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“The firstvory v zakonecovered themselves in tattoos as a rejection of society. You know the history of thevory?” I ask Sabrina.
She shakes her head. “We don’t study the Bratva till third year. In first year we only did the ‘Ndrangheta and Cosa Nostra.”
I finish my Stoli and set it to the side, wanting both hands free while I explain.
“In imperial Russia, virtually everything belonged to the czar. The first group who formed theVorovskoy Mir,theWorld of Thieves,were revolutionaries of a sort. They had a code of honor—they shared their plunder equally, and like Robin Hood, distributed it among the people as well.”
“How noble,” Sabrina says with a saucy grin.
She knows as well as I do that spreading wealth is more strategy than altruism, buying the loyalty of those who surround you. I do the same thing in my own neighborhood, ensuring the silence of those who could report me if fear were insufficient to keep them quiet.
“When the Bolsheviks rose, thevory v zakonehelped control the streets of Moscow,” I continue. “That was when mafia and government first became intertwined in Russia. It worked with Lenin, but when Stalin took control, he threw thevoryinto the gulags. There the underworld truly took shape.”
“Prison is the best recruiting ground,” Sabrina says.
“That’s right. The language and culture of thevoryflourished in the gulags. Until the Germans marched on Moscow, and Stalin was forced to use prisoners to swell the Russian army. He promised freedom if they would fight for their country. Many agreed, though it was against the code of the thieves to work for those who had imprisoned them. They fought and died for Russia. When the war was over, Stalin reneged on his promise and threw them right back in the gulag.”
Sabrina gives a soft hiss of distaste, eyes narrowed. In our world, where there is no recourse to the courts, word is law and a promise a contract.
“Thevoryturned on each other. They called the ones who had foughtsuki,traitors, and they slaughtered everyone they could find. The prison guards did nothing—it meant less criminals to house and feed. In 1953 the prisons were finally emptied, eight million men turned out on the streets. The Bratva survived but the old code was destroyed.”
I indicate the man at the next table, every inch of visible skin decorated in tattoos.
“You see those crosses on his knuckles? The dagger on the back of his hand?”
Sabrina nods.
“There was a time when every tattoo had a meaning. If you put a mark on your body that you hadn’t earned, the Bratva would cut it off you with a razor blade. Now it’s decoration.”
Sabrina’s eyes glint with interest. She takes a hasty gulp of her drink, saying, “Tell me more.”
Her face is bright and open, her attention intoxicating. I’d talk all night to amuse her.
“Then came the Soviet era. That was the age of corrupt Communist Party bosses and black-market millionaires. When the party fell, organized crime rose. The Bratva recruited from war veterans, the decimated police force, and even from desperate athletes and bodybuilders. You see that group over there?”
I jerk my head toward a table ofkachki.
“They were bodybuilders?” Sabrina says.
It’s not really a question—even the oldest and most broken-down in the group still maintain enough of their mass to show that they were powerfully built men, filling out their oversized pullovers and zip-ups, acne scars on their cheeks and hair thin at the temples from rampant steroid use.
“That’s right—all part of the Soviet sports machine. The one on the left, that’s Boris Kominsky. He was a judo champion. The next one over, Nikolai Breznik, he was a wrestler, and Vladislav Aulov a Decorated Master of Sport. Then all the funding dried up and they went from hitting heavy bags to beating payments out of debtors. You see that one on the end, the ogre with the martini?”
The largest of a dozen big men is dressed in a Kelly-green Adidas zip-up, a vodka martini delicately pinched in one monstrous hand.
“Hard to miss him.”
“That’s Ira Angeloff, better known as Cujo. Most of thekachkirun their own rackets now, but you can still rent Cujo for your own personal attack dog if you’ve got the cash. They say he hits harder than Mike Tyson.”
Sabrina casts a cool eye over Angeloff’s knuckles, swollen and distended, a roadmap of scars.
“He looks good at his job.”
“The best. His old boss got rich brokering bribes for oligarchs who wanted to buy the newly privatized state enterprises. The entire economy of Russia was up for grabs, and all the independent businesses popping up were ripe for extortion. Cujo made a lot of money for a lot of people, but I think most of it went up his nose. The house he lives in now is nothing special.”
“Who runs the protection rackets now?”
“Everyone.Kryshais half the economy of Russia. Everyone pays protection money, it’s part of business.”
