The Mafia King and his hard-headed slave

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.

The city was buzzing with activity, even in the dark. People rushed from one place to another. Meanwhile, bars were packed with teenagers dancing and drinking until dawn.

As we moved through the bustling streets of New York, we caught glimpses of different expressions-curious, scared, surprised. Some people were running, while others were snapping pictures or recording videos. Mothers pointed us out to their kids, telling them to stay away like we were troublemakers selling dangerous candy. It gave us a sense of power, knowing we could influence people without them realizing it.

After 10 minutes, we left the city behind and arrived at what people called "the estate." It looked more like an old castle than a house. A massive black gate stood before us, sturdy enough to stop even twenty horses-maybe twenty-two.

"Bratstvo," Sergio said, pressing a gray button near the gate's microphone. Bratstvo means "brotherhood" in Russian-a word full of meaning for our family: strength, unity, and power.

Some people think this kind of work is for men. It usually is. But the women in my country fought battles too, stepping in when the men needed time to recover. I'm not the first or the last, but for now, I'm the only woman bold enough to kill anyone who gets in my way.

I want to go back to the old days. Late-night meetings where women planned missions, silencing anyone who dared object. Back when our parents fought side by side, one hand holding a gun, the other holding each other. But those days are gone.

The gate opened, revealing a neatly trimmed lawn. In the middle stood a fountain shaped like a bear, and behind it was a huge house.

"Vegas will be proud," Garretov said, playfully bumping my shoulder.

I smirked at him. Ivanov, tall and handsome, had deep blue eyes and dark hair. Sergio, his twin, shared the same look and style, both with hair tied in buns.

"I know," I replied, stepping through the door.

Inside, the house was grand and full of life. The white walls displayed flags and golden decorations that shone like mirrors. In the center of the room was a massive dining table with about 50 chairs. It was covered in food-Russian, Italian, Mexican, and Chinese dishes-and all kinds of drinks, including wine and liquor.

At the head of the table sat my family, led by my father. He's six feet tall, with a white beard, snow-like hair, and tattoos covering his body. His warm smile greeted us.

"Ah, Rita, Sergio, Garretov-come, join us," he said in his thick Russian accent.

We sat down. Garretov and Sergio sat next to their father; I sat next to mine. My mother, Mirabel, was at my father's side, holding his hand and stroking it gently. She looked at me with kind eyes and a warm smile, her curly brown hair tied in a bun with gold ornaments.

I remember when my father told me how he brought her to America, helping her heal from the horrors she had endured back home. Despite everything, I'm proud of where I come from.

My father raised his glass of red wine. "To us, our family, the Brotherhood, and our children-zhil!" he said. Everyone cheered and began eating.

Across from me, my brother Garret watched the room like a hawk. He was serious, always trying to prove he deserved to inherit our father's position. But I was competing too, and he knew it.

"Rita, my little carica. I'm very proud of you," my father said, smiling as he sipped his wine.

"Thank you, papa," I replied. "I hope this earns me a higher position."

"Oh, it does. You're still ahead of Garret, but if he completes his task..." My father paused, coughing. "He might take the lead."

Tasks. That's what he calls them. Small jobs at first, like retrieving or negotiating something. But over time, they became more dangerous, daring, and bloody. It was during those moments I first felt the rush of adrenaline-the power everyone craves. And I liked it.

I nodded at my father, knowing Garret would complete his task. He's smarter and faster than me, but there's still a small chance for me to win. My father raised his glass again, this time with no smile. His face was serious, even sad, as if his thoughts weighed heavily on him. The room fell silent, a heavy stillness taking over.

"This night is for little Kira Taylor," he said solemnly. "Her bravery will not be forgotten. I believe in her kindness, honor, and innocence. I could speak about her all night, about how much she meant to us. But I will let her family share those words instead. Pust' Bog zashchitit yeye dushu. (May God protect her soul.)"

There was a quiet round of applause. Across the table, a tall man with caramel-colored skin stood up. Beside him was a woman of similar complexion, her beauty unmatched. She wiped her tear-streaked face with the green sleeve of her dress, her large black eyes shimmering with sorrow as she clung to her husband's hand.

Mr. Taylor took a deep breath before speaking. "Thank you to everyone who helped us find my daughter's killer. I wish I could spend all night talking about Kira, about what happened, but I hope everyone will remember her as she was-before that day." His voice cracked. "She was our light in the darkness, our moon at night, our joy in life."

He paused, his wife squeezing his hand as she fought back tears. "People say everything happens for a reason. If that's true, then I believe she's in a better place now." He looked at the ceiling, his voice softening. "She was supposed to turn seven yesterday."

He chuckled sadly as his wife stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. He held her close, his eyes full of pain yet somehow grateful. "She wanted to visit the country she came from. She said it would be like entering a fairytale world."

