PART 1

Princes of Moscow

Chapter 1

Anatoly had grown used to waking up cold. The sheets on his bed were thin and the rough plaster of the room he shared with his brother was poorly insulated, so every winter morning he woke up simply cold.

The Ranskahovs had grown used to living in poverty. The family could barely scrape together enough to feed themselves, let alone heat their entire building. What little heat they could pay for was funneled into the bar on the main floor when it was open. The living space above the bar, the two bedrooms and small kitchen, were left to the mercy of the elements.

Anatoly didn't care. He'd grown up wearing lots of layers to bed and had never known what it was like to be completely warm in the winter. It was the cards the family had been dealt.

Some nights, when Anatoly was wrapped up in the quilts his mother's grandmother had made years before on his bare mattress on the floor, he could feel the traces of the bar's heat shifting up through the floorboards. The warm sounds of laughter, jeers, and jokes floated up with the smell of cigarette smoke. Anatoly could pick out his father's deep baritone voice as he poured drinks behind the bar and his brother's laugh as he told the story of his latest escapades. Anatoly loved these nights; the nights that made him remember that the people in his life were much more important than the money in his wallet.

Then there were some nights where the winter wind whipped through the cracks in the wall, the sounds of harsh cursing and a bar brawl echoed through the house, and Anatoly dreamed of the mansions of Moscow and a life where there was always a fire in the hearth.

The stories of Moscow were some of Anatoly's favorites. Every night, after a meager dinner, Anatoly would sit down in his father's bar, listening to his brother and his friends tell tales of their great, war-hero elders and the women with seductive curves they met out on the streets. Sometimes, when the group of twenty year olds left the bar, usually to chase down those alluring women, Anatoly would turn to the older men for tales.

A man named Oleg, a good friend of his father's, was regular at the bar and he tended to have some of the best stories to share, about mobsters and police raids, action and adventure. When the stories got to violent, Anatoly's father would shoot Oleg a hidden glare to change the topic.

Oleg would laugh, toss his arm around Anatoly's shoulder, and ruffle his hair. "By God Vaska," he would yell to his father, tossing back his glass of vodka. "The boy is fourteen years old. He's probably seen worse on his way home from school."

His father would simply shake his head and begin to wipe down the bar. "He's too young to hear about such things," he would rumble gruffly. "I don't want him getting any ideas."

Oleg would give Anatoly's father a pointed, knowing look, but always respected the man's wishes and changed the story. This was how Anatoly learned about Moscow.

Whatever work Oleg did Anatoly had never learned, his father always quick to stop any conversation that drifted that direction, but what he did do took him too many great cities in Russia. He always spoke the fondest about Moscow, the glittering capital of their proud nation. He spoke of wealth and marvelous buildings; the Winter Palace, Saint Basil's Cathedral, the Kremlin.

Anatoly would smile at the older man, leaning forward against the bar, and say, "Someday. Someday I will go to Moscow and see these places you speak of. And I will be as rich and powerful as the men in your stories."

Oleg would grin encouragingly but Vaska would simply shake his head again. "Moscow has poverty and slums just like Kuybyshev. Life there is not as glamorous as some make it seem."

But every kid has a dream, and Moscow was Anatoly's. Vladimir would always roll his eyes when Anatoly would talk about the city, retelling tales he had heard from Oleg for his brother's benefit, but it was easy to see that his older brother found the idea of a posh life in the capital just as appealing.

Anatoly rolled to face his brother, blowing a warm breath against his icy fingers. His brother was sprawled on another mattress not far across the room, quilts spread in a wild mess over his legs and torso. Vladimir had his head turned away from his younger brother but Anatoly could still hear the rumble of a deep-sleep snore. Probably sleeping off all of the Rodnik from last night, Anatoly thought to himself with a small smirk.

He slid over to the edge of the mattress and pushed himself to his feet, still wearing the sweater and trousers from yesterday. His boots sat at the end of the pallet and he picked them up by the laces, chunks of caked mud falling to the floor, while glancing out the small window to the city street below. It was a rather depressing view, a dingy road and a rundown butcher shop across the way. Even though the meat there was affordable, Anatoly's father still questioned the quality and decided to spend some extra rubles for trustworthy beef.

"Vstavay!" Anatoly murmured, nudging his brother in the ribs with his wool sock covered toes, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Wake up, Vladimir!"

Vladimir groaned in response, rolling towards the wall and away from the persistent jab of his younger sibling's foot. "Otvali," he grumbled into his crumpled pillow. Anatoly prodded him again. "Anatoly, piss off!"

With a roll of his eyes, Anatoly plodded out of their shared room and into the small kitchen. There were three rooms on the floor above the bar. A kitchen and the two bedrooms, one shared by the brothers and the other claimed by Vaska. When the family had to use the bathroom, they had to tromp down the stairs and use the bar's.

