𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 • 01 || ❝𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬❞

>𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃

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𝐊 𝐑 𝐈 𝐒 𝐓 𝐈 𝐀 𝐍 • 𝐏 𝐄 𝐓 𝐑 𝐎 𝐕

"Chto ty imeyesh' v vidu?" [What do you mean?] I curse under my breath and watch as my knuckles whiten, I'm holding onto this knife too tightly, but the feeling is satisfying, the coldness merging with my heated palm. I stare out, trying my best not to space out, but how can I space out with the information I'm receiving? As a Pakhan there is no room for spacing out in business.'

"Sort it then." I drop my phone onto my desk with aggression and watch as it spins to a stop on my black desk top.

I pull my wrist back and let the short knife slip from my fingers and dig into the wall in front of me I wait for it to fall off, but it doesn't. The blade is imbedded into the wall not ready to lose its grip.

I get up straight and tuck my leather seat in under the desk. Walking to the mirror and straightening my suit suddenly and quickly became a habit once I took over the Bratva. I re-sort my cufflinks and walk out of my office, the space seems too small, like there is something in the air, constricting the oxygen levels reaching our lungs. But then I turn and find my men standing side by side waiting for the result from the call.

"Not good." I sigh and run my fingers through my hair.

"There must be some way to get the shipments over." I look over and find Elias trying to figure out ways to get us out of this mess.

"Let them have it." I walk away from my men and try not to lose my temper, it's not their fault, but it's always easiest to blame those closest to you. Hence why I'm walking away. It's easier to let the American's have the extra drugs, that's not where our money is at anyway, our speciality is our weapons, which is why we have so many allies. Minus the Americans.

The Bratva is the most feared mafia organisation in the whole of the world, no one wants to make enemies with us Russian's. They'll never hear the end of it either, that's not because we'd be going on at them, it's because they won't have any ears to hear us with.

"Mr Petrov." A quiet whisper approaches from behind the white pillar, I stop in my tracks and turn, instantly recognising the voice.

"Polina." I attempt to smile, but unfortunately my mood takes over my facial expression. Polina has worked alongside the Bratva ever since her mother did, she knew the risks, she knew the duties and for that I'm thankful, I wouldn't have wanted to hire someone outside of the circle to come and work for us. "Igor said food will be done in just a moment and I must remind you that Mr Murphy is due to come here to the mansion tomorrow. Is that still okay? His assistant called this morning." I nod and walk away, Cian Murphy, leader of the Irish mafia. Trading weapons tomorrow in the mansion probably wasn't the best idea that I've had, but if he keeps his distance from Nadia there will be no problems or bloodshed.

"Just get Jace to prepare the guns."

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The sweat beads begin to fall from my forehead, throwing punches at Jace is hardly easy, I throw my fist in the side of his ribs and receive a grunt. "Something's bothering you." I cock up my brow and ignore him, punching him in his other set of ribs, luckily, he has twenty-four, but how he's only broken six before I don't know.

"Kristian." Jace stands up straight, he sighs and takes off the boxing gloves, proving to me he is no longer going to punch me, until I talk.

"Nothing is bothering me Jace, just there is a lot going on at the moment." He rolls his eyes at me and sits down on the bench and lightly taps the wooden space next to him, there, I take up on the offer and warm up the bench with him. Jace and I go way back, ever since our fathers were the most important men in the Bratva, But Jace's dad was selfish, just like mine. He committed suicide to get out of the mafia, left his son behind, lost and alone. And that was because he took Jace's mother with him. I can never forgive that ukol. Even if he was friends with my father.

"Life always has a lot going on Kristian, it's just how we deal with the stuff that gets thrown at us." I scoff at him. "And how is that working out for you?" I question him, I can't help the way I'm feeling, no one would understand, the stress, the commitment, but I know that at the end of the day it's all worth it, but Jace can't talk really.

"Kristian, not now." He looks at me, speculating if I'll stop, but I don't.

"You're still in love with your ex-wife Jace, how are you handling that?" I get up and so does Jace, we don't get in each other's faces, but at this point we might as well.

"Not much I can do when she has divorced me, is there?" He starts laughing, the motherfucker starts laughing. But that's sometimes the only way we can cope and manage our dark emotions, by plastering them away with laughter not allowing anyone to see the true pain embedded inside. Mafia made men have a tradition not to show their emotions, not to each other or to women, Jace has failed at that.

