A/N: Happy Monday! Sorry I'm running a little late today. I'm in the process of moving, so that's been twisting my schedule out of shape. At least it's not midnight, right?
"Alex?" Seamus asked, raising an eyebrow when the shorter teen didn't answer as the seconds stretched on. "You alright there, bro?"
Alex started. "Hm? Yes, I'm fine."
"You sure about that?" Martina asked as Seamus settled back into his seat at the lunch table. A few tables away, someone dropped their tray, almost drowning her out. Lunch hour was nearly over. In fact, half of their usual group had already hurried off to prepare for their lessons or clubs. She popped another chocolate in her mouth, twisting the wrapper between her fingers. "You were glaring at that potted plant like it assaulted your mother. Very intense. Your eyebrows were making a V-shape." She demonstrated with her hands.
Alex pressed a palm to his forehead as though he could physically flatten it and huffed. "I did not. Anyway, it really is nothing. I've just had a bit of a headache, that's all."
"Sure."
Truthfully, Alex wasn't entirely sure what had come over him. One minute, he'd been eating lunch and feeling perfectly fine, and the next, he was flooded with irritation and the overwhelming desire to shotgun three edibles and call it a night. He squinted a little suspiciously out the window, but saw nothing except the snow covered lawns criss crossed by shoveled pathways for the guards to patrol, ending abruptly at the high brick walls of the campus. The gray, overcast sky seemed to squint suspiciously back at him.
With an effort, he looked back at his friends and fixed a smile on his face. It was probably just a mood swing. Glancing about for any topic that didn't directly relate to how crazy he was, his eyes caught on Timofey's face. "Did you-?" He caught the words before he managed to ask if he'd done his makeup differently this morning. He still wasn't sure how much the others knew about Lada; just because Timofey didn't make much of an effort to conceal it from Alex didn't mean it was fair game to ask questions in front of others. Instead, he gestured at his cheekbones. "Did you lose weight?" he settled on.
Timofey beamed. "No, not exactly." He leaned forward, a touch conspiratorially. "It's just these new supplements I'm taking."
Martina grinned. "I thought I noticed your profile changing. Which ones? My mother caught me stealing her estrogen pills and keeps them in the safe now. Like she needs them more than me. She's already old."
Timofey bobbed his hand in a so-so gesture. "They're not exactly estrogen based. Synthetic hormones, mixed with blockers. Just to get me started until I turn eighteen and can leave the country to get the good stuff. I found this supplier online that does discreet shipping too. The site's in Chinese, though."
"That doesn't sound safe," Patrice murmured, beating Alex to the punch. She glanced around the table with uncertain eyes. "Do you even know what's in them?"
"I did my research," Timofey snapped, fingers whitening around his fork. He dropped it on his plate with a sharp clatter. "I'm not a fool."
"I didn't mean it that way," Patrice whispered, eyes dropping to her lap.
Alex waded in. "Of course not, Patrice. It's a valid worry as far as I'm concerned. You look great and I'm sure your research is solid, Tim, but are you sure they're even the right ones if the site's in Chinese? What if they're knockoffs or contaminated with lead or something?"
Timofey shrugged stiffly, glancing away. Whatever anger had latched on to Patrice seemed to release its hold, aimless but still present. He unscrewed his bottle of Coke sharply, with an angry hiss of escaping carbonation. "I know it's a risk, but what else am I supposed to do? I'm sick of waiting. I'm sick of my body being wrong and getting more wrong by the fucking minute. I grew three inches this year. Three. It's not stopping on it's own, so if I don't stop it myself, it'll just get worse. I don't want to be six feet tall. Surgery can only do so much and I'm already…." Timofey struggled for words, jerking a hand at himself. "-bigger, than I ever wanted to be."
Martina flicked her wrapper on the table. "I say good for you. It's your body. Do what you want."
What could Alex say to that? He knew perfectly well what it was like to have the world feel wrong in a way no one else could see. To fix it with a pill he knew might hurt him. It was still hard watching someone else take that risk, though. At least he had Yassen to help him figure it out, even if it came paired with constant disapproval. He bit his lip. "Maybe your dad can help you order them? He seems… supportive."