There wasn't much to see in the kitchen; a dirty, outdated gas stove that was rarely used in order to save money on the gas bill, a refrigerator no bigger than Anatoly himself, a faucet over a rusty sink, and a wooden table with matching chairs that had each been repainted and chipped so many times it was impossible to discern what color they were actually supposed to be. As far as lighting went, they were lucky to have the bare light bulb that illuminated the room, the kitchen in perpetual night time when the bedroom doors were closed. The walls, just like the other two rooms on the floor, were painted a murky eggshell and cracked and peeling in more places than not. The creaky wooden floors were desperate for a good sweeping, but no one in the family bothered to take a broom to them and instead let the dust form layer by layer.

Vaska was already awake and working when Anatoly entered the room. "Good morning," he greeted his son with a smile. The older man was already clothed in a pair of thick sweaters and a heavy, wool lined jacket that always reeked of old vodka and cigar smoke. As Anatoly sat down at the head of the wooden table, Vaska set a plate of breakfast in front of him and ruffled his hair with a gloved hand. "Where is your brother?"

"Still sleeping," Anatoly replied, letting his boots drop to the floor next to his chair and taking a bite of the slice of rye bread with a chunk of sausage that served as his morning meal.

Vaska let out a sigh, running a hand down his face in irritation. "That boy," he muttered to himself. "I told him not to stay out so late." He strode towards the room shared by his sons, his gate long and angry. The door was hastily closed behind him, an attempt to block out the argument that was sure to ensue. It was never very successful.

"Vladimir, wake up," came Vaska's rich voice through the wood. "Get up off your ass."

Vladimir's words were mumbled, impossible for Anatoly to make out. Vaska's response was not.

"I do not care if you're tired! It was your decision to stay out late, chasing after those criminals you call your friends! Those boys are a terrible influence on you; every time you go out with them I keep waiting from a call from the politsiya, telling me that my son has been arrest-"

Vladimir's interrupting reply came in the same brash, angered tone. "You are one to talk about criminals! You think Anatoly and I don't hear the stories everyone spews about you? Do you think I don't know who all of those men that sit in your bar work for?"

Anatoly continued to nibble at his breakfast, the sausage quickly devoured and nothing but the crust left of the bread. Anatoly always saved the crust for last.

"I do what I have to, to put food on our table." Vaska no longer sounded angry, but instead weary. "You have a responsibility to this family, a responsibility to your brother. Running around with those boys and making trouble is not fulfilling that. You're just putting everything at risk."

Vaska paused. Anatoly picked at a chipped piece of paint from the kitchen table, the slate gray paint sticking to his nail.

"What do you think Maxim would do to me if police started snooping around my bar? Hmm?" Wisely, Vladimir did not respond. "What do you think he would do to your brother? You speak so boldly about how you know who I work for. If you are as smart as you seem to think you are, you should know exactly what a man like Maxim is capable of!"

What Anatoly knew of the man Maxim, whose name was whispered throughout the side streets like it was the devil himself, was no more than wild rumors from the kids at school and the occasional hushed conversation between a pair of elderly men in the bar. But if even the smallest bit of it was true, Maxim was someone to steer clear of. Weapons smuggling, drug dealing, politics, he had a hand in everything. And if something stood in his way, especially law enforcement, Maxim made sure they wouldn't for long. Anatoly was sure Vladimir knew this, if not more. But the thought that Vaska and his friends worked for the man, Anatoly had trouble believing it.

The floorboards creaked in the other room as the two men shifted, the anger in the air tangible even to Anatoly on the other side of the door. Anatoly had grown used to these sorts of altercations between his brother and father, the intensity steadily increasing as Vladimir spent more and more time out with his friends that helping his father with the bar.

"Go sober up," Vaska spat, disappointment in his voice. "You need to take Anatoly to school, then pick up our liquor shipment from the market. I have some work I have to take care of."

The door knob turned and Anatoly watched his father surge out from the room, his face flushed and sweat beading his forehead. Anatoly carefully schooled his face as if he hadn't heard a word of the argument, even though the whole family knew he had.

"Have a good day at school," Vaska grumbled, mussing up Anatoly's hair as he passed. Anatoly heard a door slam behind him followed by the heavy clomp of his father's work boots as he stormed down the staircase to the bar.

Anatoly got up and wiped the crumbs off of his plate before returning it to the stack of miscellaneous dishware piled on the stovetop. He sat back down in his chair and started tugging his boots on over his socks, tightening the laces slow and methodically as he waited for his older brother to emerge. There were a few creaks of loose floorboards and some shuffling from the other room before Vladimir made an appearance, his short hair sticking up at angles and his eyes red from sleep and alcohol.