I closed my eyes, unable to look at the sorrowful faces around me. Mr. Taylor began to sing in a language I didn't recognize. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, and even though I didn't understand the words, the emotion in his voice sent chills through me. If the circumstances were different, it might have felt like a joyful tune.

The room was still. My family sat in silence, respecting the moment.

What kind of monster kills a six-year-old girl just to make a little money? That man, Camelo, got what he deserved-and I wish I had thought of something even worse for him while he was tied up, helpless, in front of me. His punishment on his birthday felt fitting.

When the song ended, the silence returned until Mr. Taylor spoke again. "Thank you all, on behalf of my family and my daughter. And thank you, Rita Sokolov, for your service. Your family should be proud of you." He smiled at me warmly. "And thank you to everyone gathered here tonight. Let this not be a night of mourning but of victory! Let us rejoice and celebrate Kira's life and the triumph over evil! Eat, drink, dance, and sing! Tonight, we honor Kira!"

The room erupted into applause and cheers. Everyone rose, hugging the Taylor family and offering kind words.

"We're sorry this isn't happening at our home," Mr. Taylor whispered to me, holding my shoulders gently. "Since Kira disappeared, we haven't been able to..."

"It's fine. We understand," I said with a smile, hugging him.

When I returned to my seat, I sipped my wine, watching everyone. My family and the Taylors were seated together, chatting, while children ran around the table playing with wooden toys.

"Mikhaylo, verni mne yego! (Mikhail, give it back!)"

"Sofiya lomayet moyu kuklu! (Sofia broke my doll!)"

"Armen!"

"Detyam dostatochno! (Children, enough!)" Aunt Peyton shouted, giving the kids a stern look. Then she turned to me, her expression softening. "Rita, I heard about last week's assignment. You're getting better and better at this," she said, sipping her wine like it was water.

My father pulled me close, kissing the top of my head. "She is! My little carica. You should've seen the Butlers' faces!" he laughed. "They were furious!"

I laughed with him, remembering the scene. Ten of them stared at me and my brothers, disbelief and anger written all over their faces. Their leader's son, Eric, with his golden hair and icy blue-gray eyes, looked ready to explode. It felt good to see their defeat-to know they lost to a woman.

"That's wonderful, Sezja," my mother said gently, giving me her warm, loving smile.

"Spasibo (thank you), Mama," I replied, mirroring her tone and expression.

The rest of the night went smoothly. The men drank too much and danced on tables, while the women and children sang and clapped along. The Taylors seemed to finally relax and enjoy themselves-a welcome relief after everything they had been through.

I stood in the corner, scrolling through my phone to see if the news had reported Camelo's death. I wanted the world to know what it lets happen-how the smart stay quiet to avoid offending the foolish. That's the world we live in, and it's awful.

A small smile crept onto my face when I saw Camelo's name in the news. People knew who did it, and they knew me, as well as the police, but they didn't have proof. Still, they recognized my work-either mutilated or burned bodies marked with my initials, ПМ. Rita Sokolov.

At first, I felt sorry for these people. I thought we were wrong to take lives-fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. But did they feel sorry for their victims? No. Camelo's death won't heal Kira's parents' pain, but it's justice.

I put my phone away and glanced around. My brother Garret stood in a corner, arms crossed, looking annoyed. He hated that I was taking over as the family's leader. Honestly, I'd make a better leader than him-I'm tactical, while he only has plans. There's a difference.

We get along, but it's complicated. Garret shook his head, walking upstairs without a word.

"Rita, are you okay?" my mom asked, her voice soft as her hand gently rubbed my back. Her smile was kind, her eyes glowing in the moonlight.

I forced a small smile and nodded. "I'm just tired, Mom. I need to rest before tomorrow's mission." I kissed her cheek and went upstairs.

❦

With the music booming downstairs, I climbed to my room and locked the door. Sliding to the floor, I leaned against the cold wood and exhaled. Finally, some quiet.

Pain rippled through me. My arms burned, my legs felt heavy, and my head throbbed. I looked at my fists, wrapped in white bandages, slowly soaking with blood. Peeling them off, I winced as the air stung my skin. After a moment, I stood up, determined to push through the pain.

My room was a mix of gray and black, with shelves of books on one side and closets on the other. Above my bed hung a large picture of Moscow, my hometown, surrounded by smaller, insignificant ones.

I placed my gun on the desk, shrugged off my bloodied coat, and grabbed fresh clothes. On my way to the bathroom, I noticed the open window. I frowned-I was sure I had closed it.

After shutting it, I stepped into the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, I undressed, letting my brown hair fall over my shoulders. My reflection stared back: a lean frame covered in scars, bruises, and a bear tattoo on my right shoulder.

Under the hot shower, I watched the water turn red as blood-none of it mine-washed away. The heat stung my wounds, but I let it cleanse me.

