Yuri wrapped a towel around his ample waist and pushed the door open, nodding in greeting at the two towel-clad men who waited patiently as he ladled water over the hot rocks.
When Glazov installed this sauna in the Bratva gym facility, it had been a truly inspired decision. Yuri loved nothing more than to settle in and sweat out the stress of the day. Of course, these days stress was the exception and not the rule for Yuri.
He did not often discuss Bratva matters there, but would, on occasion, make an exception. Today was one of those times. He was meeting with two of Glazov’s closest associates, Yafon and his nephew Oleg. The sauna was where he did his best thinking and he sensed this meeting would be a grim one. What the two men wanted to discuss, he did not know; but he would do anything for his Pakhan.
He took a deep, satisfying breath of eucalyptus-laced steam. A slick sheen of sweat had already blossomed over his sizeable form and bald head as he lumbered over to his favorite wooden bench. He lowered himself onto it with a rapturous groan, spreading his legs haphazardly as he untucked the towel and let the fabric fall to the side. He leaned back against the wall with a sigh and closed his eyes, oblivious to the pained expressions of the two men seated directly across from him.
“Yafon! Oleg! My friends,” he said in his relentlessly thick Russian accent, his eyes still closed, “what is so pressing that you seek Yuri out in the sauna? We have a long history so I make exception for you, but you know I do not like to discuss business when I steam.” He opened one eye and glanced from one man to the other. “It’s my ‘me time’.”
With his eyes closed, Yuri listened as Yafon laid out recent events. He explained Glazov’s desire for Escondido to assume power over the Sinaloan cartel and the need to exterminate Volya for his crimes against the Bratva. For that is how Yafon thought of the situation now, as an extermination of an even nastier rat than the one he and Vladimira had found earlier.
“It is shame, I tell you, how our own people steal and lie against their own. No loyalty. Disgusting,” Yuri declared before leaning over onto one hip and passing gas in an audible burst that jolted Oleg long before the inescapable evidence of the eruption reached his nose. Yuri resumed his deep breathing, either oblivious to or ignoring the disruption to the eucalyptus oil’s therapeutic aroma.
“The Pakhan feels the same way, Yuri,” Oleg agreed, clearing his throat with some difficulty. “That is why we need to settle this matter quickly. It sends the wrong message if we don’t. We wouldn’t want our people thinking Glazov has gone soft because he’s launching a legitimate business venture.”
Yuri rose from his seat and lurched over to the rocks again. Oleg turned his horrified, wide eyes to Yafon while Yuri’s hulking, hairy back -- and backside -- were turned toward them. Yafon frowned at him and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Oleg scrubbed his hands over his face before checking that his own towel was securely tucked in at his hip.
“Oleg!” Yuri exclaimed as if something monumentally important had just occurred to him.
“Yes, sir,” Oleg replied in a low, pained voice.
“You steam?”
“Ex-excuse me?”
“You! Do you steam?”
“Well--”
“If you do not, you really must. Clears the mind and keeps the manhood in tiptop shape.” He turned toward them, as if presenting himself to make his point. “You are married man now, Oleg, this should be of interest to you. Your woman will thank you when she is round with your child. And many years from now, she will still be thanking you – when you let her catch her breath, of course.” He laughed boisterously and turned his attention to Yafon. “And you, my old friend! Babies are no concern for an old stallion like you, but your woman’s pleasure is always important, no? Yes, yes, you must steam. For your woman.”
He reached for the ladle and drizzled another slow stream of water over the rocks, bending deeply at the waist on a powerful inhalation as the minty mist swirled around him. “Now, listen to me, both of you. When you make the steam, don’t use too much water. Now, just as you would with a woman,” he said with a mischievous wink, “you must exercise absolute control to get most powerful response. Am I right?” he asked wickedly as he sauntered back to the bench with his flaccid dick, visible beneath his pronounced belly, swinging freely to and fro against his thighs.
“You will remember Yuri’s advice, yes? Good, good,” he said as he closed his eyes and resumed his immodest position on the bench, a hand braced on each knee. “Now, back to this unpleasantness. When you are Born Bratva there can be no perception of going straight or soft. Of course, Glazov’s noble Bratva bloodline far surpasses any trivial matters such as this.” He opened his eyes, his expression grim as he looked from Oleg to Yafon. “This man either stole or helped the bookkeeper steal. He must pay.”
“Not to mention he’s harassing my soon-to-be bride,” Yafon interjected brusquely.
“Ah, yes, congratulations, Yafon! Quite the catch, the lovely and lethal Vladimira. I will fix this quickly, Yafon, so you can marry. This unpleasantness shall not touch your happy occasion. Now, name is all I need. I’ll have the son of a bitch delivered to you within the week.”
His confidence was well warranted. Despite his eccentricities, Yuri was the best in the business at finding people who didn’t want to be found. He had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to finding people, an innate ability that was unrivaled.
“Volya Kuznetsov.”
“Ha! The surname of a blacksmith—turned to a life of thievery against his own,” Yuri spat in disgust. To turn on a fellow Russian the way this traitor had done was unforgivable in Yuri’s eyes.
Oleg leaned back, white-knuckling the edge of his bench as Yuri stood and squared his shoulders, declaring, “You tell the Pakhan, Yuri bring him this man, no charge. I do this honor for my Pakhan to show my allegiance. It is my gift to him so he may know his people remain loyal.”
His point made, Yuri stretched his arms high over his head before moving his feet far apart and reaching down to touch the tiled floor with the palms of his hands. Upon standing, he grabbed his towel and, despite Oleg’s fervent hopes to the contrary, did not put it back on.
Almost as an afterthought, Yuri asked, “Will you want me to kill him? I do that for free too.”
“You’re a good man, Yuri,” Yafon said. “Yes, if you can take him out, just bring what’s left of him to the incinerator when you’re done. The Pakhan will be most pleased. It troubles him deeply, this betrayal from within. It brings shame to our Russian heritage, to the Bratva legacy that means so much to him. Yes…the Pakhan will be most pleased to know that loyalty still exists. I thank you on his behalf.”
“Of course, of course. So, the incinerator is still up and running,” Yuri asked with a grin as he toweled the sweat from his shiny head.
Oleg replied with a low laugh, “Oh, yes, he got the idea from the Colombians. It’s a great way to get rid of evidence. We don’t want any bodies showing up later.”
Yuri shook his head and got a faraway look in his eyes. “I never see anyone else keep peace like the Pakhan. You know, youngsters think the whispers about the Pakhan’s supernatural powers are old wives’ tale, but you and I know different, eh, Yafon?”
“Indeed. Once we get Escondido in place, all will be well.”
“Ah, yes, the elusive Escondido. Now, there is a sharp mind. He is what the Sinaloans need, whether they know it or not. They run amok, no order, no discipline, killing each other off. This makes no sense to me. Yes…Escondido is what they need if they want to get…what is the word…their ‘shit storm’ in order.”
“You just take care of Volya and the Pakhan will make sure Escondido takes over the cartel. Your help is most appreciated and will not be forgotten.”
“It is my pleasure to do this service for my Pakhan,” Yuri said, drawing himself up to his full height and showing a surprising amount of dignity for a man who was utterly naked. “Let it be known far and wide that Bratva knows how to deal with traitors,” he declared, the expression in his eyes going flat and cold as he slowly slid his hand across his throat like the blade of a knife.