The Mafia King and his hard headed slave

Rita Sokolov.

We lived because we killed. We lived because we fled. We were dying because they were killing. And they killed us because we were fleeing. But now we stayed. And we can't go back.

They say it's the perfect time to have peace. Surrounded by family and friends. drinking hot tea and beer, during a hot day.

The perfect time for me is when none of that happens. And it never happens. The perfect time is night. When darkness reigns in the city, and when all the lights are off, the only thing left is the moon, which illuminates the sky like a big candle. Not too strong and not too weak. Perfect.

It is also perfect when it is raining or when the wind is blowing. Then it takes everything from the street to places you wouldn't even think things could never go. When the wind blows, it muffles everything that happens in the house, even the loudest screams and cries. Assignment? More everyday hobby-business. And the job must be done smoothly and safely.

In this small house, I'm surrounded by gray walls that could crack at any moment and a roof that could fall on me, breaking my bones. Does it matter? No. Places like this fall by themselves. From old age or exhaustion. They are not much different from the people, especially from the one sitting in front of me.

You just need to have the right thing to break them.

His eyes are gray, bloodshot, and blue. Scratched and wet face was shaking, as was his body which was bound by long, cold chains. Loud breathing echoed in this small, ghostly room.

I can see the fear in his eyes that he is trying to hide, but his cry betrays him.

He tried to escape, and broke the chains, but in vain. Like everyone else.

Like always.

My brothers stood around him. They both wore black jackets and at first glance, they would look elegant and cute. Oh, but honey, don't be fooled by the look. Their gaze is sharp and cold, their bodies are calm and straight as a board.

The two of them slowly circled the man in the chair, chuckling evilly.

"Abramov," Garretov said. His accent was hard and deep, as was his laughter.

My lips formed a grin as I slowly approached the chair.

"Oh, Camelo. When will you learn not to play with me? With us." I said slowly, stroking his black hair which was sticking to my fingers from sweat. "You were a very bad boy. Yeah? I think it's time to pay-"

"Please don't!" he shouted. Tears streamed down his face like a waterfall. "Please, please, I didn't do anything, I swear, please."

"Shhh," I said, putting a gentle kiss on his forehead, leaving the bright red lipstick on my lips. "You did a very bad thing-" I snapped my fingers to Garretov. He took a knife out of his pocket and put it in my hand. "A very bad thing. But if you're a good boy, and don't make a lot of noise, maybe I'll let you go with all six fingers, hmm?" I ran the blade of my knife over my fingers, feeling its sharpness.

"Go to hell!" Camelo shouted, spitting at me, but not a drop reached my leather jeans.