Wrapped in a towel, I returned to my room. A cold draft hit me, and I froze. The window was open again. I know I closed it. My heart raced as I strained to listen.

A soft footstep broke the silence. I dashed for my gun on the desk, but before I could grab it, someone tackled me into the wall.

I struggled, but the stranger pinned me with one hand gripping my wrists above my head and a knee pressed against my legs. His warm breath brushed my ear as they whispered, "Relax, Rita. I'm not here to kill you."

His hand slid to my waist, tightening its grip. "I need your help."

Eric Butler's Perspective

I sat back, my eyes scanning the room. The place pulsed with red lights and heavy bass, filled with bodies swaying to the music. Women danced on poles that stretched to the ceiling, their movements slow and hypnotic. Their clothes barely covered them, their laughter mixed with the smell of cigars and spilled alcohol.

A blonde woman approached me, her hair tied high, her green eyes locked onto mine. She smiled, her teeth bright under the dim lights. She was eager, but I felt nothing. The routine had become dull-a cycle of easy conquests and predictable encounters.

As she knelt between my legs, I let her do her work, but my mind wandered. It always did. The thrill was gone; no woman had managed to challenge me in years. I wanted something different. Something more.

The vibrations of my phone jolted me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the screen. Father.

I answered without hesitation. "Yes," I said, gripping the woman's hair.

"Has the package been delivered?" my father's voice was calm but carried the weight of expectation.

"Yes, it's been handled. They said the money will arrive tomorrow."

"And if it doesn't?"

I smirked, leaning back into the chair as smoke curled from the cigar between my teeth. "They'll pay. And if not, I have... other ways to ensure compliance."

A short pause, then: "Fine." The call ended.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and pushed the woman away. Her face was flushed, her breath shaky, and tears glistened in her doe-like eyes. "One more chance," I murmured, twisting her hair in my fingers. "Mess up again, and I'll send you to someone who won't be as kind. You don't want that, do you?"

She nodded quickly, fear in her eyes.

But before she could respond further, the doors to the club slammed open, and a rush of cold air swept through the room. The sound of heels clicking against the floor cut through the music. My gaze shifted to the entrance, where a woman stepped inside.

She wasn't like the others-she wasn't here to please anyone. Her posture was sharp, her steps deliberate. A sleek black coat draped over her shoulders, and her face carried an expression of disdain, as though the scene before her disgusted her.

Her presence was electric. Heads turned, conversations stopped, and even the music seemed to fade.

I straightened, intrigued for the first time in months.

The woman walked directly toward me, ignoring the dancers and drunk men reaching out to her. She stopped just short of my chair, her dark eyes locking with mine.

"Eric Butler," she said, her voice calm but laced with authority.

I raised an eyebrow, taking a drag from my cigar. "Who's asking?"

She leaned closer, her tone dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "You've made a mistake. One that could cost you everything. I'm here to fix it, whether you want my help or not."

********************************************************************************************

I nodded, gripping the blonde's hair tightly. "Good. Now zip me up." She complied without a word, and as I stood, I left her behind for the others to handle.

Adjusting my black gloves, I walked through the pulsing crowd, nodding at my people as they fell into line. Outside, we climbed into the sleek black car waiting at the curb under the flickering neon sign: Palm. My empire, built for men who couldn't fend for themselves but served my purpose well.

I settled into the backseat and motioned for one of my men to drive. As the car pulled away, I snapped, "Out." They hesitated briefly but obeyed without question. Once alone, I slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door and flooring the accelerator.

The city blurred as I sped through the streets, unnoticed by police. Then I saw it: a glossy black car I recognized instantly. Hers.

I followed it out of the city to a sprawling, floodlit estate. Two men in black suits exited the car, followed by her. Even in the shadows, Rita Sokolov was commanding-tight leather jeans, high boots, and a black top. Her golden-brown hair was tied back, and dark glasses concealed her eyes.

She had executed a task that was meant to be mine, flawlessly and with ruthless precision, as though mocking me. The thought both irritated and intrigued me.

I slipped through the gate before it closed and ducked into the bushes. Music drifted from the mansion as guests arrived. I spotted an open second-floor window and climbed the wall, the vines barely offering grip. Loose pebbles clattered into the pool below, but I made it inside.

Her room was sharp and minimalist, with gray walls and black-and-white decor. A wall of Russian books, a sleek desk with a loaded .40 caliber handgun, and a wardrobe full of bold, high-end outfits reflected her calculated and dangerous nature.

The faint scent of vanilla and rose lingered in the air, her signature. Water ran in the bathroom-she was in the shower. Perfect.

I scanned her books, unimpressed by the Russian classics. Tossing one aside, I rifled through the cupboards: neatly arranged dresses, silk lingerie, and more signs of her meticulous, powerful presence.