In which the entertainment at a Turgenev dinner party sucks.
Lucya…
Five years later…
“How could anyone be so beautiful?” Inessa sighs.
“Men can’t be beautiful, that’s for women,” Karolina scoffs.
“No, he’s beyond handsome. The next step up is beautiful,” Inessa says, and I have to agree with her.
Four of Inessa’s friends are hanging on the fence surrounding the training ground at the Turgenev country estate. It’s a massive timbered lodge on the edge of the forest bordering Lake Ladoga. I don’t know how far the Turgenev property extends but I’ve heard their father brag that you could ride your horse for a full day and not reach the end of it. My family was invited for a weekend to attempt to create cordial relations between the St. Petersburg Six Families, the most powerful Bratvas in Russia.
Alexi is in the center of the corral, shirtless and guiding an easily spooked horse through its paces. The stallion is beautiful, a glossy black. And he’s massive, like his master. He tosses his head angrily, his mane flowing, tail twitching impatiently, but he still follows Alexi’s commands. Alexi doesn’t use a whip, his rough hands smooth over the horse’s neck, crooning in a low voice that’s setting my lower half on fire.
“Good work Polnoch’… so good, you are…”
Yanking down my t-shirt, which keeps riding up and showing my soft stomach, I put my foot on the wood rail, pulling myself up higher, trying to get a better look at Alexi and Polnoch’, but these girls aren’t budging.
They’re like a flutter of brightly jeweled butterflies, expensive haircuts, and beautiful clothes. Inessa is the prettiest, she looks so much like our mother, blonde hair and big brown eyes, petite and fragile. Men always speak to her gently, like she’s a precious creature to be handled carefully.
Men don’t look at me at all, and I’m fine with that.
“He’s perfection,” Karolina agrees. “Look at all those muscles! That man can handle me like an animal anytime he likes.”
There’s a collective giggle and my eyes roll hard enough to stare at the back of my skull. Now that I’m sixteen, I thought it would be easier to fit in with Inessa’s friends, but they still treat me with a careless sort of contempt. They insist on calling me ‘Plumpy,’ that cursed childhood nickname, and their conversations drop to a whisper whenever I walk into the room. I don’t want to be part of their group, but I know it upsets Mother that I don’t seem to fit in.
Alexi is wearing jeans and muddy boots – and thank you, lord! – he pulled off his sweaty shirt a while ago. His tattoos flex and dance over his hugely muscular chest and arms as he runs gracefully alongside his horse and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the connection between them, something primitive and joyful.
“What are you doing out here? Go back to the house!”
The spell is broken.
Anatoly Turgenev strides out of the stables, tapping a riding crop against his boot. The only resemblance he has to his son is their massive height. The Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva has a weathered face with cruel eyes, and he has a vicious, coarse sense of humor. No one wants to be on his bad side.
His shouting startles Polnoch’ and the stallion rears back, his enormous hoof nearly striking Alexi on the shoulder. I let out a little shriek before I could stop it. A horse this huge could take off someone’s head with a well-placed kick. Alexi pivots gracefully out of the way and seizes Polnoch’s bridle, pulling his head down, and speaking urgently into its twitching ears.
“Tss… ty moya khrabraya dusha, shhh, you are my brave soul,” he croons to Polnoch’. The tendons in his arms stand out as he keeps his grip on the bridle as the stallion angrily tosses his head, trying to pull away.
“Did you hear Mr. Turgenev? Move!” Inessa yanks on the back of my shirt.
Anatoly storms into the corral, viciously striking his crop on Polnoch’s flank and I hear the high, sharp squeal of pain from the horse. Hunching my shoulders, I follow Inessa back to the house as Alexi’s voice rises to a shout, trying to calm his beloved stallion. I don’t know if his father will keep hitting the poor animal, and I can’t stand to see the pain in Alexi’s eyes, like he’s sharing his horse’s suffering.
“Pust’ nam vypadet stol’ko zhe gorya, skol’ko kapel’ ostalos’ v nashem stakane! May we only suffer as much sorrow as the drops left in our glass!”
We’re on to the fifth round of long-winded toasts at the final dinner of our stay, and no one seems inclined to stop. Dinner stretched into a three-hour extravaganza until only the remnants of the pastila – confectionary fruit squares – and sweet blinis were left on their silver trays. Mothers with younger children have already left the table to put them to sleep.
The vodka is still pouring freely, and the men’s faces are flushed red with alcohol and laughter, though I notice my father is quietly refusing any more refills.
Alexi is at the opposite end of the long dining table sitting between his brothers. Dmitri’s the eldest, and everyone’s afraid of him. He’s vicious, like his father, and enjoys inflicting pain on anyone weaker than he is.
“To guns, money, and big-breasted women!” Dmitri shouts, draining his glass and slamming it on the table. To my acute discomfort, he was staring right at my chest when he made the toast.
Inessa notices, too. “Don’t worry Plumpy, you’re too young for him,” she whispers, patting my arm.
Alexi’s next. “To family, first and always.”
There’s a hum of approval around the table as everyone downs another shot. The scent of alcohol is so strong that I’m worried if someone leans too close to a candle, their breath could set the tablecloth on fire.
“To family?”
The chatter and the clinking of glasses stop instantly. Anatoly is lounging at the head of the table, his gaze on Alexi. He’s wearing a cruel little smile and we all know the pleasant warmth of the dinner is over.
“Yes, Pakhan,” Alexi dips his head respectfully, but the tight set of his mouth tells me he’s bracing for something ugly.