"Sort yourself out Kristian." He pats me on the shoulder, scoops up his towel and drapes it across his shoulder, soon leaving me standing here alone. I curse under my breath.

I follow Jace down the hall and find him just about to pick up his bag full of other boxing gloves and towels. "You know I didn't mean that Jace."

"And you know I know your ways of apologising, even if you don't say the words." He drops his bag and comes closer to me. "I forgive you Kristian, I always do." He laughs before continuing, "We both know that you can't express your emotions." He's right, ever since my mother left, I've never been able to express emotions again. My father was emotionless himself, he never felt love or showed if he cared, for all I know, he didn't. But currently all I can think about is how much of a dick I've just been to Jace, he's got his own shit going on, he doesn't need his boss going on at him too, the guilt rises slowly and I quickly blurt an offer. "Stay for a whiskey?"

A few moments later we both end up in my office sharing the bottle of whiskey, we're on our second glass already and the time seems to be passing too fast. "How is Rosalie anyway?" I nurse the glass of whiskey in my hand and wait for Jace's reply, he grits his teeth and shakes his head. I assume he doesn't want to talk about his ex-wife and change the subject completely, I understand his emotions right now even if he is a hypocrite and won't express them either.

"Cian is coming here tomorrow for some weaponry, I need everyone to be prepared just in case." He nods and drinks the rest of his whiskey. Cian and I have been allies for a while now, for that I'm thankful, saves us cutting any limbs or attempting to get information from Irish people, but there are still people around the world who would happily never become allies with us, it's more of their loss than ours, there isn't anything else that we could possibly want.

"I better head home Kristian, I have a busy afternoon with Nadia tomorrow, no doubt she will want several bottles and no naps, I'm aware Cian is coming tomorrow, but I don't want him or any of his men near Nadia. Agreed?" Jace now and again brings Nadia round to the mansion, and with her little age I wouldn't want any danger near her even if she is naive with what goes on in the world around her.

"Agreed." I sometimes wonder who it is that gives orders around here, me or Jace.

"I better get ready anyway." I get prepared to go and hear a chuckle from Jace.

"I know, It's a Monday and it's seven o'clock."

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I arrive at the warehouse at 7:30PM, I stay far away and observe from the SUV. I find the figure staring at the canvas, almost unsure on what to do to it. Every Monday I come here, just so I can observe her, she doesn't know I'm here, she never knows I'm here, God, she probably doesn't even know that I exist. I curse under my breath as I watch the petite figure mix a variety of different colours to a wooden plate attached around her thumb, I witness her smiling at the blank canvas as she brushes the blue-ish grey against the plain surface.

Happily, I sit here for hours, every Monday, it's never the same, she is always painting something different, yet, it always has some sort of meaning behind them. But I guess that's what it takes when you're an artist, like killing people is what it takes to be Pakhan and a made man.

Usually, the time I spend here is silent, but I can't help but feel disturbed by the vibrating in my pocket. "Da?" I forgot to look at the caller ID, so who knows who I could be speaking to right now.

"Where are you, Kristian?" I find myself chuckling slightly at Erik's voice, he shouldn't even be calling right now, he got a gun wound straight in his shoulder blade, but it prevented him from moving. I try and concentrate with the phone call but the small ball of paint has suddenly disappeared.

"Erik, I'll call you back." I slide my phone into my pocket and bolt out of the car, I run and get closer to the warehouse, but I can't see where she's gone. Suddenly the pain reaches my chest, if anything happens to her.

I nearly make it to the entrance of the warehouse until I hear two people laughing, one isn't familiar, but the loudest laugh reaches my eardrums. The pain suddenly disappears from my chest. The little ball of paint comes back into view with her large curly hair put into a messy bun at the top of her head.

I decide to call it a night, she's fine, Nikita is fine. I walk away and get back into the car. I grip onto the steering wheel and try not to release my anger. But I calm myself down somehow. I wait a little longer to make sure she is safe but a new figure comes into the light, this one's different. She has denim shorts on and a large hoodie and her copper hair is tied up with a bow surrounding the top of the pony-tail. Living in Moscow does concern me sometimes with what these young women wear. I bet they soon moan that they're cold.

I take one last look at the pair of them and drive off into the darkness, ready to prepare for tomorrow.