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A line of older men sit at the far end of the room, no doubt the elders Vadim mentioned. A group of semi-retired criminals who stay in the game, but at a detached, administrative level. They sold off the businesses they spent their lives killing and bleeding for and now collect a percentage of earnings from other men who kill and bleed. Some choose to stay local and share their wisdom in situations where a younger crime lord could use some direction.
Like this situation.
We stand in front of the line of five elders. Four of them look as I’d expect - haggard, as if they lived many more than a single lifetime. They’re tattooed over much of their skin, except for one man who sits in the center of the group with styled white hair, pale skin, and no tattoos.
A corrupt politician who bought his way into his seat.
I study each of them and notice they all have their eyes on the reason we came today.
Me. My tattoo, to be more specific.
One man on the far end rises from the bench, walking towards Vadim. Though the elders aren’t directly involved with most criminal pursuits anymore, this elder looks every bit ready for it. His hair is dark and heavily grayed at the top, but he never stopped keeping his body up to the physical condition we need to rely on when things get violent.
“Boris,” Vadim exclaims with a welcoming grin. They hug and slap each other’s backs, laughing and sharing some words in each other’s ears.
The rest of the elders continue eyeing my tattoo. One has his mouth hanging open as if he’d seen a corpse rise from the grave.
Boris turns to Adrik, giving him a passing glance, and then to me. He has darker skin that makes the pale amber color of his eyes almost glow. His hair is cut short to his head, and he has a well-groomed goatee. He nods his head to acknowledge me but says nothing more before returning to the benches with the rest of the elders.
Adrik appears as eager to get this over with as I am. He steps up to address the line of seated men, motioning to me before speaking.
“I’m here to attest to the identity of this man as the real Viktor Konstantinovich Mikhailov. He was the boy my brother and I rescued fifteen years ago.”
My blood simmers at that suggestion. When a person tumbles off the side of a boat, throwing a life preserver and leaving them floating at sea doesn’t help. That’s how I felt growing up in group homes after Adrik had me smuggled me to America. They paid the men who transported me, and as soon as those men could get rid of me, they did.
That’s no rescue.
“The tattoo on his chest is the one I put on him myself. He is Konstantin Mikhailov’s son.”
“But not his only son,” Vadim mutters under his breath.
The row of elders looks at me but stay quiet, each of them hesitating to be the first to share their thoughts. One elder finally breaks the silence.
“What brings you back home?” Boris asks me in a skeptical voice. I compare Boris with the rest of the men. He’s middle-aged but appears younger than the rest of these supposed elders. His body is rippled with the muscles of a man decades younger. It’s easy to see he’s the leader amongst the elders.
“Business that is of no concern to the elders present today,” I reply tensely. I can’t see how coming here helps anything. So what if I am Konstantin Mikhailov’s son? The elders confirm it, I go home, and word trickles through the Russian criminal gossip circuit as usual.
“He comes to us as a hostage,” Vadim clarifies. “Brought to me by one of my men who’d captured Viktor and his men.” He looks at me to emphasize the point that they could have killed me on the spot. “Viktor revealed his identity to spare the life of himself and his men and assures me he otherwise has no intention of disrupting our operations.”
The row of elders lean back, shifting their positions on the wooden benches. They don’t seem convinced.
The man who was staring slack-jawed at me chimes in. “I remember him.”
All of us look his way.
I don’t remember this man at all.
“Your father kept us away from you, but I’ve been to your home.” He pauses, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry for the tragedy that’s befallen your family.”
I nod, trying to hold my emotions back, but I can’t help myself.
“Why would you be?” I say. “You’ve all profited so greatly from my father’s death.”
It’s true. Any of these men could have been behind the attack on my village and my father’s death, including Adrik.
“That’s no way to talk to us, boy,” the politician with no tattoos says. “We could reject your claim and you’d be dead by the end of the day.”
“Then you’d be liars,” I say, “killing a man over a bruised ego.”
