I do not own NCIS

Russian

English

I corrected a mistake on Taras's last name, kudos to Dalara btw, his last name is now Stanislavsky.

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The bar was almost empty. The only occupants were Taras and Kirill, the former straddling a chair, the latter sitting behind Taras, moving a scratch built tattooing needle across a tattoo on Taras's back of a russian orthodox church. An old man sat behind the bar, a violin held in his hands. The soft lament of the violin drifted through the bar, the sound soothing and yet strangely unsettling.

Taras closed his eyes as he felt the needle puncture his skin. A drop of blood rolled down his back as the rough shod needle went in too deep.

"If you want to torture me just break out the knives Kirill."

"Suck it up. You wanted a prison tattoo and that's what I'm giving you."

"What are you using as a needle?"

"Guitar string."

Taras grimaced.

"Just get it done."

Kirill laughed. "You have a flight to Tel Aviv in the morning. Israel has taken the papers. You are now Nikolai Turasova, a Russian born Jew."

"I will not wear a kippah."

"Dont worry, I checked the papers over myself. You are non practicing. You have a girlfriend who you will be living with in Tel Aviv, and three cousins who also live in Tel Aviv. The three cousins are Otritsala. They'll take care of you. Not in the bad or weird way of course."

"Just finish the rework."

Taras took a swig from a bottle of vodka standing in front of him. The needle hummed as the guitar string attached to a shaving buzzer danced across Taras's skin. The faded lines of the tattoo of a Russian church with four steeples darkened and became solid once more as Kirill stenciled over the old tattoo.

"Where will I be living in Israel?"

"Near the coast. We bought you a nice private property just outside the city."

"How much?"

"Four point eight million."

"Fuck. You could have bought me an apartment."

"Eh. The Father felt you deserved something better than a cheap apartment in Tel Aviv."

"There's nothing wrong with a cheap apartment in Moscow."

"Aside from enemies and a very angry Section Chief in the FSB, there's nothing wrong with Moscow. Taras, the last time you went to Moscow, you were shot fifteen minutes after entering a city. I don't think Russia would be a place you would want to live."

"Fair enough."

"Anyway, you're going to be taking over for the Chechen who used to run our gun and drug rackets out of the middle east." Kirill continued, wiping off his needle as he put away his tattooing kit.

"Why? What happened?"

"Mossad got wind of a gun shipment heading for a Hamas militia just on the Israel-Palestine border. We had to hit the Chechen before the Israelis could get him in custody."

"So why am I inheriting this mess?"

"You're former FSB, you're not a boss so you can't refuse, and you're enough of a vicious fucker that you can keep our business partners in the middle east in line."

"Great. So I go from vodka and night clubs to sand and suicide bombers. That's wonderful."

"Don't complain. You've earned a captaincy."

"What?" Taras looked up at the old man sitting at the bar. A captaincy would give him a crew and territory of his own, and with a crew and territory came money, and more importantly, power.

"We decided to give you the Chechen's territory. Out of anyone we could think of, you were the best candidate." The old man murmured. "Kirill, give him his stars."

"Yes sir." Kirill replied. As the needle began to stencil in the design of a sixteen pointed star into one of Taras's shoulders, the Russian bowed his head in deference to the old man.

"Thank you sir."

"Don't mention it." The old man replied. "It was either you or me, and I know better than to go near the middle east. Congratulations by the way."

"I hear the pretty little lady who kicked your ass yesterday goes to Tel Aviv every summer."

"I had her ass beat Kirill. Anyway, why should I care if some Israeli goes to Tel Aviv?"

"She dislocated your fucking shoulder. Her father is the head of Mossad Taras. You know, the one the Father does business with."

"Eli David is that bitch's father?"

"Yep."

"Shit. You still think Tel Aviv is still a good idea?"

"Best option you've got. Anyways, you'll be working for one of our friends there. Life shouldn't be too difficult."

"Famous last words my friend."

"Shut up and stop moving so I don't fuck this up."

The two russians fell silent, the only noise in the bar the chattering of the tattooing machine and the cry of the violin. Taras sat quietly, musing over his new position. A Thief in Law, or Vory v Zakone was a position of considerable influence and power within any criminal organization, especially within the Russian Mafia. The bosses of the Mafia were all Vory, and it was only upon receiving the sixteen pointed star tattoo of the Vor, that a street soldier like Taras could take territory as his own and do business for himself. In the Russian underworld, if you weren't a Vor, you had no power. Vors wrote the laws and made the money. Everyone else had to wait their turn. As of now, Taras was done waiting.

The tarmac sizzled in the heat of the sun as the airbus taxied down the runway. Amongst the cars and taxi's waiting for the passengers of the airplane, sat a lone black Mercedes Benz. Inside, three tattooed men sat patiently waiting for their new captain.

"So, how wet are this guy's feet?" one asked.

"He's done time in Siberia Covchek. This guy's feet are probably frozen."

"I heard he was the one who sent Urla Imavenkov to heaven." another man interjected.

"Hm!" the second man snorted. "Hell is more like it. That son of a bitch was so evil the devil would've blinked."

"Eh. Whatever. Here he comes now."

Taras's lanky form approached the car. The door was opened, and the new ruler of Israel's underworld entered.