Page 1 of Brutal Promise

1

DMITRY

The view of the New York City skyline never grows old as we prepare to land at JFK airport. The commercial overseas flight is jam-packed with families. Men and women who are on business trips work on their computers. The only positive on the trip is an attractive flight attendant who kept my cocktails coming. She spoke English and Russian, so we flirted in both languages. There’s something about my brooding nature that attracts women to me. I prefer to stick to myself. However, she’s a pretty Russian. I’m sure she’d be happy with a quick fuck and wouldn’t complain when I left her after I’d finished with her. I remind myself that I’m here to help a friend.

The flight from London is always long. The business class seat gives me more legroom than the standard seat, but it’s not like the family jet I’ve become accustomed to. Nikolay is using it this week. My left leg hurts like a son of a bitch, and the vodka eases the pain. It’s stiff from sitting, so I adjust my seat. When my butt goes numb, I get up and walk in the aisle. I need to keep my blood flowing. It’s a reminder of a drug deal that went sideways with the Italians. They were bent on flipping my car and didn’t care if I burned alive.

One trigger-happy motherfucker is all it took to be a thorn in my side. It’s another reason I’m not partial to the Cosa Nostra because their fighting spills blood in the streets. I’m not trusting, and it’s what keeps me alive. I have rules I live by. Is it a superstition or a deeply held belief? I never leave a loose end that could come back and bite me in the ass. My world is dark, and I embrace it as it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s the world I share with my brothers.

If Nikolay were traveling with me, we’d have used the jet. This is not an official business trip for the family but a social call to a friend who needs me. It’s a predominant skill set I have—hacking. I developed it living in the underworld. I can’t escape the family business, nor do I want to. I want to weed out unsavory men in the brotherhood, and it seems my friend has a thief to catch.

As the plane taxis to the gate, I pop my earbuds out. They come in handy to discourage conversations with strangers, especially the female passenger sitting next to me, who kept talking. I wasn’t interested and ignored her to watch a mafia movie on my phone.

This trip is as close to a vacation as I’ll ever get unless it’s a honeymoon. And I don’t see that happening. Seeing my oldest brother getting married recently was a shock. But it’s his responsibility to carry on the family name and produce the next Bratva King. I have no wish for brats to feed. If I did find a woman, I wouldn’t want to share her breasts with a little urchin.

I’m stifled at home, living in my mostly landlocked country, where every day looks like the last. I’m sure this is why I dream of visiting the beaches of Bali, maybe even floating on a surfboard. I’m tired of traveling only for business. It would be nice to go somewhere where no one knows me or my past, even if it’s only for a few days. I’d have to go that far for my name not to be recognized once my father’s or Nikolay’s name is mentioned in the affluent circles. We have legitimate international businesses. To the world, we’re the face of the corporation, not the mafia.

I unclip my seatbelt and take my phone off airplane mode while waiting for other first-class passengers to move ahead. I grab my luggage from the overhead compartment and shove my phone in my back pocket. I’ve been traveling for over twelve hours and long to take a hot shower to get the dust off. It made sense to fly out of London after I met with Nikolay.

My older brother is the new don, and my younger brother, Roman, is holding down the fort in Russia. Our Bratva merged with one of my father’s oldest friends, and it will be interesting to see how it plays out. Expansion usually comes at a price. Growing pains, like those I had growing so fast in my teen years, are not a myth. My teeth hurt, remembering how uncomfortable it was growing an inch taller within one week.

Once I’m off the plane, I walk through the jetway to the terminal, breathing in the cold crisp air, refreshing compared to the stale, stagnant canned shit on the plane. I’m excited to be there again and want to enjoy the city’s nightlife.

I wonder what Kirill is up to. We can only discuss so much over our phones without encryption, but I’m not trusting of that, either. I like complicated systems bouncing our cells around the world. The toys government agents have today are more sophisticated than anyone can imagine. The criminal units who fare the best are those that go old school, getting in and out like a snake in the grass. They quietly strike their target and operate alone. They never leave a witness behind.

If a deal goes south, I cut loose ends. When I was called upon to lead soldiers in turf wars, they knew I wasn’t a forgiving man. The small things always trip up men in my line of work. I don’t fancy living in a prison cell. I prefer to do what must be done to make sure nothing comes back on me or my family.

My family is beautiful, but it can be brutal. We’re all brothers in the Bratva. The only difference is what level you live on. We keep things compartmentalized to insulate ourselves from lower ranks who aren’t used to being tortured and might give us up, but they can’t if they don’t know our name and have no details to spill.

I walk for what feels like forever. My leg aches, and I’m thinking about my father and why he ever entered into a deal with his friend Igor. He would still be alive if it were not for some fucked up political shit with Russian oil companies. I know all about the importance of friendships. That’s why I’m here to help Kirill.

We met at Princeton and soon realized we were from connected families. As a result, we became friends immediately and had a few years to fuck around being typical college kids. We were known for our clubbing in New York City. I met his family, and we made the most of spring breaks when we took road trips that consisted of family obligations and partying, especially in Miami Beach. Maybe I need my soul cleansed. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found myself to be a blight on humanity.

Besides, nothing could erase the brutal nights we spilled blood on New Jersey streets, learning how to be enforcers. Maybe it’s why I prefer the solitude of the computer world, creating programs and hacking others. To say we learn on the street at a young age is an understatement. I chuckle as I amble through the airport terminal toward the exit.

On the other side of security, I see Kirill and give him a rare smile.

“Brother,” he says, and we hug each other.

He starts talking in Russian. In my grandparents’ days, we’d stand out as peculiar foreigners speaking Russian at an airport. Today, it’s a cosmopolitan world, and we blend in like everyone else. We’re just two men speaking one language while others around us talk to each other.

“You have to see our new club tonight.” Kirill’s voice is filled with pride.

I listen to him tell me all about their newest club in the city and about the hot chicks just begging to be picked up and fucked. He tells me the girls today aren’t into getting married. Isn’t that great?

“That’s too good to be true,” I reply.

Women always want something. I don’t anticipate living long enough to commit to a woman. Kids? Forget it. They are all liabilities, and I love my home, where everything is in order.

I’m married to the Bratva. I will only marry to fulfill an obligation to the family if I’m ordered to. In my world, marriages are usually arranged for financial gains such as money, territories, or allying with an enemy.

Because I’m in the company of the largest producer in Europe, my eyes scan our surroundings, looking for breaches in security or anything out of the ordinary on the way to the parking garage. Call it a gift. All I know is that it’s saved my life more than once. Just because I’m not home where I’m a moving target doesn’t mean I’m safe. There is wisdom behind the phrase, sleep with one eye open.

Looking at the women around us, I see a huge difference between Americans and Russians. American women wear what looks like pajamas or workout clothes in public. I’m not inspired or enticed to fuck any of them.

Volgograd isn’t the biggest city in Russia, but most people want to live their life unnoticed. There are those trying to climb the echelon and make enough money to buy designer outfits and obtain an apartment in a Russian city. Getting an apartment that’s not shared requires bribes or favors from elected officials.

Kirill follows the chirp of his car alarm and pops the trunk of his black Charger. My luggage makes a thickthunkin the trunk before we sink into the custom leather seats.

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