Lay beside me
This won't hurt, I swear
She loves me not, she loves me still
But she'll never love again
She lay beside me
But she'll be there when I'm gone
Black heart scarring darker still
Yes, she'll be there when I'm gone
-Metallica, The Unforgiven II
Sergei does not ask any specific questions when Kirill arrives at the brothel. He rarely ever does. Only his usual one, "What's it gonna be this time?"
"Some time with Sonya," Kirill informs him. "I'm in the mood for something a bit more extensive."
"Just Sonya, then? Or one or two others?" Sergei suggests. "It's only just early afternoon. They're all free at the moment."
"Just Sonya will do," Kirill confirms. "I just want a plain fuck, not a whole orgy."
"Maybe next time, eh?" Sergei grins, and Kirill grins back and saunters into one of the bedrooms. "And tell her there's no need for make-up," he calls, but he is not sure if Sergei has heard it.
His lust should be growing now, as he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for her, taking off his shoes in the meantime, but there is nothing going on between his legs. No surprise, really, with all the tension and worry, and with his father making it all even worse.
His father, who is the cause of it all. His father, who has betrayed him.
All he feels is fury, wild fury that sears his insides. Damn you, what kind of father do you think you are, trying to kill the only one I truly love?
Well, Nikolai is not the only one he loves, actually. He loves Maria, and he loves his sisters. He loves the memory of his mother. And he probably loves Vulturus the dog, he thinks, because the dog seems to love him in turn.
But he loves Nikolai, his protector, his friend, his brother, more than anything else in the world.
If he could only go to see him! But there is no way he can. He has to be patient, he has to wait. And yet, how can he bear to wait for so long?
The door opens quietly, and Sonya slips in, in a thin, short dress that shows off her nicely formed legs. Her dark hair is in disarray, hanging over her face, and she holds her head lowered. "Hello," she murmurs, barely more than a whisper.
"Hello, little one. Anything the matter?"
She approaches slowly, very reluctantly. "I… I…" And then it all breaks out of her with a sob. "I'm so sorry, please don't be angry with me, please…"
What the hell is the matter with the girl? "Come here," Kirill says curtly, but when she sits down beside him, looking at the floor, he places an arm around her shoulders, like Nikolai does it with him when there is something wrong. "And now let's hear what happened, okay?"
Sonya sniffles and moves closer to him. "I'm really sorry. I talked back to Sergei. I won't do it again, I promise."
Kirill waves it away. "Sergei can go fuck himself. I don't care what you say to him. What was it about, anyway?" Not that it interests him much, but all the same, maybe it turns out to be a useful piece of information, who knows?
"Well… he wanted me to tell the others what a talented lover he is. With enthusiasm."
Kirill cannot help but laugh at this. "With enthusiasm? The mere thought makes you keel over and snore, I bet."
"Absolutely." Sonya cuddles against him. "I wasn't enthusiastic enough, so he made me repeat it over and over again until I said I was fed up."
"What a moron." Kirill truly means it. The only thing Sergei has achieved with this is making himself look ridiculous. But what does he care? He pats Sonya's thigh. "Stop crying, will you? It's over now."
"Sorry," she murmurs into his shoulder. "I'll try and be entertaining."
He sighs, his thoughts with Nikolai once again, all the things he has never told him and now feels he should have. "I might be a bit hard to entertain today." And I act as if he were dead, he thinks. I'm such a sentimental fool.
Almost dead. Almost. He could have died there, all on his own and defenceless. It was a very narrow escape.
And once again Kirill blames himself. Of course, it was his father who planned it all, his father and Azim, that filthy swine, but all the same, part of the blame is his to take, for his blind folly.
Just then, Sonya asks, "Where is Nikolai?"
"Do you think I can't go anywhere without Nikolai?" Kirill grumbles, and she recoils, but he quickly places a hand on her thigh soothingly. He does not want to scare her off. "He's not well, but he'll be fine."
Sonya nods and starts stroking his chest and stomach, and he tries to relax and banish all conscious thoughts from his mind, but it is very hard to do. As she starts unbuttoning his shirt, he is reluctant to allow her to for a moment, but it would be silly to back out now like a coy little girl.
Of course she sees the fresh bruises he was meaning to hide from her when she pushes his shirt off his shoulders, and she hesitates, then gingerly runs the tip of her forefinger over the prominent one on the side of his upper stomach. "Does it hurt?"
"No." Not physically, anyway, as long as nobody pokes him.
She inspects the ones on his upper arm and shoulder, then moves on to critically eye those on his ribcage. "Have you been in a fight?"
"No," he says flatly. "Not really."
"When did it happen?"
"Yesterday." He suppresses a sigh. "Stop asking questions, will you?"
"Sorry."
"And stop apologising," he grumbles.
"I will."
"Get some backbone," he growls, angry for no reason, and angry at himself as he feels that he might as well tell himself the same.
Sonya crawls onto the bed behind him and starts kissing the back of his neck, but he can feel her nervousness, her tension. Despite not meaning to, he is scaring her once again. Bad move, he tells himself. Now she won't please you properly.
She will. I'll make her.
