3

Ryat

The following week, I was doing push-ups in my cell when a guard knocked on the bars. Exercise helped dull the boredom, and my physique was a testament to hard discipline, making my former self seem sloppy and weak. Now, I was truly strong.

"Monteiro, a visitor."

I got up, wiped the sweat off my neck, and passed by the guard without acknowledging him. I had learned how to navigate the prison system in Russia. I didn't cooperate with the authorities and had taken numerous beatings for it. Me and authority still didn't mix.

A weathered figure sat at a scratched table in the waiting room. Age and a tough life had transformed Artur Golubev into a gnarled man, but I knew he could still handle the newest bratva recruit when necessary. Artur would never need to prove his physical prowess. Besides, his skill with discreet explosives was legendary.

He was a vor, and no Russian inmate would ever challenge him.

"Ryat , my boy, you look well, a difficult thing considering what they feed you in here," Artur smiled at me, his gold teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

"I've acquired a taste for it," I grinned and relaxed back in my seat.

Artur had been incarcerated twice while I was in prison. Seeing the old man was oddly comforting. He was the only person I'd ever met with as many tattoos as I had, but his were far more significant.

He bore the marks of the vory v zakone. He bowed to no man.

"Of course you have. Prison suits you, Niko, like it suited me. I saw your brother last week."

That caught my attention. Kirill was the pakhan of the Monteiro bratva, a brotherhood ruling from Brighton Beach, a historically Russian stronghold in New York. Yet, in the vast landscape of North America's countless brotherhoods, a single bratva was relatively insignificant. Kirill was wise. He understood his position and would have known to show respect to a man like Artur. Vor status was the utmost respect, and the vory v zakone was not to be trifled with.

"I trust he was welcoming," I said.

Artur nodded. "As he should be. Your brother is a wise man and a good pakhan. New York is a challenging territory to control, and he manages it well. The vory hasn't needed to intervene there since your father and his troubles in the nineties."

He referred to a particularly turbulent period when a bratva from Boston clashed with the Monteiro bratva. Both cities saw bloodshed until the vory intervened.

"I suppose the apple fell far from the tree when it comes to Viktor and Kirill, unlike me."

Artur raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning my father was an ignorant Russian thug, and I'm pretty sure he attended school more than I did. Kirill is the brains of the family," I shrugged, unfazed by it, really. I had no illusions about myself.

"You underestimate yourself, Ryat . I've been impressed by you. There are book smarts, and then there are street smarts. Furthermore, not every man grasps the code."

The code. Artur referred to the code of the vory. Vory v zakone roughly translated to "thieves in law" and had its own set of rules. Above the petty feuds of rival bratvas, being knighted by the vory with the title was the highest form of respect. It was an ancient system, and while it had evolved, it remained a potent honor.

"I've seen how you command respect in here, your innate understanding of unwritten rules. The vory needs men like you."

Now it was my turn to stare.

Artur's gaze roamed over my prison uniform. "I hope you have space on that tattooed body. I'm advocating for your stars."

Stars. One of many symbols laden with meaning in the complex hierarchy of the vory. When inked in different locations, they signified different ranks in the organization.

"Stars? I'm too young."

"You're old in terms of your experiences."

"Fine. I'm too unstable."

Artur chuckled. "Knowing that makes you not."

I ran a hand over my shaved head. Stubble grazed my palm. "It's too late for me, old man. I just want to watch the world burn."

Artur stared at me for a long moment.

"And your brother, his wife, his children? Having a vor in the family would make the Monteiro bratva stronger and safer."

I released a weary sigh. "Kirill can handle himself just fine. I don't want to deal with bratva affairs. That life ended for me long ago."

Artur scrutinized me, a discerning gleam in his eyes. "You don't earn a nickname in prison like Palach if you're done with bratva life."

"Being the executioner has nothing to do with bratva matters."

"Then what's it about?"

"Feeding the beast."

I offered a smile to Artur, but the old man recoiled. It seemed to happen more often lately. I was the abyss no one dared to peer into too deeply.

"Here." Artur handed me a book. "For your collection." The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. "I thought it was fitting."

I smiled and accepted the volume, running my finger over the title. A classic I had read before but would gladly revisit.

"Thank you. I'll consider your vor recommendation, but thanks for the thoughtfulness," I replied softly.

Artur sighed audibly. "You sound like a damn politician. Well, I'll see you when you're out. Surely you can spare some time between burning the world down and returning to prison to join an old man for a drink."

"I have scores to settle. I'll find you afterward."

Artur frowned. "Why do I doubt that?"

Because you know me too well. I simply shrugged as I watched him leave the room. I glanced around the rest of the visiting area.

It hadn't changed in seven years. The table by the window was where my brother had shattered my sanity with his words.

"It was quick if it helps at all. She's gone, Ryat . Valeria De Lopez is dead."

He had stabbed me deep and left me to bleed out. I was lying at the scene, broken and bleeding. I was stuck in that moment, unable to find my way back to reality. I hadn't lied to Artur. I was indifferent to the world now. I had no desire for a fresh start or a new beginning, as the therapists inside often preached. If they could see into my mind, they would never release me.

I was ready to embrace the flames of hell eagerly awaiting my return.

Back in my cell, I added the book to my cherished collection. Each paperback on the small shelf had been read countless times. Every word was ingrained in my memory. The characters in the books sometimes felt more tangible than the people I once knew. Except for her. She would always be the most real to me, even in her absence.

The notion of becoming a vor lingered in my troubled thoughts. It was a surprise to be considered. It was the highest honor a man like me could aspire to. An uneducated, violent felon with a rap sheet resembling that of a serial killer. I lay on my bed, staring into emptiness. Bruno had been released a few days ago. I would follow suit in a few weeks. The cell felt too quiet without him. I no longer enjoyed the silence; it only amplified the screams in my head.

I gazed at the ceiling, where several items were taped up. My treasures, if such a word could be applied to such a modest collection.

A photograph of Molly Monteiroa, my sister-in-law, with her two young children. My imposing brother stood behind them, his hand resting on Molly's shoulder. They were my only remaining family in the world.

Beside it, a black-and-white newspaper clipping. An obituary. I hadn't bothered to keep the words beneath the photo. Antonio De Lopez couldn't have penned an obit for his daughter if his own life depended on it. He had never truly known her, nor had he cared enough to try.

Valeria.My lastochka.

The picture quality was terrible. It was far too grainy to make out, unless I let my eyes unfocus a little. She wasn’t smiling in the picture, merely staring a black hole through the camera lens, right at me. Every single night, I stared back, for hours on end, and let my mind wander the halls of the past.

My little swallow with the clipped wings, who had died inside her cage, after all.

Her death had ripped away what little sanity I’d had left. Everything had stopped making sense in that moment, and it had never gone back to normal.

I’d always known I was a damned man. I hadn’t been enough for my mother to live for, and I hadn’t been strong enough to protect mylastochka. Life was a horror, a sickening freak show.

I wanted it to end. I would soon.

First, I had my scores to settle.

First, I’d have my vengeance. It was the only thing that brought me a measure of calm.

Violence was all I had left. The whirling chaos inside me had only quieted once in my life, around her, my littlelastochka, and now she was gone. It’d never be still again.

I’d learned to live with the storm inside me. People had learned to fear it, and that made sense. The part of me that had been sane and rational had died with her. All that was left were the flames of madness.

There were the only thing that kept me warm.

The only thing I had.