Timofey snorted. "I'm shocked he can barely manage to humor me, having to reach so far out of my grandfather's pocket to begin with."
"Your grandfather?" Seamus broke in, twisting the stem of his apple so hard it broke off with a snap. Alex was confident there were Olympian long-jump medalists impressed with the conversational leap he made in his desperate bid to change the subject. "They're both mob, right? It's wild how many kids here have relatives in it. Or that they don't fight more. I mean, my mom is-" and here he gave everyone an evasive glance "-well, she does finance work for, um, some groups back in the states. But the only mobster types I've met there are Italian. So your grandpa is the Boss and your dad is the Underboss, right? Second in command?"
Patrice sighed. "I'm starting to think I'm at the wrong school. My parents are just lawyers."
"What kind of law?"
"I'm not sure. They don't talk about work much. You know, non-disclosure agreements."
"You're probably at the right school, then," Martina said absently, checking her phone and ignoring Patrice's sputter.
Seamus turned his forcefully inquisitive look on Alex.
"Don't ask me," Alex said, trying not to scowl. Of all the topics to pivot to, it was something he had nothing to add. "We don't talk about work at home and I don't ask. He's just always on his phone."
Timofey sighed, turning back to Seamus and shaking his head. He picked half heartedly at the roll on his plate. "Not quite. Underboss is a title, right? It doesn't quite… translate, for lack of a better word. The Italian mafias are pretty consistent, from what I understand, and the Bratva is… less formally structured. More variations between gangs."
Alex tried to help it. He really did. The words tumbled out regardless. "How do you mean? Surely there's some order to it."
Timofey's eyes flickered to him, considering. Visibly weighed his answer. "Well, of course. It's just more fluid. There's almost always the same roles to be filled in any one bratva, like departments in a company, but apart from the heads, there's rarely planned titles for the people doing the work inside those departments." He spotted Seamus' squint and sighed, drawing a triangle in the air with his finger tip. "Think of it like like a pyramid: the elite group makes all the decisions at the top, led by the Pakhan; the Support group and the Security group are both in the middle, and are in charge of keeping the operations going smoothly and ensuring the right people are paid off, respectively; while the bottom of the pyramid is the Working group, which is made up low-rung criminals of whatever type that bratva deals with. Prostitutes, thiefs, whatever. They are managed by the Support group. There's also a bookkeeper, usually, who just answers to the Pahkan and is kept separate from everyone else, so they aren't part of the pyramid. Well, sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
Timofey waved a hand, warming to the topic. Alex had to give Seamus credit- this was an excellent segue. "Depends on what needs to get done and how many people you have to do it. Groups overlap and jobs combine. The bookkeeper is usually separate from the Support group, but in my family those roles weren't always distinct. Sometimes the head of the Support group or the Security are the same person, if that's what makes sense. And while the Pakhan always leads the whole Bratva and the Elite group, the rank of the other leaders can vary. Captains and boyeviks can wield similar power when all is said and done."
"Boyeviks?" Alex asked, stumbling over the word.
"It means warriors. Established men, trusted to run specific, ongoing rackets and are supervised by captains. Think middle-management. They recruit new guys too. Those new guys are called associates, but not in the business sense- more like disposable errand boys."
Seamus' lips twisted as he thought that over. "So, who's the underboss? Your dad?"
"Yes and no. My father is a captain, who happens to lead the Security group. Allegedly." Timofey sat back in his seat. "Things like second in command are not always spelled out. Whoever is set to take over is often just stated by the Pakhan, and once that Pahkan needs to be replaced, the captains vote on whether or not to support the choice."
It hadn't been stated explicitly, but Timofey hadn't said Dima wasn't Sergey's chosen successor. Alex worried his lip. "What happens if they vote no?"