You're no better than your father. She is older than that Tatiana, yes, and she is willing, but this is not what she would choose if she could. Only because Sonya obeys it will not cease to be rape.
No. It's not.
Yes it is.
She's sixteen, and she likes me, damn it!
Does she really?
He sighs. The bleak feeling is there again, the feeling he has experienced so often recently, the feeling that shows him that something is seriously wrong with his life.
Something? Everything.
Sonya massages his shoulders, then she moves further down his back, and he tries to relax, but he is unable to concentrate on anything. It all drifts out of his mind again, leaving nothing but a grey haze, empty and meaningless.
Why? Damn it, why? I'm sober!
"Do you ever get this feeling," he finally says, "that someone's been screwing with your brains, only you have no idea who and how?"
She hesitates. "I'm not sure."
"Right, forget about it, then." He probably just sounded like an idiot, but he does not care. "Say, where do you come from?"
"Somewhere not so far from Irkutsk, by the Angara river." She does not stop stroking him.
"That's a very long way from here."
"Yes," she says, but he fails to detect the expected melancholy in her voice. "The other side of the world."
The very other end of Siberia. He has never been there, let alone anywhere near. The farthest he has ever been is Novosibirsk, and that is about in the middle of Siberia, where the plain in the west meets the mountains in the east. "What's it like?"
"Hot in summer, cold in winter. But not as cold as in other places, it's pretty far south. Amid hills and forests. Apart from that… I don't know, I've rarely ever seen the city itself, but it seemed huge to me, and… magnificent, in a way."
Just what he has expected. Another poor little village girl who has hardly ever seen a real city. "Funny. We were born more than three thousand miles apart."
"Where were you born, then?" Her tone is very tentative.
"Moscow." This is the first time she has ever asked him a personal question, he realises.
"I've never been to Moscow." Now there is longing in her voice. Of course, to someone born at a small village at the far end of Siberia, Moscow must be like a place from a fairytale.
"I haven't been there for a long time."
She kisses the back of his neck. "Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes." He gently nudges her away, but only to stretch out on the bed on his side and pull her to him once again, and she readily cuddles against him. By now she has stopped crying. "If I said I'd bring you home, all the way to Irkutsk, would you go?"
"I don't know," she says after a moment's silence. "I have nowhere to go, really. I'm here because my family sent me away, I was too expensive to feed and didn't earn enough money." She says it very matter-of-factly. "They said I'd be better off in London, and good luck, and that was about it. I don't even know which one of those three was my real father, if any at all." She slowly strokes his side. "Why do you ask?" And suddenly he believes to hear hope in her voice.
"Just out of curiosity." Her face is nuzzled under his chin, so there is no way he could possibly see it, but still he can imagine the look of disappointment on her features. "All the same," he adds, "I think you're in for a favour, since you've been very pleasant company quite often."
"A favour? Really?" At once she props herself up on one elbow and stares at him in disbelief. "Thank you, that's really, really nice of you!"
He smiles and rolls over onto his back. "Why don't you make a suggestion?"
Again she moves closer to him and starts caressing his upper chest with the tips of her fingers, very light, feathery touches that slowly, ever so slowly travel downwards. "If I could ask for something… I'd like to work somewhere else, please. Somewhere where I don't have to please disgusting fat old men that grope at me with sticky fingers and grunt and fart and stink. I'll still be at your service any time you want me, but… just not here. Isn't there anything else I could do for you?"
He gazes up at the ceiling, considering her request. "Hm." Her fingers have wandered on to his upper stomach by now, but one hand briefly returns to tease a nipple, and he gives a little sigh of pleasure. Sometimes he tends to suspect that Sonya knows his erogenous zones better even than he does himself. Before he has met her, he has not even been aware of how much he likes having a finger lightly trace his lower ribs, for example, but when he touches himself it works just as well. Sonya really is a skilled little thing. "I'll have to ask my father's permission to make you my private mistress, and I have no idea how he'll react, but I think I can get him to agree." Yes, because if he asks for a girl of his own, it proves that Soyka is mistaken with his vile claims about his sexual orientation. "Still," he thinks aloud, "remains the question where I'll keep you, and that's a tough one. Because I can't just lock you into my bedroom, and I don't want to keep you in the cellar either."
"I wouldn't run," Sonya reminds him before she leans over him to kiss his chest. Looking up, she adds, "I have nowhere to go, remember?" Her long dark hair pleasantly tickles his skin.
"I know, but try and explain that to my father." Kirill sighs, half with exasperation and half with pleasure at having her kiss a trail down to his navel. "But I'll figure out how to do it, I can promise you that."
"Thank you," she breathes, unbuckling his belt. "I'll do anything you ask of me. Anything."
He readily believes her. "As a matter of fact, there is something you could do until then." And no doubt she will, grateful as she is now. In this moment, she probably will do anything indeed. "There have been… intrigues lately. I need to know what people have been saying about me, or if they have been asking about me, perhaps. After all, it's easy enough to find out you're my favourite, I guess."
She pauses in unbuttoning the fly of his black jeans. "Everyone, or just customers with connections to the vory?"
"Everyone."
"Alright. Now, or would you like to do it with me first?"
"Now," Kirill says. "We're not in a hurry."
