Chapter 1 1

Rita Sokolov.

We lived because we killed. We lived because we fled. We were dying because they were killing. And they killed us because we were fleeing. But now we stayed. And we can't go back.

They say it's the perfect time to have peace. Surrounded by family and friends. drinking hot tea and beer, during a hot day.

The perfect time for me is when none of that happens. And it never happens. The perfect time is night. When darkness reigns in the city, and when all the lights are off, the only thing left is the moon, which illuminates the sky like a big candle. Not too strong and not too weak. Perfect.

It is also perfect when it is raining or when the wind is blowing. Then it takes everything from the street to places you wouldn't even think things could never go. When the wind blows, it muffles everything that happens in the house, even the loudest screams and cries. Assignment? More everyday hobby-business. And the job must be done smoothly and safely.

In this small house, I'm surrounded by gray walls that could crack at any moment and a roof that could fall on me, breaking my bones. Does it matter? No. Places like this fall by themselves. From old age or exhaustion. They are not much different from the people, especially from the one sitting in front of me.

You just need to have the right thing to break them.

His eyes are gray, bloodshot, and blue. Scratched and wet face was shaking, as was his body which was bound by long, cold chains. Loud breathing echoed in this small, ghostly room.

I can see the fear in his eyes that he is trying to hide, but his cry betrays him.

He tried to escape, and broke the chains, but in vain. Like everyone else.

Like always.

My brothers stood around him. They both wore black jackets and at first glance, they would look elegant and cute. Oh, but honey, don't be fooled by the look. Their gaze is sharp and cold, their bodies are calm and straight as a board.

The two of them slowly circled the man in the chair, chuckling evilly.

"Abramov," Garretov said. His accent was hard and deep, as was his laughter.

My lips formed a grin as I slowly approached the chair.

"Oh, Camelo. When will you learn not to play with me? With us." I said slowly, stroking his black hair which was sticking to my fingers from sweat. "You were a very bad boy. Yeah? I think it's time to pay-"

"Please don't!" he shouted. Tears streamed down his face like a waterfall. "Please, please, I didn't do anything, I swear, please."

"Shhh," I said, putting a gentle kiss on his forehead, leaving the bright red lipstick on my lips. "You did a very bad thing-" I snapped my fingers to Garretov. He took a knife out of his pocket and put it in my hand. "A very bad thing. But if you're a good boy, and don't make a lot of noise, maybe I'll let you go with all six fingers, hmm?" I ran the blade of my knife over my fingers, feeling its sharpness.

"Go to hell!" Camelo shouted, spitting at me, but not a drop reached my leather jeans.

I laughed, slowly piercing the skin on my index finger. The crimson blood came out very slowly, enough to be on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I licked my finger, feeling my blood. Bitter and sweet, just like me.

I looked at the frightened man in front of me, remembering what he had said moments before. What he did.

"Ohh honey, but where do you think I came from?" I chuckled, forcing Ivanov and Sergio to laugh with me. Our laughter echoed in the dark, and cold house whose walls shook with every movement.

Quickly, as my father taught me, I cut Camelo's throat in one fell swoop.

His eyes immediately turned white.

His head was still on his shoulders, but blood was pouring everywhere. From his neck to his torn, and sweaty T-shirt, to his dirty pants all the way to the floor that was slowly becoming a pool of blood.

My high heels and boots were soaked with red liquid and I slowly started to move so as not to destroy them again.

Garretov and Sergio moved the chains from Camelo, throwing him on the floor and taking the gasoline, spilling it all over the room.

Now it was my turn. Slowly approaching the body, I squatted next to him, turning his head towards me so I could have a better view.

I brought the knife closer to his forehead, right where I had left a trace of lipstick, only this time cutting it out.

It may not be visible yet, but when it dries, you will see the capital letter, ПМ. My beautiful work.

"We're ready," Sergio said, throwing empty bottles of gasoline aside.

I nodded, standing in front of the door. Sergio threw a lighted match, making a line of fire and tiny crackling sounds.

This is our sign to move.

Soon, a loud sound was heard and the whole house was on fire. My jacket flew behind me like a cloak as I walked towards my car.

When we got in, Garretov sat in the driver's seat, Sergio in the passenger seat and I in the last three. Black leather seats are very comfortable.

Sergio gave me one last look. Crossing my legs, I said. "Poshli, mal'chiki. Eta noch' byla khorosha.(Come on, boys. It's been a good night.)"

Sergio nodded to Garretov, setting off at the highest speed this car could reach. Behind us remained dust that spread like fog, and the house was burning like candles on the birthday cake. Happy birthday Camelo, your time has finally come.

Isn't it funny, how we like to mark our territory? I mean, everyone goes in their own style, but everybody knows who is...

Russian mafia.