"Bloodshed, usually," Martina said. She drummed her fingers and tucked her phone back in her purse. "It's kind of hard to guess how bratvas will handle that stuff. Less structure among smaller bratvas is nice because you can rise fast if you're good or well connected, but things can get…" She made a tilting gesture with her hand. "Lopsided, I think is the word? My ex-step-dad was a captain in the Support group but made less money than another captain in the Elite group. He was always mad about it. I kept telling him he should get rid of those ugly tattoos."
Timofey rolled his eyes. "They never do. Papa had his moved to his chest so they wouldn't show."
Martina hummed. "Smart. Best of both worlds."
Patrice furrowed her brows. "I never understood that whole thing with criminals having tattoos. Why would you do that? If you get arrested, the cops will know what it means. If you try to commit crimes while someone is watching, other people know to keep a closer eye on."
Martina shrugged. "It's a respect thing. Shows you've proved yourself."
"And it's changing," Timofey added. "Well, sort of."
Alex sighed. "You say sort-of a lot."
"It really does depend," Martina offered. "It's an old-school versus the new-school problem. The old-school guys don't mind being identified by how many people they've killed or whether or not they've been to prison. The ones who work on the streets like being known Vory. Of getting that respect." She shrugged again. "Then, there's groups like Timofey's relatives-"
"Allegedly."
"-where they do business with big corporations or the government. It does not pay to be obvious criminals now that everyone can be searched on the internet and articles can be written on bratva deals by people who've never even been to Moscow. Makes the business people nervous, so a lot of the bratva are voluntarily skipping tattoos or having them removed. The old school crowd is pretty upset about it- I know someone who got stabbed for having his removed."
Timofey popped a piece of shredded roll in his mouth. "It's only a matter of time. All the big money happens in boardrooms and cubicles now."
Alex snorted; Yassen had said much the same thing. If it wasn't for being on the run with him and living together now, Alex might still believe most lucrative crime was more action based. He glanced at the clock hanging over the canteen line, before standing and grabbing his bag, already dreading sitting through class. That weird moodiness had returned without him realizing precisely when. Hopefully, his tincture could take the edge off. "See you in art," he said to Seamus.
The lawyer's office was located on the opposite end of the city from Sergey's family holdings. A small, private practice that specialized in family law for the wealthy, it was tastefully installed in a renovated, yet architecturally intricate bank that was likely built sometime in the forties and located on a relatively busy street. While the lawyer's mafia ties were obvious to the contract killer, they didn't necessarily concern him now: Sergey was one of many clients. While Sergey's branch would no doubt assist the lawyer as much as he assisted them, their business relationship would not extend to physical surveillance. A few guards patrolled the property, dressed in suits reminiscent of doormen, mostly there for show. Security was good for a mere lawyer's office, but not impossible to circumvent: cameras, alarms, and a technical specialist to ensure their digital security was top notch. It was obvious that the features of the bank itself were being relied upon to do the rest of the job; the thick walls, limited windows and entrances making it unlikely to be penetrated.
Sitting across the street in a quaint cafe with a small fireplace that crackled cheerfully across from him, Yassen sipped his coffee and stared down at his little iPod's screen. He'd researched the building's records and it's listed occupants thoroughly over the course of the weekend, of course.
Smithers' tech was convenient, though not the bulk of his approach. (He knew better than to rely too much on the goodwill of others, though he trusted the gadget man not to make his life unduly problematic in the short term.) It was a little tempting to ask if Alex could kill some of the security features for him with his upgraded device, but he dismissed the idea before it could fully form. Not only would the fingerprint scanner require Alex to be directly involved in mafia business, the gadget master's warning rang in his head about using the white noise feature.
It wouldn't be wise to tie them to any crimes in Moscow, not this late in the game.