"Is it not urgent yet, then?" Sonya runs a hand over his groin, succeeding in sending a prickly feeling through his body. "True, that's just the normal degree of bulging, not the treacherous one."
Teasing me, are you? Kirill grins. "If you keep touching me there, it might get pretty, well, treacherous soon." Yes, despite his constant worries, despite Nikolai – Sonya might be able to achieve the little miracle even his own hand could not achieve last night.
"In this case, would you like me to give you a blowjob?" she asks slyly, on her hands and knees over him and actually wearing a mischievous expression.
"You little temptress." He takes her arm and pulls her towards him, and she lies down beside him once more, with an arm around his middle. "Let's talk business first." Moreover, he fears that she might give him some pleasure, but that he will be unable to find release. Was it a good idea at all, coming here in this state of mind?
"First," she says, "there's your father. He's asked about you recently."
This does not come as a surprise at all. "Anyone specific?"
"They sent him straight to me, told him you were with me most often. It's true, yes, but part of the reason they so readily told him is that… well, he's feared. It's not that he's overly disgusting or perverse, but –"
"Spare me the explicit detail, okay?" Kirill interrupts. "He's my father."
"Oh, sorry." Sonya giggles softly and kisses his cheek. "Well, he just asked about your habits. What you're like."
Kirill groans. It is all Soyka's fault. Having the man killed was not enough; now he is taking revenge from the grave by means of the poisonous seed he has sown. "What did you say?"
"I wasn't sure what to answer, because I had no idea what he wanted to hear, so I just said you're a wild one with the stamina of a bull, rather vigorous and very dominant."
Kirill smiles up at the ceiling. This probably is a compliment. And it also sounds like what his father would want to hear.
"I hope that was alright," she murmurs when he does not say anything. "If not, then I'm really sorry."
"No, it's fine." He runs a hand through her hair. "It's quite perfect. How about others?"
"Well, the girls all think you're more pleasant than your father, and those you've been with say you're not brutal normally, just when you're drunk, then you tend to be a bit moody." She caresses his side, as if to soothe him in case this angers him. "And others… Well, I hear them mention you from time to time, but they never say anything specific. Except Soyka."
"Soyka?"
She keeps stroking him, and he can feel how she tenses at the growl in his tone. "Yes, Soyka. I thought he was a friend of yours, because I saw you together here twice, but he doesn't sound like one. Don't be angry," she adds hastily, "I don't want to insult him or anything."
"Insult him as much as you like," Kirill says grimly. "He's not my friend, and he never was." Well, once he used to think he was, but no more. "What did he say?"
"It was something like two or three weeks ago when he came here, extremely drunk and with a slightly bloody nose, like someone punched him or something. Sergei sort of avoided him, I don't know why, but he was pretty aggressive towards him. And he wanted to know which girls you take – if any at all, he said, and he was wearing that ugly sneer. Then he came for me, and was very rough and unpleasant." Sonya cuddles more closely against him. "He took me from behind. Luckily it was over very quickly, and then he sneered and said this probably was how you have me, and I told him it wasn't, that you always take me from the front, so he would shut up and go… but he didn't, not immediately. Instead he hit me and said I was a liar, because you… because…" Here she falters.
"Because I'm a queer," he finishes flatly. "That's what he said, isn't it?"
"Yes. That's what he said."
Inside him, a wild beast roars and rages. Kirill wants to retrieve Soyka's corpse from its wet grave and maim it, cut it to small bits and feed it to Vulturus. No, not to Vulturus, the dog should not have to live on something as vile as Soyka. He wants Soyka to come alive again so he can kill him anew, a hundred, a thousand times.
"I told him it wasn't true, but he just hit me again. Then he left. I don't know if he went to anyone else."
Death was too good for Soyka. Definitely too good.
"I thought perhaps you two had been in a fight," Sonya continues, "and this is why he was angry, and got even angrier when I wouldn't believe him."
"Yes," Kirill says numbly, as if the wild creature he has pictured in his mind has just stomped over him and knocked his breath out of his lungs. "Yes indeed."
"Why don't you fuck off and see to your work?" Kirill snarls. What is the matter with Soyka, why is he acting like that, being so provokingly slow after his father has made it clear that they are in a hurry?
"Oh, you're the one to talk," Soyka sneers. "Efficient through and through."
"You heard my father, right?" Kirill snaps. "Or are you deaf? Do you want me to call him back here so he can repeat his instructions for you?" By now, everybody in the yard has fallen silent. Misha is leaning against the wall by the van, lazily flicking a cigarette, not reprimanding Boris, who has dropped the crate he was about to pick up and is now watching the exchange in the middle of the yard openly.
"Always whining for your father, are you?" Soyka stands there with his fists on his hips, and the wind is pulling at his dark hair. "Can't you even handle a trifle alone? You're a boy, Kiryusha, a pampered brat who has never seen prison from inside and still thinks he can play with the vory."
"Shut your fucking mouth and get back to work!" Kirill bellows, his fingers clenching into fists. How dare he insult him in front of everyone? Soyka may be a leading vor, but that gives him no right to talk like that!
