K U S T O V (NaNoWriMo 2014)

VIII

VIII 

            At exactly 9:29 that night, Natalya was shocked out of her reading stupor by the buzzing of Ivan’s phone. She had finally gotten him to sleep the hour before (possibly with a little bit of help), and then promptly crawled away from his wandering arms, taken his phone, and retired in the sitting room by trying to read War and Peace (in Russian, of course), for the fifth time. Sighing, Natalya slid the dog-eared, ripped copy of the novel onto the couch and answered it.

            “Yes?”

            “Is this the Pakhan? We have a… Situation,” a voice, that of a younger boy, sounded on the other end as Natalya stood, dusting off her dress and sliding on her heels.

            “It’s Natalya, but I can help. What has happened?” she sighed, balancing the cellphone between her shoulder and her ear as her purse found its way onto her shoulder and she left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

            “Levan Bagrationi is dead.”

Ξ

            As Natalya Kustov made her way down Osip street, her heels hitting the pavement as she walked as fast as she could towards the apartment building, Sergei and Aleksey sat on the front steps, heads in their hands. The second they had seen Levan Bagrationi’s body hanging over the side of the sink and dripping blood from a slit throat onto the floor, the two friends hadn’t known what to do. Aleksey had immediately run out of the apartment, vomiting behind the bushes while Sergei immediately called the Pakhan.

            And now, there they sat, one boy as bright as the sun retching into the grass, and the other glowering and waiting for his boss’ wife to show up and fix everything for them. They were scribbled lines waiting for the ruler so they could be straightened out.

            As the clacking of heels sounded closer and closer, Sergei reached over and tapped Aleksey’s shoulder to signal him to try to sit back down and wait for the Pakhan’s wife. When there was no answer, Sergei stood and hooked his arms under Aleksey’s stomach, yanking him onto the stairs and sitting down besides him. The night was cold, and as the two waited on the stairs Sergei could see the air billowing in an arc from his nose, the mist clouding before it dissipated and was recreated, in and out.

            And as the mob wife in pink heels approached, a calm, almost content expression on her face, Sergei couldn’t help but to feel a little bit of fear of what was to come.

Ξ

            As the three, an odd mix for sure, made their way into the dark apartment, Natalya flipped the light switch and the three watched as they flickered on yet again, the low-quality, almost fluorescent lighting, catching them off guard and bringing the apartment to a new light with Natalya there. Now they could see just how little had been taken. There was a brown, almost dirty looking imprint where the overstuffed paisley sofa sat, the mark darkening under the lighting. They had left the television and the radio, now abandoned looking with toys crowding around them or stacks of newspapers to hold the antennas up, yet taken the toys, which Aleksey could not comprehend.

            Making her way towards the bathroom with quick, purposeful steps, Aleksey and Sergei wavered slightly behind. It would be different seeing the body now, with an adult to help and the knowledge of what was to come, but Aleksey was still anxious. He hadn't been exposed to a lot of gore in his time. He didn’t learn to shoot a gun until he was fifteen, and never played or watched violent games or films. He cried when animals died, or when he was nasty to someone when he didn’t want to be. Aleksey liked comfort and safety behind the bad, reckless atmosphere. And Sergei provided that, and he knew it.

            So the two stood as Natalya turned on the bathroom light, casting an indifferent face towards the body.

            How inconvenient.

Ξ

            Natalya reached down, quirking an eyebrow as she studied the body of her enemy, a sly, content smile making its way across her face. Finally, the bastard was dead. Levan had always been an… issue for Natalya and Ivan. A consistent, annoying, buzzing rat, he didn’t know when or why to stop talking. Whenever Natalya would join Ivan to collect rent or to tell the Georgian to sober up and take care of his own children, he would simply laugh, take another swing of liquor, and make a point of smacking Natalya in the most inappropriate, accessible way. She hated him. She hated stares she received on the street, she hated men that followed her home, and she certainly hated irresponsible parents and drunkards. Why some people had children she couldn’t understand, and Levan was one of them.

            Sighing, Natalya stepped forward and ripped open the dead man’s shirt, eyebrows rising when she found what she was looking for.

            Painted on his chest, with a thick, bright red permanent marker, was the symbol. And then, Natalya knew.

            There wasn’t a note, or even a sign of where the rest of the family had gone. All that she knew was that they had, and they weren’t coming back, not for anything.

Ξ

            “Come on, I haven’t got nothin’! You heard ‘bout what went down last week, comrade! I’ve got no stock and nothin’ to share, and if I did I sure wouldn’t give it to you,” Anton Korov sneered at the figure hidden in the shadows of Knockturn Alleyway, pressed up against the brick as they bickered. “You’re in too deep. I ain’t gonna feed an obsession.”

            “It’s not a habit, Anton,” the figured behind the hood defended, taking another puff of their cigarette, blowing the smoke into Anton’s face. “It’s a lifestyle.”

            “Bullshit,” he sneered, pulling himself forward, trying to get a look at the customer’s face. He had been selling the figure drugs for the past month, meeting twice a week to deliver whatever he had ordered the meeting before unfailingly, but because of the… Incident that had happened and whatever bastard had decided it was funny to burn his stock, he was unable to.

            Beginning to feel a little nervous, Anton stepped back, but the figure growled and grabbed at his coat, yanking him towards their face.

            “You think this is funny?” the figure laughed, shaking Anton back and forth. “You’re such an idiot.”

            A flash of long, Italian hair flew in front of Anton’s face, right before he was shot right through the head.