𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 ⚔︎

2

his first night in new york was a sleepless one.

giovanni's new place to sleep was on the sofa in the apartment — aleksander had the smallest bedroom to himself, while viktor and dmitri shared the big one (which in fact wasn't at all big, it just wasn't the measly shoebox that aleksander occupied). he was kept up by his thoughts, whirling around his head like a giant tornado. the previous evening, they had dinner at a russian restaurant to celebrate giovanni's arrival. the brothers had told him about what to expect now that he was in new york, and not on a farm in the middle of nowhere—

—the first thing they told him to do was to carry a gun with him everywhere he goes, even to the bodega across the street. "you never know who or what is going to be around the corner." not anything major of course, just a pistol tucked into your belt would do. south bronx was one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the entire city, so giovanni would have to be on guard at all times.

the second piece of advice was to preferably find a job in a place that was russian-owned, or in a majority russian area — americans didn't take well to communists or russians — especially not in new york, the hubbub of all things capitalist, where everything revolved around money. the average american was cautious of a russian (there was a cold war going on, after all).

the third piece of advice given was for him to walk to places as much as he could — the subway wasn't cheap, but if you had to take it, it was best to jump the barrier when the guards weren't looking. and if you did buy a car, you wouldn't get halfway down the street without joining a huge queue. the traffic in the city was terrible.

giovanni absorbed all of this new information like a sponge. he was most disappointed at the fact that he couldn't get a car: he loved cars, and he had never had his own before. he had only ever driven his father's pick-up truck back home. the gun thing was fine, as was the russian-owned business advice. as much money as it made, giovanni knew for definite that he did not want to be like viktor and dmitri, who took advantage of the poor by selling drugs for a profession. they tried to goad him into it and persuade him to meet their boss, but giovanni politely declined. he knew that he wanted an honest, fulfilling career in a field best suited to his talents — and if the money came, then the money came.

for several days, giovanni woke up early and took the subway from longwood avenue through to harlem, down to manhattan, along to brooklyn and coney island, to queens, and then back up again to the bronx. he got on and off at almost every single stop and patrolled around new york city, handing in job applications to everywhere he could think of. bars, restaurants, nightclubs, russian-owned bodegas, italian-owned bodegas, retail stores, mechanics, factories, the shipyards; he trailed around for hours, his feet almost dropping off. he had no real world experience, as he had worked on the farm with his father for most of his life, but surely this would make him a stronger candidate, would it not? showing that he was resilient, loyal, and good with his hands?

he tried the best he could to hide his accent, but it failed. his english was moderately good, and he was completely fluent in his mother and father languages. most places turned him away: some even chased him away. the italian places he went ridiculed him for his last name and the russian places ridiculed him for his first name. his mere existence was confusing — they needed to know if he was an enemy or not. to them, he was just a mutt.

"giovanni? volkov?" a man at carter's auto repair had said, his hands and face covered in black muck. "you a russki or a goomah?"

giovanni did not know what either of those words meant. "eh... slightly both."

the man tutted. "sorry, kid. the boss doesn't take russians. not since '83."

handling the rejection was hard, but he knew he had to persevere. a few russian-owned places took his applications and told him they'd be in touch. some of the workers in these bars and restaurants recognised his last name solely because they bought drugs from his cousins.