Page 59 of Violent Possession
I get out of the car and go back to my cage.
* Moy khoroshiy(Russian: ??? ???????) is an affectionate term of endearment, literally meaning "my good one" or "my dear one”.
VASILY
The street isn’t on any map that matters. A forgotten artery, squeezed between a junkyard and the back of a slaughterhouse. It’s the kind of place the city pretends doesn’t exist. Seraphim’s territory, the private garden of heretics and apostates, where even the rats walk in silence.
The first sign that I’m in his domain is a boy. He can’t be more than fifteen, sitting on a tire shop crate, his thin legs swinging in the air as he sharpens a knife on a stone. He looks up as I pass, old eyes in a child’s face. He says nothing. He just tilts his head towards the end of the street. The message is:keep going, we’ve already warned that you’ve arrived.
I hate this. I hate the need to come here, to submit to this silent theater. A Malakov shouldn’t ask for passage or authorization fromanyone, but that’s the rule of the game now: we learn too soon that a mantle without power is just a pretty piece of clothing. For Seraphim, all power came from the refuge; for him, loyalty was just another form of hunger.
Further on, the yellowish light of a dive bar spills onto the broken sidewalk. A woman in a patched leather jacket and a bald man with a spiderweb tattooed on his elbow share a warm beerfrom the bottle, speaking low, but they stop when they feel my presence slide in the corner of their eye. They stopped when I approached. The woman studies me, a half-smile on her face. Even the extras in this play have discipline.
“Looking for the angel?” she asks, hoarse from cigarettes. “He’s sewing. End of the street, gray door. You can knock, the doorbell’s broken.”
I keep walking. It’s impossible to ignore the feeling of a degenerated community, that every window, hole, and alley has eyes and ears. Seraphim built a network of stray dogs, all loyal because he made them feel part of something bigger. More dangerous than any bought army. That was coexistence by silent pact, by common hatred of the world.
The door: gray, peeling, without any identification and with three bullet holes disguised under putty. The doorbell is unscrewed. I turn the handle.
Inside, it smells of ozone and cedar. The smell throws me back to childhood every time I entered one of our lawyers’ offices. Rolls of expensive fabric, silks and wools, stacked on makeshift but perfectly organized metal shelves. Industrial sewing machines aligned and the unreal white light of a surgical lamp. Seraphim likes order. It’s one of the things he and my brother are alike in.
He’s got his back to me, of course. Straight shoulders, hair too long for any orthodox Russian’s taste, the black shirt stretching at the thin angles of his waist.
And then he turns. His beauty is a mistake of nature. His hair is a cascade of pale curls that frame a face sculpted from marble, too beautiful to be man’s or woman’s, but colder than both. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes of such a pale blue they seem sickly; eyes of someone who has seen everything and no longer cares.
He slides a tailor’s scissors through a piece of white linen.Snip. Snip. Snip.
“You don’t have an appointment, Vasily,” he says.
“Urgent business doesn’t ask for leave,” I reply, stopping at a respectful distance. “I need a name. And a story.”
He pays no mind, just finishes the last cut in the linen, places the scissors with surgical precision on the table, and finally faces me. I always feel like an insect under a microscope near him. He sees the cracks in your armor. That’s how he survives. That’s how he thrives.
“You could have called,” he says. My presence is just a slight annoyance in his thought process. A mosquito buzzing near the lamp. “Or sent your assistant.”
“I don’t trust open lines. Or messages.”
He raises an eyebrow, and the gesture, so minimal, seems sculpted. “So, what did you bring me?”
I pull the photo from my jacket pocket. It’s crumpled, but it serves the purpose: a close-up of a dinner, Ivan and Alexei side by side, and between them a third man. The focus is on him, and even in the crude resolution, I can feel the energy of that gaze. Fierce, without any reverence. The kind that chews the leash and then the owner.
This photo that landed on my desk as nothing special. The face I can’t find any record of. Mr. Alexei was seen dining with Ivan at a luxury restaurant, the rumors began, and an unknown man. My men confirmed.
How long has this shit been going on?
“Alexei has a new dog,” I say. “He appeared out of nowhere. I want to know what hell my brother pulled him out of.”
I slide the photo to the edge of the cutting table. I don’t cross the line that separates my side from his. Seraphim brings his face closer, but doesn’t touch. It’s just an instant: his pupilrecalibrates, a micro-pattern in his breathing. The mask barely trembles, but I notice the crack. He knows.
Then, Seraphim picks up the freshly cut linen, folds it, tugs it.
“No,” he says.
Just that.
“I didn’t ask if you were in the mood. Do your job.”
“With him, no.”