"Now, now, Kiryusha, don't you get agitated." Soyka turns lazily and gestures to Leonid, taking on his usual pompous, jovial tone and demeanour that Kirill normally finds just silly, but that now gets on his nerves extremely. "Here we go. Get me a good map of Southwark, and for God's sake get me a strong coffee. That kid is giving me a headache."
Kirill wants to throw himself at him, grip him by the throat and knock his head against the wall to bring him back to his senses, but Nikolai gently touches his shoulder, and he draws a deep breath and tries to remain calm, as dignified as the son of a boss should be. "Man, what the fuck's up with you? If you want to get in a fight so desperately, go to someone else. I'm not fighting a fellow vor for no reason."
Misha nods appreciatively, and Kirill is content. This was a good reaction, for once. It makes him look good, and Soyka look bad. Even his father could say nothing against it.
Soyka turns to face him again slowly. "Want me to give you one?"
"No, thank you," Kirill says coldly. He has always considered Soyka a bit of an idiot, but until now he has assumed that they are friends. How could he have missed what a complete arsehole the man is? "I'm not interested. Why don't you go and fight one of your Chechen gang?" And stay with them. You're definitely not welcome to hang out with me any longer, he mentally adds.
"Easy, Soyka," Misha puts in, blowing out a stream of smoke and thereby blowing a long blond strand of hair out of his face. "What's the deal?"
Ivan and Sergei enter the yard from the passage to the road, discussing something, but stop in their tracks and fall silent when they see how Soyka is standing in the middle of the yard, some fifteen feet apart from Kirill, and how they are glaring at each other. Leonid is watching Soyka uncertainly, his narrow shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow, his stance the one of a man poised to run, and yet he still reaches out to tug at his sleeve, but Soyka shakes him off impatiently.
"Easy, boys," Misha repeats. Judging from his youthful face and long whitish-blond mane, nobody would expect him to be a man convicted twice for murder. He has spent more than half of his life behind bars already, and this gives him a certain authority, even among the vory, where he is an old member. His shirt, despite the chill half unbuttoned, exposes a pair of bells tattooed onto the middle of his chest, the sign of a man who will never be let out on parole.
It seems that Soyka is about to back away at last, and Kirill already feels the tension leaving his limbs, but then Soyka says, loudly and clearly, "How did you earn the stars, Kirill? Not by licking the dust off your father's boots?"
There comes an audible intake of breath from Ivan, but nobody pays attention to the little curly-haired Georgian.
"How did you earn the stars, Soyka?" Kirill snarls, restrained only by the grip Nikolai immediately has on his upper arm. "Not by raping another seven-year-old, you fucking pederast?"
Boris grins stupidly, while Ivan prefers to back away towards whence he has come.
Soyka comes towards him, employing that lazy swaggering saunter that means no good, but Kirill stands his ground. "Oh yes, I'm a pederast? Care to know what you are?"
"What am I, then?" Dare to insult me. Come on, dare to do it. Kirill is tense as a serpent about to strike.
Soyka is very close now and speaks in the laziest drawl he is capable of. "You're a fucking drunk, man. And a fucking queer."
This time Nikolai is too slow. Kirill lunges at Soyka, his fist connecting with the side of his jaw, and at the same time he feels Soyka's fist brutally digging into his upper stomach, but he hardly notices the pain. He just wants to hurt the man he once considered his companion, his friend, as much as he can, not caring where he hits him, and if Soyka hits him back. As he is gripped firmly from behind, he struggles, and so does Soyka as Sergei and Boris turn up from behind to pull him away, but Sergei is rather strong for a man of his size, and Boris is even stronger. He hears Nikolai's voice close to his ear but does not take in the words, sees Misha's pale blond hair at the edge of his vision and smells the scent of cigarette smoke that clings to him, but all he truly concentrates on is Soyka, Soyka straining against the others' grip, a trickle of blood dripping from one nostril. He wants to attack him again and hit him in the face until those features so well known to him become an unrecognisable bloody mass.
"Easy, boys," Misha says once again. "Here, Kirill, calm down." He has an arm around his chest, Kirill realises, a grip as strong as a steel band, and that must be Nikolai's grasp on his left upper arm.
"Take your fucking filthy hands off me!" Soyka snarls at Sergei and Boris, and Sergei winces, but does not move away, not even as Leonid approaches with a hand suspiciously under his jacket. "How dare you touch a vor?"
"Cut it, Soyka!" Misha bellows, and it takes a lot to make him assume such a tone. "That's enough, both of you!"
Kirill is breathing heavily, and only now he begins to feel that his lower lip is probably bleeding; he can feel a warm drop of moisture running down his chin. His stomach hurts, and so does his left knee, for some reason. But at least he has succeeded in giving Soyka a nosebleed. That serves the swine right.
And it is not enough yet!
"Calm down," Nikolai mutters to him. "He's not worth it."
Still Kirill is burning with fury, but he knows that it is not wise to fight in the yard, in front of everybody. And should his father somehow hear of this, it is bad enough already, without him making it even worse now. So he forces his muscles to relax, forces himself to breathe evenly.
