БРАТВА РОЯЛТИ __ BRATVA ROYALTY (Story // NSFW)

[Rex.]

STORY // CHAPTER 01​

 

[Rex.]

CHAPTER 01
A man of swarthy complexion counted American dollar bills with meticulous care, his touch enlivened with near-sexual frisson at the feel of crisp currency grazing against his fingertips. "$120,450," Igori told them.

"In rubles?" an older man asked. The room of eyes shifted to the accountant, silent recognition that the tone of the Pakhan's request did not come as a demand but something that suggested ... indulgence.

The smartly dressed businessman gave the Russian kingpin a sidelong glance, then emitted an inaudible sigh. "7,287,230 Rubles, Deda," he answered with thinly veiled affection. A growing smile warmed the elderly killer's face at the sound of the collected earnings, the figure music to his Slavic ears.

"Not bad for one night's work, da?" the Pakhan asked everyone, yet no one in particular. A rise of murmured chuckles from Slavic voices filled the room in collective assent. The old man peered around with a mirthless gaze, his grandson equally without cheer. The crowd of killers and thieves silenced their attempt at an ingratiating chortle -- the look in the Pakhan's eyes meant the end for one of their numbers. "I had to bring my grandson in to examine the accounts, to have my heart break knowing that one of YOU has been stealing from me."

Furtive glances bounced between the ensemble of Avtoritet and Bratok subordinates, neither guilty or in accusation -- all laden with repressed, dire fear. Igori failed to acknowledge their squirming, though the heavy atmosphere in the room could hardly to unnoticed. He set the money in rubber bands, stacking them in a metal safe-box and looked about the room. The sun outside shined bright, but the basement where they convened remained dark with a few, hanging lightbulbs providing what illumination filled the room. The incandescence casted hard shadows on even harder men, stark and deadly -- as was the consequence for robbing the head of the Yurikovich-Berezovsky Family.

"Which one of you needs to die?" the ailing man asked, fully intent upon performing the execution himself.

"Is that ... necessary, Pakhan?" Igori asked with quiet respect, his tone gauged to the icy tenor of the circumstance. Igori's eyes swept out to the standing men, his gaze lingering on the select few he suspected. "Perhaps ... if the offender could make amends by paying a tribute of equal amount -- $120,450 by next Friday -- that would send a message and a lesson?" It was hardly surprising that the Pakhan's accountant grandson offered up an escape route that involved money; his Deda promoted old-school, Soviet values where disloyalty meant death, but Igori distinguished between disloyalty and naked greed. Men were valuable and no one had been killed due to betrayal. Blood begat blood, and paranoia ruined morale when the need for retribution often preyed upon a loyal soldier with the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Every ounce of attention focused on the older man, blue eyes narrowed in rumination. Judging. Finally relenting. "One week," came his pronouncement.

A collective sigh and shuffle of feet released the heinous tension as Igori stood up, impervious to the discomfort. He remained untouchable in most respects, and he rarely failed to demonstrate his value in being a candidate for leadership in the Bratva. Loyalty could only be freely given, not imposed, and Igori just created a exchange of debt with the currency being their lives. If the money did not appear in a week ... well, then the retribution would be on them, wouldn't it?

Still underground, Igori put on his sunglasses as the crowd of subordinates watched him. Surely, he'd need them upon stepping outside to protect his eyes from the sun; but, in the relative darkness of their congress, he protected them from his fierce gaze that held no reservations about unleashing brutality to ensure that the family survived. The family always needed to survive.

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Igori sailed though the streets of New York City as a passenger in the back of the armored limousine. It wasn't his limousine but THEIRS; Igori shared everything with her. A pang of longing lingered in Igori's core. The feeling was ever-present, and though not elusive the pang changed with an emotional malleability only someone of Russian descent could appreciate. Igori remained aware that being the one to use the limousine meant that Danielle walked around in the world outside of its protective shell -- outside of his protective reach.

The accountant had resolved to allow his lawyer "wife" to make her way in the world. A tug at his lips came as the reaction to his self-incriminating joke -- Igori allowed nothing with Danielle, and she was more than capable of managing her own affairs and caring for herself. And yet ... neither could exist without the other. Neither wished to do so. They had tired, several times, to forge separate lives and identities apart from one another, but those attempts collapsed with the laughable grandeur of a house of card caught in a faint breeze. Igori loved his Deda, but Danielle was his only weakness in this world; to say that he "loved" her did not come close to describing the carnal, possessive, and soulful connection they shared.

Dreaming of that very morning, eyes staring intensely into the other, Igori relived the memory of emptying himself into her -- goosebumps riddled his skin, and he trembled slightly at the recollection. The only thing that made life -- and days like today -- bearable for Igori was knowing that he'd be inside of Danielle that evening. That's not say that everything was perfect -- far from it. They were like two suns, eternally drawn into one another with fiery gravity, yet their inherent magnetisms repelled at the point of ultimate union. A solar system of crime, money, prestige, luxury, opportunity, influence, power: all orbited their imperfect yet destined intimacy.

Only the best would suffice for the two most powerful people no one knew existed, and when Igori entered their luxury apartment he felt a sense of deep relief and supreme satisfaction. Call it arrogance, but a rush of pride consumed Igori when he considered the privilege of being himself; he found the love of his life, they lived in a gorgeous penthouse, with more money than they could possibly spend. The woman hired to be their servant had outdone herself in cleaning their apartment to the point of immaculate. Their freshly prepared dinner lay ready to be heated up, and several bottles of specified wine resided in buckets of ice, already chilled, ready to be consumed. The pair could host a small gathering, and they had in the past, but Igori was eager to finish off the week alone with the sole person he'd kill to protect.

.