It was better for me to find the perpetrators and deal with it on my own.
This morning, I’d met with Boris and Yuri. I had them go down to Kapotnya, a district in the southeast of Moscow. There, they’d recruited more men and women.
The noise of the MKAD had pressed right against the district, one of the reasons the region had been ranked the worst to live in for decades. Even with the windows up, traffic had bustled loud outside of the car.
“In America, I would call this the ghetto.”
“That’s a fair assessment, mysh. Lots of immigrants, refugees, and people who are so broke, they don’t have pets because they would eat them.”
For days, I’d been going to visit the area myself. I wanted to know more about my men and where they’d come from. It was a tough place, rougher than any poor section in New York. Poverty seeped through every corner. Dirt-smudged children walked the streets asking for money with one hand and holding a knife with the other. They never knew if strangers would be friends or foes, and I didn’t blame them.
Half of the kids I saw, I gave money to. Exorbitant amounts that had made their eyes widen. I’d told them to get off the streets but knew they wouldn’t listen. I’d told them about tunnels and sewers to hide in and they’d just looked at me crazy.
The district didn’t remind me of Harlem, but it made me ache. Sometimes, it felt like home. There was connection there with these people—Afro-Russians and immigrants searching for a better life but getting blocked and brutalized in every direction. We barely spoke the same language and had different cultures, but our skin color unified us. We understood how it was to walk in a room and be judged due to the tint of our flesh and the thickness of our hair. We knew about not being able to make it in the world just from that alone. Nothing else.
Not that others didn’t deal with racism or some other form of oppression. But with the Afro-Russians, I felt a vibe. A connection. Some odd bond only created from this concept of color.
We were on the black team.
But could I trust them from that alone?
Plenty black people in my life had torn me down. Many tried to kill me. Others stole. Even my own brother attempted murder. My own father didn’t believe me when I was being raped by his best friend.
It was why I’d gotten in touch with Maxwell after the monkey heads. He hadn’t responded. Instead he’d texted, explaining there was some emergency with Misha he was helping him with.
Me: What emergency?
Maxwell: If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.
Me: When are you coming to Moscow?
Maxwell: You miss me?
Me: I need you.
Me: And yes. I miss you.
Maxwell: Give me a few days or maybe a week. I have to finish this for Mischa.
That was the last we spoke. I had no idea what was going on in St. Petersburg. Kazimir thought Maxwell was with Valentina. Meanwhile, Misha was doing something with Maxwell and ignoring Kazimir’s phone calls.
What’s going on with them? I need more people I can trust around me.
If some of the Bratva had a problem with my dark skin, I didn’t want Maxwell being too far.
Would someone try to kill him just because he was black? Jesus. I thought leaving America would give us a break from that. But, of course not. Russia isn’t known for its gentle love for all.
Now, I had added women to my crew. Sisters and cousins from my men. And these females were nothing to fuck with. They all had their battle wounds and scars.
Out of all my new hires, four had stood out.
Since helping me and Kazimir kill Sasha, Boris and Yuri remained with me.
Boris was the most loyal. Kazimir had called him my little dog. Most of the time, Boris could be found planted outside my bedroom. He shadowed me and slept in an extra bedroom downstairs. The only time he showered was when I did.
He’s probably showering right now.
In these past days, I’d learned Boris had a rough childhood. His mother was a Nigerian immigrant who’d cleaned for a Bratva member’s house. The father began a sexual relationship with her, although Boris wasn’t sure if it was rape or romantic. That question in itself possibly kept him up at night.
When his mother became pregnant with him, the Bratva member quit all contact and fired her. He and his mother struggled in the district all his life. I’d met her once. She’d sat us down and served shchi, a soup made from fermented cabbage and included potatoes, carrots, onions, and chicken.
I’d thanked her for her hospitality and promised to visit again.
Other than that, I was still learning Boris. He loved to wear orange and did so whenever I didn’t want him in a suit.