Misha lets go of him, and Nikolai immediately does the same, but not without giving Kirill's arm a gentle squeeze, and suddenly Kirill wants him to leave his hand where it was, to give him reassurance and strength through his touch. But all the same, Nikolai's presence is enough in itself. "Piss off, Soyka," he says evenly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and ignoring the red smear it leaves on his skin, and with Misha beside him he feels he has a certain authority, while Nikolai gives him some inner security. "Get your work done."
Sergei and Boris have let go of Soyka as well, and the Chechen glares at Kirill, but does not say anything. Then he turns abruptly, brushing past Sergei roughly, and gestures for Leonid to follow him as he marches out of the yard.
"What the fuck has gotten into him?" Misha asks, shaking his head in disbelief, but Kirill suspects that he is not entirely on his side. There is an uneasy feeling building up at the pit of his stomach. This all should not have happened, and it might well happen again if he does not manage to establish his authority very firmly indeed.
"No idea." He tries to shrug it off, but it will not go away that easily. "I've never seen him like that."
"I thought you two were friends," Misha says.
"I thought so too." But now Soyka is his friend no more, not after this. "Apparently he's a treacherous bastard." He tries to appear unaffected, but is not sure if it works out the way he wants it.
Misha shrugs, mutters something and heads over to Boris, and Kirill nods at him and returns to the house through the kitchen entrance, Nikolai closely at his heels. When Nikolai pulls the door shut behind them, he heaves a sigh of relief.
"Are you alright?" It is astonishing how much Nikolai's demeanour can change when they are alone together. Already he has taken out a handkerchief and is dabbing at Kirill's lower lip.
"C'mon, don't fuss," Kirill protests, although he likes the attention. Nikolai probably is the only person in the world who would nurse him like that. "It's nothing."
"Keep still," Nikolai simply says. He firmly places an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the deserted sink, where he moistens the handkerchief and cleans the cut. The cool water feels good on Kirill's hot, throbbing lip, and he is glad to have Nikolai with him. Still he is furious, so furious he wants to hurl things through the kitchen until they break, but his friend's presence soothes him. Instead, he feels inclined to rest his head on Nikolai's shoulder and wait quietly until he has calmed down again.
Maybe this is why Soyka has just called him a queer.
Then Soyka has never had a real friend, he thinks angrily, and while he may have brothers back where he comes from, they probably don't like him. Otherwise he would know that it is only natural to place an arm around another's shoulder. Kirill has also done it with Soyka a couple of times, and Soyka must know that he does not harbour even the slightest sexual interest in him. No, indeed not! Or has he perhaps seen how Kirill has recently dozed with his head on Nikolai's shoulder at the table in the corner while waiting for Misha and Dimitri to arrive? Well, there was nothing wrong with it as well; it was late at night and he was tired. And Soyka cannot possibly have witnessed his thank-you to Nikolai for saving his life two months ago, the first time after many long years he has felt safe in anyone's embrace. And when have they ever been play-wrestling in front of Soyka?
No, he tries to calm himself, Soyka has just called him a queer because he has called him a pederast.
But Soyka is a pederast, curse him. He has been in prison for raping a twelve-year-old girl! That makes him a pederast alright, in Kirill's opinion, no matter how old the girl might have looked. The dagger tattooed onto his chest tells of his deed, everybody knows it.
What if, in Soyka's opinion, Kirill really is a queer?
"There is something you ought to know," Nikolai says softly, mustering Kirill's wound critically once again and then shrugging and leaving it as it now is. "About Soyka. You know I used to be in the export business."
"Cars and stuff, yes." Kirill nods. There are many things he does not know about Nikolai, he suspects, but he certainly knows a lot about his field of expertise.
"And you know I have contacts with the Chechen clan."
Kirill nods. So this is some background information about Soyka.
Nikolai lowers his voice even further. "They told me what I'm sure your father knows already. Could you possibly fit a little excursion into your schedule? To somewhere where we can be certain we will not be disturbed?"
Kirill does not question this request; he trusts Nikolai enough. "If this is important, then we'll fit it in right now."
Sonya's lips tenderly meet his, and Kirill does his best to banish the memory of Soyka's twofold betrayal from his thoughts, but it will not go away so easily. In a way, Soyka is not dead yet, and he will never die.
"I don't think he was with anyone else," she says. "But if you want me to, I'll ask all the girls about him."
"There's no need to," Kirill declines. "Don't worry about it." Because it is too late anyway, he thinks.
"If he comes again," Sonya promises, "I will let you know immediately if there is any way I can."
"He's not coming back. He's dead." There is no satisfaction in this, however. It does not make his deeds become unreal. It does not eradicate his poisonous words from existence.
If he kills Azim, Kirill wonders, will there be no satisfaction afterwards just as well, nothing but the feeling of dirty, bloodstained hands that fills his dreams?
What is the point of revenge? It only triggers more revenge, and at the end of the day it changes nothing at all.
Soyka for his treason and lies. Azim's retarded nephew for Soyka. Nikolai for Soyka, in Kirill's place. And now Soyka's brothers are dead already, but there still remains Azim. Azim for Nikolai.
What is the brief moment of grim satisfaction against the lasting sense of loss?