At any rate, Yassen had a few other ideas. A little more cumbersome but perfectly do-able. Getting in wouldn't be the trickiest part- installing surveillance that wouldn't be detected or traceable was the real challenge. He'd need a bit of preparation, but it wouldn't take long before Dima had all the information he wanted and Yassen could finally get some perspective on Sergey's familial spats. A valuable use of his time away from the office, not that he found his contract work strenuous; frankly, the most arduous part of his coordinating work was familiarizing himself with the shifting operatives in Scorpia's network. Many of the permanently installed assets Yassen had expected to use seemed to have switched regions or been otherwise unavailable, though there were certainly enough to replace them. It was just a small headache, if that.
In his pocket, one of his two phones rang. He fished it out, reading Vankin's name on the little readout. With a grimace, he answered. "What is it?"
Vankin got right to the point. "Can you talk?"
"I'm out getting coffee," Yassen said. The cafe was only half occupied, but due to the cold, most occupants had clustered near the fireplace. Yassen had joined them, mostly for the sake of not sticking out.
And to be fair, he wasn't just getting coffee- he was also eating pastry. Ordinarily, he wasn't so snack-ish nor drawn to such sweet things, but now there was a special pleasure in getting to enjoy such treats without having them stolen by a mid-pubescent bandit with a vexingly mercenary attitude towards food sharing and ownership.
He tore off a corner of the pastry and chewed it with more focus than he usually gave the task. The boy had always been inclined to make the occasional sneak-attack on Yassen's food while they were on the run, though it had been infrequent and largely done playfully. Now it was almost every day. Yassen wasn't particularly food possessive; he was more baffled and annoyed than anything else. There wasn't any point, not that he could tell: they generally ate the exact same things and the assassin was always more than willing to procure more if the boy was hungry. What about it being Yassen's made it that much more appealing?
"You need only listen. This is more of an update," Vankin responded. "MI6 has definitely received notice of the official charges. They have, as anticipated, requested access to Alex for interviews and their own assessments."
"I see."
"This isn't remotely unexpected, of course. It simply means that they're going to fight the charges rather than pin it on Jones or Blunt, disown them, and hope the media coverage dies down fast. We're proceeding according to plan and dragging our feet on giving them access. Alex's health and happiness must be priority number one."
Yassen quashed the impulse to roll his eyes. Priority number one was finishing their own assessments first, no doubt. "Very well. Has a date been set?"
"Assuming my superiors aren't feeling any pressure, we might be able to stall a few months. It may be sooner, but I will try to let you know."
"That's fine." There was little to be gained tactically from stalling, since they would certainly interview Alex one way or another. A break would be good for the boy, though. Give Yassen time to emotionally prepare him. "Anything else I should know?"
"Just try to keep you and the kid out of trouble. His case is pretty strong, all things considered and should excuse your presence for at least a few years. Don't weaken it and my superiors will be happy enough."
Yassen hung up and set his phone down, taking another sip of coffee. There was that security shop nearby that sold intelligence grade surveillance under the table, the same one he'd used to get his infrared and power detector. While he'd made no real effort to hide his anti-surveillance equipment purchases from Scorpia, he hadn't advertised it either and moving forward, he would need to rely on their discretion. A cash transaction should prevent word from reaching Scorpia that he'd been there, as well as leave little record of his purchases. It should be a simple matter, so assuming everything went to plan, he could have surveillance installed within a day or two.
His phone rang a second time. An unidentified number flashed across the screen.
Yassen frowned. He'd programmed all the relevant ones in his phone already, of course. Vankin. His SVR assistants. Alex's school. Alex himself. His mafia contract work was handled through his second phone and even if he'd found the number, Dima couldn't be stupid enough to try to contact him on the same one the SVR did.
"Yes?" he answered, after the third ring.
Smithers greeted him in Russian. "Mr. Makovich, I'm calling to confirm your therapy appointment with Dr. Roza on the thirteenth of next month?"
"You have the wrong number," Yassen said and hung up. He glanced at the clock on the mantle above the fireplace and scowled ever so slightly, glancing back across the street before he stood to gather his things. Undoubtedly, his call with Smithers would run annoyingly long. If he left now, he might be able to get ahold of the stupid man with his iPod and make it to the surveillance shop before Alex got out of school.
Yassen wasn't exactly optimistic, though.
