Page 24 of Bratva's Innocent Obsession
“But you’re part of the Volk Bratva, too?” I ask when we’re alone again, and I shouldn’t, because he helped me. It’s his business who he’s involved with.
“I was.” He gives a sad, rueful smile, and finally meets my eyes. “They sold me a lie, as I suspect they did you? How did you end up in their clutches?”
“How didyou?” I reply, because I’d rather hear about him than tell my own tale of naivety.
He shifts, leaning back into his seat but turned towards me. “I was in Moscow, my parents were drug addicts. I was fourteen and ambitious, and I willingly walked into their trap,” he replies without judgement. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen,” I reply in a small voice.
“They get you when you’re young and vulnerable. No parental influence to help.” His eyes flash with anger. “You were just a child, and they twist all the life out of you.”
“All the fun, for sure.” I laugh mirthlessly. It’s been so much work, with ballet training every day. Unrelenting. “I can’t remember when I last had fun.”
He nods slowly. “What did they promise you?”
Then it’s like a dam has burst. We talk about what happened to us. I don’t censor myself, and I don’t think Kon does either.
He listens intently as I tell him about how stupid I feel that I believed them it would be a well-paid ballet apprenticeship. How ashamed I was when I realised how I’d been duped.
Telling him these things is a relief I didn’t know I needed. Kon doesn’t judge me for what has happened, and isn’t shocked.
He nods in understanding when I say that I have all these complicated feelings, because despite the lack of freedom, I’ve been privileged. The ballet is one of the best in the world, and had an equality that’s almost unheard of. I performed principal parts that I would never have been able to otherwise. We did innovative new dances and classics.
And although we were all for sale, we set our part of the price, and a lot of us put it so high that we were never sold.
Well. I wasn’t until Kon. He must have paid a fortune.
He doesn’t interrupt, but whenever I trail off, unable to keep telling a story, or my throat closes with emotion, he picks up. He tells me about being poor in Moscow. His parents and their messiness that left him not orphaned, but alone all the same. Volk gave him a job, and a sort of family, just like the ballet did for me.
He ended up in London on a revenge mission against the Harlesden mafia boss who had cheated the Volk Bratva. But instead of returning to Moscow, he stayed. Against the wishes of Aleksandr.
And it occurs to me that he risked instant death by coming back to Volk.
“And in London?” I ask eventually. “Afterwards?”
It’s as though maybe what happened to Kon could be a parallel for me. If I understand how he managed after Volk, I can too.
“It was messy at first.” His lips twist at the recollection. “No one in Harlesden, or London at all, trusted me.”
Oh. That’s not auspicious.
He recounts without emotion how he built the Harlesden bratva with the same techniques that had worked on him. A sense of brotherhood, a promise of the profits being shared, and total disregard for the law. “But I don’t prey on kids, and my men stay with me because they know I’m fair.”
“But ‘fair’ includes violence if they step out of line?”
Kon folds his arms. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“What’s a rhetorical question?” I ask cautiously.
“A question that doesn’t require an answer, usually because you already know the answer. For instance, one would be ‘is Kon, the mafia Kingpin, making a joke?’ No. Obviously not. I already told you. I do not joke.” His icy eyes twinkle though.
And the answer to whether Kon uses violence when necessary is obvious. I already knew.
It’s been hours on the plane now, and everyone has found a place. It’s quiet, with just burbling conversation, but there are still constant interruptions for Kon and me. It feels like every person on the plane wants a bit of Kon, and he deals with them all with focus and clear-sighted grace.
He tells me about his home in Harlesden, London, the apartment he had in Moscow, and how he loves Russian candy. I don’t correct him that in British English they’re called sweets, and when my gaze dips to his gold tooth, he shrugs and says that he’s better about sugar now. No more fillings.
“The strawberries and cream ones kept me sane some days.” He’s slightly wistful.