And yet, how can he suffer Azim to live when Azim has meant Nikolai to die?
How can he suffer his father to live?
The thought is terrible, but it is logical.
And after he has wallowed in blood to take revenge for Nikolai, who will come to spill his own blood in the name of revenge, and who will be there to take revenge in turn?
Nikolai. Nikolai, who has guarded him with his life, and given his blood for his friend's.
And once again Kirill senses how what he feels for his father pales and fades away in comparison to what Nikolai means to him, and once again he swears to himself that from now on his life will change, that he will cease to be a mere boy who cowers at his father's every order and become a man. But at the same time, he knows that he cannot do this alone. He needs Nikolai, more than ever.
Sonya reaches for his fly once more, but he takes her hand in his instead. "They break you, don't they? They break you time and time again."
"Yes," she whispers, her fingers tightly clutching his. "Day after day, night after night."
"There comes a point when you are so broken inside that you can fight no more. They will try to get you there, but you mustn't let them, do you hear? You must keep fighting. Or else you lose your soul before you realise it and become a lifeless puppet."
Why is he telling her this? He has no idea.
"How do I fight them?" Her arms are around him, just like his are around her now.
"Is there something worth staying alive for? Someone, perhaps?"
"I don't know," she murmurs against his cheek. "Hope, maybe. But I have no idea what it is I'm hoping for. For you to come again, perhaps, because you are kind, usually, but… There's nobody else who would come for me."
It is a call for help, he knows it. She wishes for him to take her away from this dark life, just like he wishes for Nikolai to do the same for him. And he pities her, because pity for others, while not suitable for a vor, is still better than just pitying himself, which is repulsive and pathetic. "We will both be free," he whispers to her, despising himself for his sentimentality, but better be sentimental than be like his father.
What does she mean to you, he asks himself, why do you make such a fuss over her? She's just one of the little bitches you earn your money with.
And still he props himself up on one elbow and leans down to her to kiss her. While his tongue plays with hers, and while her fingers thread themselves into his hair, he thinks of Nikolai, of what he would say to this. Would he approve?
Why is it that he knows so little about the one man closest to him?
Yes, he decides, Nikolai would approve. Definitely.
Sonya is crying again, he realises as he breaks the contact, and he cradles her in his arms and strokes her hair. It feels good, being the strong one who comforts others, it makes him forget about at least a little of his own grief. It is just like when he was a small boy back in Moscow and comforted his younger sister when there was a thunderstorm outside: He was scared himself, but she was scared more than he was, and it made him forget some of his own fear. He feels the moisture rising in his eyes, but he fights back the tears and concentrates on the girl in his arms instead.
He has not even had her remove her clothes yet. This is peculiar.
But he still is not really in the mood. Is he going to sleep with her at all? Maybe another time.
But what has he come for, then?
And what will she think of him? That he is going soft?
"I'm afraid there is only one way I can thank you," she mutters against his chest.
"I don't know if I'll be able to at all," he confesses – what choice does he have? "I've been having a bit of a rough time." And after all, he is entitled to be tired as well at times, is he not? All the same, he should have kept his mouth shut, he thinks just a heartbeat later. "I feel like I've been run over by a fucking truck," he hastily adds to justify what might be failure in her eyes.
She strokes his cheek. "Yes, those bruises look really nasty." Is that genuine worry in her voice, worry for him? Can this be? "You need rest, then you'll feel better."
She seems insecure, but then again, this should not surprise him. Doubtlessly she never has been in the position to fuss over a vor yet.
And she blames it on his physical condition. It comes as a relief to him. "I'll be fine," he assures her.
"Lie back and relax," she tells him, her face still teary, her voice still a little shaky. At first he expects her to massage him, but instead she starts caressing him with her fingertips once again, and he does his best to enjoy it without a second thought, but how can he forget all the bleakness and bitterness inside him? He wants to be with Nikolai, safe in his arms, where there is no need to be scared, not even of his father. He wants to forget everything in Nikolai's embrace.
See? Your father was right when he called you a queer.
No, he was not. He was not!
"You're so tense," Sonya says, stroking him under the chin, then leaning down to briefly kiss him, and he licks a small teardrop off her cheek before she sits up again. It feels good to see a small smile appear on her lips for a moment. Once again she reaches for his fly, and he lets her unbutton it. At least this produces a pleasantly tickling sensation between his legs, a sensation that is increased as Sonya caresses him through his boxers. Her skilled little fingers can truly achieve miracles. "See? Of course you're able to. You're getting hard already."
"You don't have to do this," Kirill says, and is astonished at himself. What in the name of hell is the matter with him?
"I choose to do it," Sonya says simply before she pulls down his boxers far enough to take him in her mouth.
He cannot quite suppress a sharp intake of breath. Despite everything, pleasure is filling him once again, and he feels the familiar growing desire that he always experiences when in bed with a pretty girl. There is a certain feeling of guilt also, when he thinks of Nikolai, wounded in hospital, but he wants Sonya all the same, he wants to find a moment of lust and bliss in her arms, and the blessed oblivion that comes after it.