“Family first and always,” Anatoly muses. “So, what is the punishment for betrayal? How should we deal with a family member who goes against his people, his Bratva?”
Alexi’s eyes dim, turning the color of a glacier. “Death.”
The door opens and two Turgenev soldiers drag a man in. His head’s down and there’s a trail of blood from one of his feet dragging on the polished parquet floor.
Anatoly wears a huge grin, matching the one on his son Dmitri’s face. My gut twists with nausea and I wish I hadn’t eaten that second blini. They’re going to kill this poor man, right in front of us. I’d heard stories about the Pakhan of the Turgenev Bratva before, his special brand of “entertainment.” He’d have someone brought in and murdered to display his power to his guests. But I never imagined he’d do it in front of women and children.
My mother half rises in her seat, gesturing to me and Inessa, but Father catches her eye, subtly shaking his head. Is there a loss of face for our Bratva if we don’t stay to witness this?
Pleating my linen napkin between my fingers, I try to sit up, as if this is nothing. As if I see it all the time. Otets, father, always kept the ugly side of his business away from us.
The man sprawled on the gleaming floor is sobbing. “Pozhaluysta, Pakhan, ya etogo ne delal. YA by nikogda tebya ne predal. Please, Pakhan, I didn’t do this, I would never betray you-” His words are odd, mushy, like his teeth are gone. Or pulled out. Or punched out.
“Ah, but that is not what my son tells me,” Anatoly chastises. Dmitri grins, slouching back in his chair. “You gave the Habib Syndicate the arrival date and location, didn’t you?”
“No! I swear it, Pakhan!”
I watch Alexi lean over to his brother. They’re close enough that I can hear his question. “Did he confess?”
Dmitri shoots him a contemptuous grin and shrugs. “Who cares? We know he did it.”
“Not if you didn’t get a confession,” Alexi says, frowning as he looks at the bloody lump on the floor.
“What is the punishment for traitors in the family?” Anatoly continues as if Dmitri didn’t just admit there was no confession.
“Death,” This comes from Dmitri.
“Death,” echoes the Pakhan of the Sokolov Bratva.
“Death…”
“Death…”
All the Pakhans seated at the table repeat the word.
The last comes from my father, who’s been looking at the glee on Anatoly’s face. “Death,” he sighs.
Anatoly lounges at the head of the table, uncoiling like a cobra about to swallow a deer. Flicking one hand at Alexi, he says, “Finish it.”
The entire room is utterly still, as if we’re all put into this horrible moment of suspended animation. A shadow passes over Alexi’s face like clouds over the moon, and he stands, walking over to the sobbing man.
“Cousin,” the poor soul wept, “we’ve known each other our whole lives, you know I couldn’t do this.”
I recognize the man under the blood now, even with his nose broken and blackened eyes. It’s Lev, he is Alexi’s cousin and I always see them together.
Is he going to make Alexi slaughter his own cousin?
The nausea returns full force and I grit my teeth.
Alexi looks down at Lev, his face a granite mask and pulls a horrifyingly large knife from his boot. He’s handling the blade with some delicacy, so it must be razor-sharp. He looks at his father one more time, and Anatoly growls.
“I gave you an order. Do your duty as my Vor.”
Pulling Lev up by his collar, Alexi looks him in the eye as he draws the knife across his cousin’s throat. A grisly spray of blood spurts from poor Lev’s neck, some of it hitting Alexi’s face and his suit.
His expression never changes.
Wiping his blade clean with quick, methodical movements, he nods to the guards to take a very dead Lev away.
“You see?” Anatoly says, spreading his arms, “Loyalty to family. Above all.”
“Loyalty to family,” several shaken dinner guests murmur. Others are staring as the body is dragged out, and two of Inessa’s friends are weeping softly.
“Gentlemen, let’s share a drink in my study,” he continues. “The ladies, I’m sure, have their own arrangements.”
I watch Alexi walk through the doors leading to the garden as everyone else hastily clears the room.
“Come on, pukhlyy, you don’t want to stay in here,” Inessa leaves, but I don’t follow her. I slip out the garden doors, looking for Alexi.
He was forced to kill his flesh and blood. At the dinner table like it was entertainment. I see a single light glowing in their greenhouse and head in that direction.
Alexi’s mother loved flowers, and this is the most beautiful place on the estate. The air is thick with the scent of gardenias and roses and the warmth feels wonderful after the chilly night air. At the far end of a row of fragrant lavender, I see Alexi. He’s used one of the greenhouse’s hoses to rinse off Lev’s blood, his shirt’s gone and his dress pants are soaking wet. There’s blood trickling down his forearm.
“You hurt yourself!” I blurt, without thinking and hurrying forward. His head shoots up, face twisted with fury.
“What are you doing here?”
I’m staring at the slice he’d made on his left arm with the knife he used to kill Lev. “I- I’ll get some bandages. I could…” Now that I’m just a few footsteps away, I can see a line of straight, even scars marching up his forearm. “Why would you hurt yourself? Let me-”
“Get the fuck out, you glupaya malen’kaya devochka, you stupid little girl!” he roars, striding toward me with his fists clenched.
“I just want to help-”
His hand, now bloody from the cut, grabs me by the throat. “Get. The. Fuck. Out,” he enunciates. “You will never speak to me again.”
My legs are shaking so badly that his grip around my neck is the only thing keeping me upright. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. He scoffs, pushing me backward before he turns and disappears further into the greenhouse.
