Prologue
Kazimir
Rumi is dead. Who did it?
Rumi was born with both sexual organs. He liked to brag that he had a big clitoris and penis. That wasn’t why someone killed him, but it was the most interesting thing about him. And I hadn’t flown to New York because I cared about him. He cleaned my money in America, so whoever murdered Rumi was messing with me.
Who killed him?
Every country spawned criminals—poor people with nothing to lose, fighting the world to survive, willing to do anything. Kill. Rob. Traffic. America birthed outlaws—Jesse James to the Hell’s Angels, Bloods to the Crips. Italians not only perfected pasta, they bred the men of honor—the Mafia, Mob, La Cosa Nostra. China gave us Triads. Then, there was the Corsican in France, Mexico’s drug cartels, and the full-body tattooed Yakuza in Japan.
Poor people with nothing to lose. Because the country had taken it from them. Because some societies gave to the rich and bled the poor. Because sometimes evil was necessary and blood should be spilled, and money lured the pure into dirty, filthy things.
Most of the time, souls shattered in poverty.
In Russia, we had the Bratva—the brotherhood. And when someone of this time wrote about the brotherhood, they mentioned me, often dedicating chapters on my life.
New Yorkers should read more, before I level this state down to dirt and dead bodies.
My limo turned onto Furman Street in a posh area of Manhattan called Carnegie Hall.
My stepbrother, Sasha sat on my right. After his mother died, his father married his mistress—my mother. We’d had a rough beginning but eventually learned to love each other.
They’d called his father the King. Long ago, he’d been Vory v Zakone—a thief in law. Later, he ran Bratva and was killed.
By all accounts, Sasha should’ve been the next in line, but I’d gained too much of a reputation by the time of his father’s death. And there was the problem of Sasha enjoying the pleasure of men. The Bratva was trenched in old thinking.
Nevertheless, I loved Sasha.
Many called him the wolf. Within the shadows on a snowy night, he resembled one. His pale blond hair was cut close to his head. He’d received slanted, exotic eyes from his mother.
Although I was dark haired, many thought we were brothers. We both had large frames and broad shoulders.
Sasha turned to me. “This is dangerous, Kazimir. Talk to the witness. Don’t kill him.”
“Someone murdered my top washer in America,” I said. “Sliced him from ear-to-ear and wrapped his intestines around his neck. And even worse, they took my fifty million dollars with them.”
“You shouldn’t even be in the United States right now.”
Sasha was correct, but I’d sniffed out blood and was too excited to be careful. Unfortunately for the killer, I’d been in Toronto for my niece’s christening. Little Natalya was my first niece out of five rambunctious nephews. She was more than worth a visit, regardless of Interpol and the FBI. Had I been in Russia when they killed Rumi, I would’ve never made it in time.
Sasha decided to push the point further. “With this immigration nonsense and their suspicions of Trump-Russian election tampering, they’ll have their eyes everywhere.”
“America’s too busy bullying Muslim families to keep up with me.”
“They’re watching everyone,” he said.
“If you believe that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“I’m just—”
“I stay in New York, until everything is solved.”
Sasha muttered under his breath, “Idiota kusok.”
Only my brother could call me a piece of an idiot and not die.
A man's status in the upper ranks of Bratva was measured by several factors—the total of men he killed, the amount of countries that feared him, and his ranking on the FBI’s Most wanted list. By those measures, one could argue that I was a very important man. I had over two hundred kills, was restricted from entering the Americas and most of Western Europe, and by the age of nineteen the FBI had placed me at #490 on the most wanted list—ten steps from Usama Bin Laden.
I was now twenty-seven.
I’d outlived Bin Laden, moved up the Most Wanted list, and headed Bratva.
The limo stopped in front of an upscale building where my dead washer now lay in his penthouse. My men held a possible suspect, waiting for my arrival.
“Kazimir.” Sasha turned to me. “You should fear this country.”
“Fear is an illusion. The only way fear can breathe, is in our thoughts of the future.” I touched the side of my head. “We choose fear. But, it’s a product of our imagination. Not our reality.”
“Fear can be rational,” he countered.
“Sure, when the bear is in front of a man standing on a mountain, he fears the beast and jumps into action. But the problem with humanity is that the man fears the bear right before he even goes to the mountain. Thus, never climbing up. The man stays where he is. He hides, and he says to himself, I’m safe because the bear is on the mountain. But what if the bear is right behind him?”
“Mne vse ravno,” Sasha muttered. “I don’t care about your damn bear, I want you safe.”
“You put too much value in this country. America is neither a bear or a mountain.”
“Nevertheless.” Sasha climbed out of the limo. “I could’ve handled this.”
I followed. “I like New York.”
“No, you don’t. You came because you don’t trust me to get back the money and find the one responsible. You never trust me.”
Because you always fuck it up, and people only respect you because they’re afraid of me.
I thought back to an argument I had with my sister days earlier.
“You should wait a few days, and then I can come with you,” Valentina said.
“No.” I held my niece. “Spend time with your daughter. You never get a rest with our world.”
“I don’t like Rumi being murdered. It makes me nervous.”
“Everything will be fine.” I handed my sleeping niece back to Valentina. “Keep her safe. We have too many men in our family. We need more women.”
Already I missed my niece.
It was odd that something so small as a newborn baby could capture my attention and make me leave Russia. The years had passed. I’d lost count of the days. The sun became the moon, and then the moon became the sun. Money and power had come. And yet, when I turned twenty-seven, I wondered what else I would do with my life.
What else is there in life?
I paused and looked up at the night sky, barely able to see it with all the tall buildings. “It’s a full moon tonight. They say it’s a super moon.”
Sasha snorted. “Must we talk about your moon?”
“Everything is connected.”
“It always is with you.”
“The Moon, Earth, and Sun are aligned,” I said. “There’s a major gravitational pull happening. That’s why there are tides in the oceans, when there’s a full moon.”
“So, this isn’t a good time to fish?”
“Or kill,” I admitted.
Sasha raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“If the moon can move the ocean, surely it can move us. We are 75% water.”