Sonya licks him, then licks her lips, and then, in a slow, lascivious motion, pulls her dress over her head, exposing her slender, well-shaped body to his hungry eyes. Before he has sat up to touch her she is already over him, kissing the side of his neck, and he opens the fastenings of her bra while he has the chance. And already she is squatting by his hips again, trying to entirely get him out of his boxers.
Clearly, she really wants him. Well, of course it can only improve her situation, but she might have simply stroked and cuddled him. It is what he would probably have done in her situation. But no, she volunteers, employing all her skill.
"Wasn't that the wrong order?" he teases her as she removes his socks.
"Was it? How can I possibly appease you?"
See, see. Now she is joking already. "Appease me? Never. I shall have to impale you. Deeply." And, damn it, this is what he wants, and he wants it very badly…
Sonya lets her bra slip off her arms and discards it. "What a cruel man you are."
"Indeed. Now don't be cruel in turn and keep me waiting."
"Maybe I should." She takes her panties off, and he licks his lips as he sees that she is watching him. "Or I could assault you."
"Assault me?" he repeats, amused at the suggestion. Getting assaulted by a girl? Well, it sounds quite tempting, in a way, to be honest…
She crawls over him, and before he knows what she is doing she has already impaled herself upon him, so that she now lies on top of him, taking his usual place. "Yes," she breathes against his ear, "I think I like the idea of assaulting you."
What a delightful little minx. Even if she is doing this just to make sure he will really take her away from here, he appreciates her effort. Her motifs do not matter, after all. What matters is the distraction she offers. "I must say it feels good to be a victim," he grins, and in response she takes him around the wrists and holds them down, pinning him to the bed. It would be easy to shake her off, slender as she is, but he allows her to, closing his eyes and throwing back his head so she can nibble his neck.
His father would not approve, it briefly flits through his mind, but he ignores the thought. This is none of his father's business, just like all of his private life is none of his business. Besides, that he is lying on his back does not necessarily mean he is not in control.
And curse her, she is good at what she does. His pleasure is very intense, and it even drives the thought of Nikolai out of his mind, keeping it at bay at the back of his mind, where he is still aware of what happened, but where it will not interfere with his current distraction. Soon he spurts out into her, and she holds him and strokes his hair until his breathing has slowed down to normal again. Then she climbs off him and instead spreads the blanket over him, pulling it up to the middle of his stomach.
"You're good," he murmurs. He would really like her to be his private mistress, his own pleasure slave, but how can he do it?
His slave. He suddenly feels bad about the thought.
Sonya kisses his cheek before slipping under the blanket with him. "Do you feel better now?"
"Yes. Quite." Not entirely well, of course, but it has really helped. "I should be off again," he reminds himself. He does not want to, but there is yet another party the restaurant has to be prepared for.
"Rest a little first, why don't you?" Sonya suggests. "Perhaps you should sleep for a bit. You look tired."
Is she starting to develop the habit of fussing over him? Somehow he tends to doubt that she does this just to make a good impression; if she were after that, she would offer him a wide variety of other sexual pleasures he might want to engage in. Or would she? Yes, this means she really likes him, in a way, even if it just is in comparison with the other men she has to be of service to.
Could he possibly use her as a spy? He likes the thought, but is not sure if it can be done in any way. But no use pondering it now; he will have to ask Nikolai.
Nikolai. He just cannot banish his wounded friend from his mind. Satisfied and content, he feels guilty that he is all well while Nikolai is not.
No, he is not well, not as long as Nikolai is not with him.
But soon his friend will be back. Soon. Soon everything will be alright again.
Except his father, of course…
"I'm the biggest loser in the world," he mutters. He should not say such a thing in front of Sonya, but he does not care. After all, she probably knows anyway.
Sonya kisses his cheek. "Don't say that. You're not."
"I am." That she contradicts him annoys him, paradox as it may seem. If the thought of Nikolai and of his father were not troubling his mind, he might laugh at it. "Who else is?"
"Sergei?" Sonya suggests promptly, and this time Kirill really laughs, despite himself. Later on he will be ashamed of this exchange, he is convinced of it, but for now he does not care.
And he should really leave now. Staying with a whore after being done with her is absurd. Yet he remains lying there, stretched out on his back comfortably and with Sonya cuddling up to him, as if they were lovers, not master and slave.
What would Nikolai do?
But of what use is wasting his attention on this, after he has trusted Sonya with far too much already? He has given her more information than he should have, and he has allowed her to see him weak.
"I can put some salve on your bruises," Sonya offers. "It helps."
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." He runs a hand through her dark hair. Besides, he should stop enjoying being fussed over, especially if it is a slave girl who is doing the fussing.
Why not? A slave is there to fuss over him if he wants her to.
But allowing her to is showing weakness.
What does he care? His father is not here to watch, so he can do whatever he likes.
That salve she has just mentioned, is this what the girls use after Sergei has beaten them? Probably it is. Kirill knows that Sergei beats them, although he has once told him to avoid that practice if possible because the customers might gain a bad impression, but then again, some of the customers beat the girls too, so why bother overmuch? Sergei has to make sure they don't beat them enough to harm them, but apart from that, they can do whatever they like with them, as long as they pay.
