Vassili
“Vassili, you crazy?” Yuri grumbles, with one hand on the wheel of his SUV, while on the way to my uncle, Malich’s, estate. The choppy gray Venice Beach water has disappeared from sight, as he navigates Neilson Way and then turns on Ocean Park Boulevard.
He’s right, I’m crazy. I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. I’m cut from a bad cloth, and she’s pure goodness. Something told me that deep down underneath the anger she felt for Ronisha was a certain innocence. I’m searching for information on her with my phone while we ride. I’ve just found out her full name is Zariah Washington. I like it. She’s eighteen to my twenty-one. Her birthday just passed this March. Good, I don't fuck jailbait, but I’d be lying through my teeth if I claimed that I would wait.
“This bitch’s pop is the chief of police and you want to carry out a hit for her? Malich would be elated about your first hit, but for a bitch…that bitch? Washington isn't on…”
Yuri’s voice trails off as soon as I stopped looking at her graduation photo to shoot him a glare. With my one look it’s not necessary for me to tell him to stop disrespecting and calling Zariah out of her name.
He treads lightly, eyes squinting somewhat, as he gathers his train of thought. “Uh, Washington isn’t on payroll, Vassili. And you’ve already told Malich that you aren’t interested in the family business. This is bullshit.” He shakes his head again. “Think about your pop, Vassili, think!”
I'm the oldest of a football team’s worth of siblings. My father, Anatoly, is old school in his ways. The throne is passed to the oldest, the birthright mine. Anatoly preferred one of my younger brothers come to the U.S. in order to watch his kid brother, Malich, who’s the West Coast connection. Anatoly wanted me by his side, preparing me to rule our own country, one day. Fuck that. My father is too paranoid. Anatoly only agreed to my terms of living in California because he thought it would somehow soften me enough to return to the Resnov syndicate. I’d put two slugs into my father’s forehead before I’d returned to the family business. Damn, just thinking about how much I hate my father reminds me of Zariah’s words.
“Sergio, and other boys like him, enjoy sweet, naïve girls like her, if you know what I mean.”
Sweet, naïve girls are easy to manipulate. My hands claw into fists as I concentrate on the fact that defending Ronisha isn’t even a drop in the bucket to what I should’ve done to my father, for her.
But regarding my uncle, Malich, I respect him. So far he hasn’t crossed my father. His pockets are only as heavy as Anatoly allows. Malich isn't set in his ways, though. Old ways mean that business is first. Malich is a fan of MMA because their father, my grandfather, was a boxer and won a title. He held the title for years before heading the Resnov mob family. He had a hand in both, while my father only believes in one or the other.
A few years ago, my father learned about my interest in MMA He’s still in my ear about the octagon all the way from Russia. He believes that if I had stayed in Russia, I would’ve assisted with the production of illegal import Russian vodka, illegal arts, and guns dealing. But that shit isn't me. And anything Anatoly has a hand in, I want no part of.
“Vassili, you’re playing with fire.” Yuri’s tone is laced with caution, while he stops at the wrought iron gates before his father’s mansion.
“I know, Yuri. Now, find Sergio with the prayer hands on his bicep. I want him in Malich’s basement, by dark.”
###
My boots step over piss, water, and vomit, as my eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. Sergio’s arms are tied above his head, to a beam along the ceiling. One of Malich’s goons apparently thought that water torture would be a good starter, as his stomach is extremely bloated. There are weights strapped to his dangling feet, stretching his body further. The guys did just enough to break his spirit, leaving the big motherfucker in tears.
I take a drag from my cigarette, and release the smoke through my nose. “I’ve been told you enjoy hitting women. Big piz’da like you can’t find someone your own size to fight?”
“Please! Please!”
He starts to beg God, yet my heart hardens further. I rub a hand over the side of my neck where, conveniently, there’s a tattoo of an eye inside a triangle. It’s the symbol of God's omniscience, His ability to see everything. Yet, I don’t feel convicted.
He speaks rapidly in Italian. He’s praying to the Almighty God. I know his every word because Anatoly made learning the language a requirement when I was a child. Every bit of his training was to prepare me for the syndicate. Though I’ll probably never get the chance to one up an Italian who speaks ill of me unaware, or negotiate an arms deal off of a port in Sicily.
“Listen.” I clasp my hand against the back of his neck, bringing his tear swollen gaze to mine. Time to cut in before he pleads to the Holy Spirit, again. “I believe in God, too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pray for your soul later. But tonight, you’ll either go…” My cigarette points up and then down. “I can’t see further than your death, but your death is inevitable.”
I tune out his cries, burning the cigarette into his chest. Shit, I have my own prayers; like bargaining with God that if nothing happens with Zariah tonight, I won’t continue to pursue her. I hold my hands out so they can be weighed down with gloves. I glance at my knuckles, recalling how swollen and bloody they were the first time I had to fight. In an instant, I’m transported back to Russia. What a fucking dynasty the Resnovs are. The men are revered. There’s no space for females.
Anatoly believes that women serve two purposes: to be used on their backs or their knees and to be servants to cook and to clean. My sister, his own blood, meant nothing to him. She was like Ronisha. She was dealt a bad hand. Stuck in a story that would only end in tragedy. The Resnov name never protected a female who wasn’t respected by a male counterpart. So, the first time I ever fought was for Sasha.