He forced a smile for Anatoly, picking a foggy, dirty water glass up from the stack of dishes and filling it from the faucet in the corner. Taking a tentative sip from the glass, Vladimir plopped down in the chair to the right of his brother. Anatoly could smell the alcohol on his clothes. Vladimir leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Anatoly moved to the fridge, digging out the sausage to fix his brother a quick breakfast. "So, did you sleep well?" he asked his brother, his voice flat as he glanced over his shoulder.

Vladimir turned in his chair, giving him a scalding glare. "Mudak."

Both of the brothers grinned.

The colored bottles of liquor clinked together, ringing over the white noise of conversation, as Vaska pulled them from the crate at his feet and placed them upon the shelf above the rows of cigarettes for sale and a framed picture of Vaska and his comrades back when he was in the navy, long before his boys. A quick glance away from his work showed Anatoly listening to Vladimir's friends share their romp through the city last night in lighthearted voices and Vladimir, for once, on the other side of the bar, filling orders and making sure the rowdy group payed for their alcohol. At least something he had said to the boy had gotten through.

Vladimir had been determined to cause trouble ever since his mother had left. He spent less and less time helping his father manage their business and more and more running rampant through the streets, filling up with alcohol then causing all sorts of trouble. Vaska thanked God every day that his son had yet to be arrested; many of his friends had seen the inside of a prison when they were barely over eighteen; but the boy was pressing his luck.

The last thing Vaska wanted was for his children to be looped into the same situation as him; a crime lord breathing down his neck as he tried to keep his family afloat. When his bar had been failing, taking up work from Maxim was the only way to make and income and keep his family alive. He made customers out of Maxim's men and a profit out of the illegal weapons he held in his store room.

It kept his family alive, but it was slowly killing him. Someday, someone was going to show up in the bar and Vaska would never leave. It was the nature of the business. Vaska just wanted to keep his family as far away from it as possible.

The door swung open, a cold wind brushing through the door in front of two men and the city sound blending with the pumping bass of the bar's music for a brief moment, before being closed once more. The latch of the door didn't catch and one of the men, the taller of the pair, struggled with it until he was satisfied it would not fling open and let the winter in.

"What can I help you with," Vaska asked, nudging the empty crate away with the toe of his boot and leaning his hands against the bar, giving the customers a once over. The taller man wandered, his eyes darting about the bar, eyeing the patrons, while the other slid onto a stool, meeting Vaska's gaze.

"Ah." The man glanced at the row of liquor neatly lined on the shelf, before pointing at a bottle. "Two, please."

Vaska turned to reach up and grab the bottle of vodka by its neck, but he did not miss the glance the two men shared, the man at the bar tapping his fingers on the bar as the other sat down next to him. God, law enforcement is shit these days, he thought to himself, unscrewing the cap from the bottle and fishing two glasses out from under the bar.

"So," he said as he filled the glasses, the clear liquid sloshing over the edge of the second and dribbling onto the bar top. He twisted the cap back into place and set the bottle down next to the poured glasses with a thunk. The glasses were slid towards their respective owners. "What brings you to this part of the city? I have not seen you here before."

Both of the men were too clean, too well fed, to come from the same poverty stricken, crime filled streets as the other men he served vodka to. Their gloves were new, no holes or patches, and their boots, which he had gotten and glance at when they walked in, were clean, as if they scrubbed them every night before bed. They had no visible tattoos, practically a staple of the criminals who drank here, like the one that crawled up Vaska's own neck or the small artwork covering Vladimir's hands.

"We come from Tolyatti; my brother in law and I just moved our families here," the taller men explained, slapping his partner on the back in a friendly manner, his voice deep behind the stubble on his chin. "I have found a good job and Dima here hopes he will be equally lucky in Samara."

Vaska made a small noise of acknowledgment, busying his hands with a rag, wiping the excess vodka from the bar top. "Work here…" -Vaska glanced around the room as though it was the entire city- "is hard to come by."

The door creaked open once again and the familiar form of Oleg slid in out of the cold, his head covered by a large hat and his thick coat lined with a layer of snow. Vaska met his gaze over the heads of the police officers. Oleg jerked his head to the store room door, stripping his jacket and leaving it hanging by the door. When Vaska gave him a short nod, he moved to the back of the bar, patting a friend's arm on his way.

"Well, hopefully," Dima continued, "I will be lucky."

Vaska gave him a smile, though it was just a movement of muscles. There was no light in his eyes, no true hope for a man who was already employed to find work. "I hope you will. Welcome to Kuybyshev, both of you." He left the men with a nod.