Once again Kirill imagines himself in the girls' position, himself as a teenage boy, kept a prisoner and forced to please disgusting old men, and spending a night with the son of his owner as the only reward he will ever get. But once again he pushes the thought away. Those little bitches have been stupid enough to follow their captors' promises, so they deserve what they got… or do they? He thinks of Tatiana, and while part of him hates the girl whose face he can barely remember for witnessing his utter failure in the eyes of his father, another wonders if he was not a young fool of thirteen himself once, naïve and ready to believe anything that would make his life better. He pictures himself cowering in the cellar, naked and defenceless, every promise broken, every dream shattered, and over him his older self, trying to destroy him utterly. Would he not have cried, and would he not have been unable to stop even if ordered not to cry anymore? The man becomes a monster to the boy, while the boy becomes a symbol of torment to the man, and they hate each other, loathe each other with every fibre in their bodies for what they do to each other… while they are both victims, victims of the same man.
This is what you did, Papa. You raped the little boy inside me.
"I really should go," he tells Sonya. "But I'll be back for you, I promise you that." And it will be the only promise to her that will not be broken, but why should she believe him if all the other promises were lies?
As he starts getting dressed, she sits on the bed, wrapped in the blanket, and watches him. "When will you come again?" she asks after some time.
"I don't know. Soon." Should he take her once more before he goes? No, not now. He has had what was necessary, and he will have her again next time, maybe more than once. But now it is time to return to the restaurant and help with the preparation for New Year's Eve. Besides, no more enjoying himself, out of solidarity for Nikolai.
Nikolai, who cannot be with him to celebrate tonight. Kirill does not believe in omens or anything of the kind, but still it bodes ill when Nikolai is not with him at the birth of the new year.
He shrugs into his shirt and buttons it up hastily. Better not to anger his father further. This is not the time to fight.
"Be safe," Sonya says softly.
"I will. You too, right?"
"Right." Sonya nods, smiling up at him, and her eyes glitter. "And I'll keep fighting, like you said."
Kirill sighs softly. "We both have our own battles, and I intend to win mine." And he prays to whatever deity who will listen that it will not merely remain an intention.
"I believe in you."
Did she really just say that? "Great. You and Nikolai makes two." The next moment he could bang his head against the wall – yes, play the loser yet again in front of her, very well done indeed! – but instead he gives her a smile, pretending it was nothing but a joke, and runs a hand through her hair. "Right, I'll see you soon, then."
She takes his hand in hers and kisses it, and he briefly caresses her under the chin. To her he has become a bright beacon of hope now, he knows, without truly meaning to, but it is a good feeling, in an odd, sentimental way, a comfort he will keep in mind when returning to his father. "And I hope Nikolai will get well soon."
"Trust him," Kirill says bravely, doing his best to believe himself, "he's bound to. He's very hard to kill."
As he steps out into the cool air, into a steady drizzle, he misses Nikolai as much as always. Normally they would take the car, but since he is alone, Kirill has not done so. It is not that he is nervous when he drives; he does not mind driving. It is something symbolic, in a way, to prove to his absent friend that the gap he leaves cannot be closed that easily. And even though Nikolai cannot see him now, it feels right.
Soon his hair is moist, but he does not care. The air is chilly; maybe he should have put on a sweater. But at least he can suffer with Nikolai in his own small way.
All the same, he quickens his pace. Is the rain growing stronger, or is he just imagining it?
At least Nikolai is out of the rain where he is.
As he trots down the stairs to the underground station, he brushes his wet curls out of his face, slipping through crowds of people pulling back their hoods or folding their umbrellas. Nobody pays attention to him. Back at home and among his father's associates, everybody knows who he is, but in the world outside he is a nobody, a nameless tall blond fellow in a black leather coat, a man like many others. And while he enjoys the power his father's name gives him, he often is only too glad to have the pressure of all the expectations taken away from him in this outside world where nobody knows the name of Semyon Pavlovich Leonov, and where Kirill Semyonovich is just another young man.
If they knew who he is, would they hate him, this young crime lord hidden behind the mask of an ordinary man?
And if they truly knew him, would they perhaps pity him?
No. He wants no pity. He is who he is, and there is nothing to be pitied about him. Maybe he has been weak lately, far too often, but his time is yet to come, his star yet to rise.
On the underground, he stands in the corner by the door as usual, with his arms crossed, and observes the people around him without truly paying attention. Sometimes he has secretly wished to be one of them, to lead a normal life, just like his old schoolmates do – like Charlie, for example, who works at an office now and still comes to the restaurant from time to time, often along with his parents and his girlfriend, or like Philip, who is a programmer, or Johnny, silly little Johnny, who now holds an important job with a bank. But then again, in the world where he comes from, his father may humiliate him, but he still is a god among insects, a lord, a master, just like the Greek meaning of his name, as his father has told him a long time ago. In what lies ahead, there is no world outside for him.
As he gets off the underground finally and heads back out into the rain, he sings to himself under his breath. "Heaven queen, cover me in all that blue, little boy, such precious joy, is dead to the world…" And he will readily say goodbye to anything outside, if only Nikolai comes back to be with him. "Heaven queen, carry me away from all pain, all the same take me away, we're dead to the world…"