’s always another ready to grow in its place.
I glance at my brother, who wipes his knuckles on a rag without taking his eyes off the captive. He’s humming something under his breath, a lullaby our mother used to sing, but twisted now, warped by the violence of the moment. I wonder if he feels the heat closing in as much as I do, or if he’s too in love with the bloodletting to notice.
The man squirms, the zip ties cutting deeper into his wrists as sweat slides down his temple. His mouth works at the gag, but he doesn’t dare make a sound. I step in closer and crouch, letting him get a good look at me. Up close, he reeks of fear and something else—maybe gunpowder or piss. Ugh, yeah, it’s piss, I decide as I see the dark stain on his pants.
"You know who I am?" I ask, my voice low and dangerous as I take a step back from his stench.
He nods frantically, words muffled by the gag in his mouth.
I smile, but there's no warmth in it. "Good. Then you know what happens to those who cross Nikolai Radaeva.”
Reaching into my jacket, I pull out a gleaming knife. The blade catches the dim light as I bring it closer to his face. His eyes widen, darting between the knife and my cold stare.
"Now, we're going to have a little chat," I say, sliding the flat of the blade along his face.
The khuylo’s breath comes fast and shallow as I press the knife to the soft flesh of his cheek, the cold steel forcing a shiver through him. I don't draw blood, not yet. The threat alone, the razor edge scrape over his bristled skin, does more for my purposes than any wound could. Plus, I don’t want him bleeding out too soon. I let the tip trace the curve of his jaw, slow and deliberate, like a lover’s caress warped into something dark and sinister. He jerks his head reflexively, but my free hand clamps his shoulder, pinning him. I lean in, letting my cologne and the iron tang of the knife mingle in the stale air.
"Look at me," I command quietly. He does so, trembling, pupils dilated almost to black. I can see the calculation in his gaze, the desperate search for some mercy, some sign that I’m anything less than what the underworld claims. I don’t blink. I want him to remember this moment and know who holds his fate.
I’m not known for my leniency.
"Do you know what we do to traitors in the old country?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper. "Not the dead ones. The ones who think they can survive. We make examples of them. We make their families think twice." I see the spark of hope sputter out in his expression. That’s right—I’ve checked. He’s got a wife. A little girl, even. All leverage, all part of the game. I’m not such a monster that I’d hurt the innocent, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Darian circles behind the captive with a wolfish grin, tapping out a rhythm on the back of the chair with his knuckles. "You gonna talk, or you wanna try your luck with me instead?" he sneers, tone almost jovial. My brother always did prefer the direct approach. He’s even more vicious than me. But I prefer the quiet dread, the anticipation.
The knife slides down, resting against the pulse thrumming in the idiot’s throat. He freezes. I can see the sweat bead and drip from his brow, can hear the shallow rattle of his breath struggling around the gag. It’s enough to make me smile, this simple mastery of fear.
"Now, you're going to tell me everything you know about who's been interfering with our operations."
I nod to Darian, who roughly yanks out the gag. The man sputters and coughs, a string of saliva hanging from his split lip.
"I-I don't know anything!" he stammers. "Please, I swear!"
Sighing, I stand up and circle behind him, maximizing his terror now he can’t anticipate what might happen. "Wrong answer."
In one swift motion, I lean over his shoulder and plunge the knife into his thigh. His scream echoes off the warehouse walls as blood begins to soak through his pants. Darian chuckles, clearly enjoying the show.
"Let's try again," I growl, twisting the blade. "Who sent you? Is this Petrov’s work?"
The man's breath comes in ragged gasps. "It... it wasn't Petrov," he chokes out. "We were hired... by someone else."
I exchange a glance with Darian. This confirms my suspicions.
"Who?" I demand, stalking back to where I’m facing him and leaning in close. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils.
