Page 35 of Cruel Russian King
“In our faction, like others, we share territory with other criminal elements. Some are allies…others are enemies,” I explained.
She looked up at me, eyes curious. “How do I tell them apart?”
I nodded. “Tattoos and colours. Low-level thugs usually wear color-coded bandanas, either on their arms or wrapped around their heads. They may not be bright, but they’re still dangerous.”
“And what about tattoos?” she asked, her tone cautious, her eyes scanning the people around us. She lowered her voice. “What should I look for?”
“Some tattoos are easy to spot on necks, faces, or hands,” I said, letting my gaze sweep over the passersby as if demonstrating. “Avoid those with serpents on their necks, they’re drug runners. Brown crowns on the cheeks? Those men killed their own mothers to be initiated into the Italian mob. If you see them, head in the opposite direction.”
She swallowed and looked down, nodding slightly. “And if something happens? Who can I run to? Who are your allies?”
“There are women at the flea market with wolves tattooed on their hands,” I said. “They are mothers, aunts, and sisters of some of my men. They are under Rykov protection. And the men in the tattoo parlor?” I paused, letting her eyes follow mine, tothe hole in the wall tattoo parlor across the street. “They are also under my protection.”
“Same wolf tattoo?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Is that why you have a wolf tattoo on your neck so people know that you are the leader and those people are under your protection.”
“Yes.”
I continued walking, showing her alleys and streets she should never venture into, pointing out vendors and shops under my protection, noting which paths to avoid and which people would immediately respond if she ever called for help.
Then we grabbed some hotdogs and walked to our next destination.
A building with animals painted on it, she lifted a brow, curiosity carved in her expression.
“Are they under your protection too?” she asked.
“No.” A small smirk tugged on my lips. “This is our next stop.”
Once inside we were greeted in the lobby by a young girl who worked there.
“Good day, Mr. Rykov. Good day, Mrs. Rykov. Please follow me,” she said with a polite smile.
We walked through the wide auditorium, down quiet hallways, and through a side door that opened to the fields. Ninel glanced up at me, her eyes widened.
Before I knew it, she had broken away from my side, walking briskly toward the pasture where two ponies waited: one black, one brown.
The young lady who had led us turned to me. “Kern is there waiting for you. I hope you have a lovely visit.”
I gave a curt nod, dismissing her, and she disappeared back inside.
When I joined Ninel, she was already petting the brown pony, her small hand running down its muzzle. The grin she turned on me nearly knocked the air from my lungs.
“Isn’t she cute?” she asked.
“He.”
The correction came from behind us. We turned, and a man approached wearing khaki pants and a khaki shirt, his name tag reading Kern.
“Good day, Mr. Rykov…Mrs. Rykov.” He handed Ninel a carrot.
“His name is Bugsy,” he said, nodding to the brown one, then to the black. “And that’s Lola, his girlfriend.”
Ninel laughed, holding the carrot out to Bugsy. He ate it from her hand, and she giggled again when she fed one to Lola. That sound, her giggle, struck me like lightning. I wanted to cage it, bottle it, keep it where no one else could ever hear it but me.
“I’ve always wanted a pony,” she sighed as we followed Kern further into the pasture.
