Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

Now, I have more to lose.

I didn’t know who would fill the three positions. So far my cousin, Pavel, had the best chance at being number one.

I don’t doubt his loyalty. He’s like me.

During the Soviet Union’s communist rule, they deported entire criminal communities of various ethnicities out of their homelands. Many were my ancestors who were forced to live in the Southwest of the U.S.S.R.

The government thought it was a solution to crime, but that area quickly developed into powerful ghettos corroded with criminals. It was snow-covered roads flanked by shacks, and among the poorest were my father’s clan—Siberians. Rough and raw and damn near unstoppable. Many times, blood stained the snow, and most of the time the corpse wore a uniform.

I was born there.

Pavel too.

He was a cousin on my father’s side. Same age, we’d grown up together and gone to the same unorthodox school—the type of school that had no walls or ceiling. No books. Just bloody roads that led to mischief.

At eight, I learned how to stab a person properly from my mother. She’d hung dead animals from the ceiling, and I’d stabbed them, learning the right organs to puncture first. Hearing the sound the right cut would make against flesh.

At ten, I’d already had a little gang—my young sister, Valentina and five cousins. They gave me my few happy memories of winter. We would stand around a trash can full of fire and sip vodka we’d stolen from our uncles. There, we boasted about all the money we would one day have.

Pavel had been one of the cousins from my first gang. Tonight, I’d invited the other four too—Zahkar, Abram, Tisha, and Roman. We would all be reunited. As we laughed and chugged vodka, I would assess who was truly loyal enough to stand by my side.

Are they the same men?

By our teens, we stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Anything taken or gained, no matter how big or small, was brought back to the neighborhood—generations of casted out criminals living together. Food and money went to the mothers. Weapons and drugs went to the men.

Anybody on the outside was the enemy, and I hated them. From that disgust, a rage of violence lived in my eyes.

I might’ve continued with the gang had Sasha’s father not come to our area when I turned fifteen and fell in love with my mother. Still married, he moved us to Moscow and his wife died under mysterious reasons. My mother took her place and some of the connections to my old gang ended.

Once I rose in power ten years later, I reconnected with my cousins. I gave them high positions in the Bratva, but we’d never returned to the way we were.

I should’ve listened to Valentina. She said to surround myself with my most loyal.

I’d realized, in my rise to power, that people died. I’d watched enough men fall at my side. Perhaps, I didn’t want to personally witness their deaths.

Someone knocked.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Pavel stood in the doorway in a pearl white tuxedo. Black fur covered the lapels. Tiny rubies pierced both ears.

Same old Pavel.

His black hair fell in waves past his shoulder. Pavel knew the women loved those strands. He never let it get too short. When he gained power, he began traveling with two stylists.

I rolled my eyes. “I see you brought Nadia and Tatiana with you.”

“I did.” He tossed his tresses over his shoulder. “It’s a special occasion. I had to wear my hair down. I just hope your mouse won’t surrender to its power.”

“Don’t get shot. It’s a nice evening.”

Pavel entered my office. As usual, he didn’t stroll; he prowled forward. As a kid, he’d wanted to be an actor, always walking the way he thought film gangsters did. He never made it to celebrity status, but he had a portion of my mother’s heart. She had been his biggest fan and thought he was so magical he had no shadow. It didn’t matter how many times I pointed to his shadow. She always shook her head.

Mom would’ve loved that tux.

He walked up to me. I hugged him. He was one of the few that garnered such intimacy from me.

When Pavel stepped away, his expression brightened. “The lion is in love?”

I studied Pavel. His face didn’t belong in this century. Too sharp. Too defined. Something from a period where Slavic warriors ruled the land.

Ignoring his question, I returned to our old joking. “Let’s get back to your hair.”

“No one is allowed to mock my hair but you.”

“Because you’re Picasso with a gun.”

“Still.” He wagged his finger. “I believe you’ve always been jealous. Remember 2009.”

I groaned.

“You desperately tried to grow that stuff out.” He reached for my head. “You looked like an ugly woman.”

“No.” I knocked his hand away. “I was too much of a man to pull it off.”