Ivan Braginski is a man who likes things to be simple.
Because of this, one could easily argue that he chose the wrong path. Criminal acts are rarely simple, especially ones you get away with. To be sure, complicated matters are what Ivan handles best. He has always been cool under pressure, resourceful when the chips are down. He knows the importance of manipulating people, playing their heartstrings or using them to strangle someone. This is because, unfortunately, people are not black and white. They have thoughts, but they have feelings too, and most people let the latter influence the former.
Ivan does not do this.
But people do, so he uses this to his advantage. Of course Berwald Oxenstierna is more likely to work well if he thinks his Finnish partner is under threat. Of course Gilbert Bielschmidt will be loyal to Ivan if he treats him like an apprentice, like the authority figure Gilbert always longed for. That's how this business works. It is a predator going in for a kill. Find the weakness, latch onto it, and abuse it until the blood stops coming out.
But still. Ivan would, if he could, keep things simple. He enjoys simple things: the taste of a cigar, the cold side of a pillow at night, the precise moment the light leaves someone's eyes when you kill them. Beautifully pure things.
He would have liked Gilbert to be a simple thing. Fate has other plans. Fucking fate.
Ivan is in the ballroom of his mansion, enjoying a glass of vodka and listening to his usual mismatch of music. This song currently blaring through the speakers is a scream metal affair that he suspects paved the way to the singer's throat cancer. It would be an excellent tune to murder someone to, all thrashing drums and shrieking guitar.
Berwald leads Gilbert and Arthur into the ballroom. Ivan watches them from where he stands beside a massive painting of a man with a pear for a face. The trio comes over to stand about five feet from Ivan. Ivan takes a sip of his vodka, turns down the speakers a bit with his little remote, and addresses his guests.
"Thank you for your prompt delivery, Mr. Oxenstierna. I appreciate efficiency." The Swede inclines his head, and Ivan turns his attention to Gilbert. "I expected you to be bound and bleeding, Mr. Bielschmidt."
Gilbert's face is, for once, expressionless behind his sunglasses. "Nah, I figured I'd be the civil one outta the two of us." His voice is acidic.
Ivan raises an eyebrow. "There is a first time for everything. I see you have Arthur Jones with you. I find that curious."
The Brit would clearly rather be anywhere but here. Ivan has no idea why Alfred married this ugly thing. Those eyebrows, Jesus. Completely inelegant compared to Alfred's looks. Ivan regrets waiting so long to fuck Alfred, in retrospect. He would have been even sweeter as a boy, fresh as peaches. Juicy.
Gilbert doesn't look away from Ivan. "Ja, Arthur's a friend of mine. Been staying at my place for a while. We're tight."
Ivan refuses to believe or disbelieve anything Gilbert says. Best to just be wary until facts are presented. "And why is he here?"
"To help me be eloquent with my phrasing. Arthur's a real classy Brit, see, and I wanted to make myself good and clear when I tell you to stay the goddamn holy cocksucking mother of fuck out of our business." Gilbert is snarling by the end of this, and Ivan can see his breaths tremble slightly; they're uneven. He's favoring his left side. Wounded, likely by Berwald.
Ivan glances at the Swede. "What side are you on? Just so we are clear."
Berwald's response takes a moment. "I am on the side that wins."
Arthur shoots Berwald a betrayed look, but Gilbert still doesn't look away from Ivan.
"Interesting," Ivan says, finishing his vodka. "Most interesting."
All around them, the speakers play harmonicas, drums, the melody a wonky one, a disorienting circus anthem.
For the benefit of Mr. Kite
There will be a show tonight
On trampoline
"Ah, Gilbert, it is your favorite song," Ivan says, smiling widely. "Do you not remember how we listened to it? You knew all the words."
Gilbert shakes his head. "I'm not here to reminisce. These ain't fuckin' rose-tinted glasses. I'm here to tell you to leave me, Arthur, and Berwald alone. Are you going to a agree?"
In this way Mr. K will challenge the world!
Ivan chuckles. "What do you think, Gilbert? Have I ever made special exceptions? Why would I start with a waste of life such as yourself? You would not spare me, if our places were switched. Do not think me the Devil. You are my demon if I am."
Gilbert pulls a gun from his jacket and aims it at Ivan.
And of course Henry the horse dances the waltz!
Ivan's smile widens as the song swells, xylophones sweeping and seeping like an ill sea tide. "The song is half over, Gilbert. I have no weapon. Are you really going to just shoot me? You are not that cold-blooded, are you?"
Gilbert's brow furrows, intense consideration. In the movies, he would drop his gun and they would brawl until, eventually, one or the other became the victor. They would do battle as equals, as men.
But they have never been equals. Ivan has never been a man. He has only been a monster.
Having been some days in preparation
A splendid time is guaranteed for all
Gilbert shoots Ivan in the heart.
And tonight Mr. Kite is topping the bill!
Ivan drops the glass with a shatter, clutches his chest, and stares at Gilbert in astonishment as he drops to the floor.
Gilbert lowers his gun, the lenses of his sunglasses reflecting the corpse of the Devil. "Auf wiedersehen, fuckface."