As the policemen toasted; a fake jovial "Vashe zdorov'ye"; Vaska slid to the far edge of the bar and latched a hand onto his eldest son's bicep. Vladimir turned, prying his attention away from his friend's excruciatingly detailed description of a young lady's anatomy and focusing instead on his father.

"Vladimir, take your brother upstairs, make sure he has his school work complete," he whispered into his son's ear, giving the boy a stern, pointed look. "These are not stories for someone his age." They both glanced at Anatoly, whose eyebrows were drawn and face was lined with confusion as he absorbed the words of his senior.

"Come watch the bar once he is settled, I have to speak with Oleg," Vaska finished, giving Vladimir a pat on the arm.

Vladimir gave his father a dark look, his eyes flicking to the back of the bar where Oleg was disappearing behind the store room door, but held his tongue, clearly thinking about their argument this morning. He shuffled over to his brother, muttered something in his ear, and then nodded towards his friends as Anatoly stood up. The younger boy looked relieved to be excused from the discussion. I'll have to talk to him about women soon, Vaska thought as the boys made their way towards the staircase and he towards the store room. His kids were growing up painfully fast.

Vaska had no worries about someone trying anything in the bar while he was gone. There was so much firepower strapped to the bar patrons that if someone even looked at the cash box funny, they'd end up with a bullet in their back. Maxim's men were loyal that way. He just hoped no one decided to take care of the policemen; the last thing he needed was even more law enforcement crawling through his home.

Once he had slipped behind the storeroom door, Vaska descended the dilapidated wooden stairs that felt as though they would give out under his weight with every step. Oleg was waiting for him at the bottom; the dim light of a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling casting harsh shadows around the room, illuminating the crates of AK-74's disguised as whiskey waiting to be picked up.

"Make this quick Oleg, I don't want those two policemen to get murdered while I'm gone," Vaska said, standing next to Oleg. He was much taller and younger than the other man, but Oleg was dangerous in his own ways. Oleg never carried a gun, he didn't like them, but he was one of Maxim's closest advisors. One bad word from Oleg and one could be waking up at the bottom of the Volga River.

"That's exactly it Vaska," Oleg said, running a hand over his balding, grey hair. He fixed Vaska with a firm look. "Maxim's men in the force learned that the police have become suspicious of you. They're preparing to mount a full investigation into you and your relationship with the mob."

There was a tightness in Vaska's chest; fear. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid by setting Vladimir straight. If the police began associating him with Maxim and his criminal actions, Maxim would have him offed. This was how he survived, how he escaped imprisonment. If an asset became a risk, he cut it off, like pruning a bush.

Letting out a shaky breath, his eyes closed, Vaska ran a hand down his face, rubbing the back of his neck. "So is that why you are here, Oleg?" he asked, opening his weary eyes to stare down his potential executor.

The other man looked away, resting his hands on his hips. The basement storage was freezing cold, receiving none of the heat from the bar room above. Vaska could see Oleg's breath come out in short puffs, the silence between them long.

"No," Oleg said at last, turning back towards his companion. He shook his head and repeated, "No. I am your friend, your good friend. I have watched your children grow for many years now. Maxim knows this; he would not make me the one to carry out your sentencing. He is not that cruel."

Vaska could imagine Maxim being that cruel, but he did not share this with Oleg. "You came to warn me then?"

Oleg nodded, slow and sad. "Da."

"Do you know how much time I have?"

"No, but seeing two police officers sitting in your bar," Oleg shook his head, "not much. It's too large of a threat." He gestured over towards the stack of gun crates. "I will take care of the weapons; you need to take care of your family. Samara, Kuybyshev, whatever you want to call this city, Vaska. It is no longer safe for you. You and the boys need to leave. You need to leave the country. There is not much more that I can do for you."

"Thank you, Oleg," Vaska breathed, the two men embracing, pounding each other on the backs. "Spasibo. I owe you my family, and my life."

As they released one another, Oleg gave Vaska a sad smile. "Do not thank me yet. Let us just both pray that God smiles down upon the Ranskahovs."

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm back. I apologize for how long it took me to get this story rolling again, but I figured, unlike my last fic I'm not going to give myself deadlines and just let this story evolve as I go. Updates will be sporadic, but I will be working on it, so be patient with me. We don't get a whole ton of the brothers in this chapter, but the setup in this is important for the rest of the story. Maxim, who is an original character, no connection to any of the comics, will become very important later on. As a side note, I'm in no way an expert on Russia or Russian culture, so most stuff in this story comes from books I've read and research on the internet. If there's anything that isn't correct, please just let me know! I hope you enjoy and please leave reviews and fav and follow! Thanks so much for reading guys! -Krieg

Disclaimer :I do not own Marvel, Daredevil, or any other characters affiliated with the show. Maxim, however, is mine. This is rated T for violence and language, if you watch the show, you should be just fine!