Chapter 1

Chapter

One

"The reason I talk to myself is because I'm the only one whose answers I accept."

― George Carlin

Alexsei

Four years ago.

"I'd rather have gone with some hookers," I muttered, casting a disappointed glance around the dimly lit, smoke-filled casino. The place was a dive, with dark, moody lighting and clouds of smoke hanging in the air, making it feel like an underground den.

Volk rolled his eyes and casually tossed his ace onto the table, letting out a hearty laugh as I begrudgingly threw my remaining cards down.

Losing to him always fucking stung.

He leaned back in his chair. "I can't think of a better way to celebrate your birthday, bratt ."

I sighed. "Yeah, well, it's better than hanging out with Irina again. She's been all over me for weeks."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you can't resist her charms?"

I shrugged. "I mean, she does have some pretty big tits."

"Ain't that the truth."

I grimaced. "Please, don't remind me that we've fucked the same women. I'm gonna throw up."

I took a long gulp from my glass, letting the bubbly beer slide down my throat.

Today marked my 26th birthday, the twelfth one celebrated alongside Volk and the Silas clan. My mind drifted back to the day I joined the clan, my fourteenth birthday.

I stood outside Igor's door, the stern image of Father Pasha playing on a loop in my head. In one hand, I held the severed head of the priest, and in the other, I gripped a bloodied knife—symbols of my grim determination and the lengths I'd gone to earn my place under Igor's wing.

I'd first crossed paths with Igor a few days prior while working as a waiter at a bar, serving drinks to drunks. One night, a rowdy bastard tried to steal my hard-earned tips. In the heat of the moment, I swung a glass bottle at him, connecting squarely with his head. It was self-defense, but the bar owner promptly threw me out, my face meeting the cold, muddy ground outside.

As I dusted myself off and rose to my feet, there stood Igor, just a few inches away. He regarded me with a pensive expression, removed his leathery glove, and extended his hand towards me .

"Hello, son," he said, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "I heard you're in need of a new gig."

I released his hand and glanced down both sides of the street. It was the end of winter, and Moscow's streets were a mix of mud and melted snow, with only a handful of cars navigating the slushy roads. The streets were otherwise deserted.

Back then, I was young and naive, with a mother who worked as a prostitute and a father who struggled with addiction. My father's vices forced us to work tirelessly just to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Igor appeared as my only escape from a life of hardship, promising me a future filled with wealth, leisure, and power—how could I turn down such an offer?

But to enter the clan, Igor laid down a sinister request.

He demanded I bring him the head of a priest—Father Pasha, the head of the Moscow church, who had apparently incurred a debt with Igor and stubbornly refused to settle it.

The task was dark enough—to kill a priest—but bringing back his head? That was a level of darkness that chilled me to my core back then.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I embarked on my mission.

I attended the church's mass, taking a seat in the last row of the musty, dimly lit church. Overhead, a massive sculpture of Mary and baby Jesus gazed down at me, their eyes seeming to follow my every move.

Father Pasha entered, dressed in classic black and white church attire, a prominent cross hanging from his neck, and glasses perched on his nose. His rosy cheeks and nose hinted at a likely encounter with alcohol, and I would have bet my life it was vodka.

About ten of us were seated in front of him.

A family huddled together, consisting of three kids, likely aged between ten and five, and their parents, dressed in dark clothing. The mother wore a headscarf, and they all seemed to carry an air of poverty, sadness, and despair.

Three elderly women, probably in their late seventies, sat side by side, holding hands, while another man in his late forties slouched with his head down, hands resting in his lap.

As Father Pasha began the service, he spoke with a slightly slurred tone, revealing the effects of alcohol. His words were heavy with irony given his state.

"The end is close, my children, come back to God," he declared, his words marked by an unmistakable hiccup. "Satan is here," he pointed to where I was seated, and the entire congregation turned to look at me. "He will soon walk through these doors and snatch you all away from the truth of our Lord."

Father Pasha's drunken proclamation sent shivers down my spine as his words hung heavily in church. It felt as though he had singled me out, and I couldn't help but wonder how my ominous mission was being revealed in this twisted sermon.

The bastard must be a fucking psychic.

The hour passed swiftly as he urged us to stand up and sing a few words of gratitude. I bided my time, waiting for the room to empty so I could approach the front where the priest stood, a Bible clutched in his hands.

I gulped nervously. "I suppose the Lord has guided me to you."

He scrutinized me slowly, from head to toe, my clothes still bearing traces of mud, and then turned his head to the side. "Or Satan."

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

I breathed, "Or Satan. "

He turned around and gestured for me to follow, leading me down a narrow corridor to a small, dimly lit room. The only furnishings were a plain wooden table and two chairs, with a sizable painting of Jesus on the cross dominating one wall.

"Please, have a seat."

I obeyed, my hands trembling as I took my place at the table.

"What does Igor want this time?" Father Pasha asked, his gaze probing.

I looked down, avoiding his intense eyes.

How did he know Igor had sent me?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, my voice unsteady.

He scoffed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You must be wondering what a simple priest like me could have done to draw the attention of a man like Igor."

Father Pasha then took a seat across from me and removed the cross from around his neck. Next, he reached down to his feet and retrieved a small steel bottle hidden around his ankle, taking a swig.

He extended the bottle to me, and too nervous to refuse, I took a big gulp, the fiery liquid causing me to cough and sputter in discomfort.

Vodka. I fucking knew it.

"What did you do?"

"Would you like to hazard a guess, my son?" Father Pasha responded, an enigmatic smile on his face.

I shrugged, taking another swig of vodka. "You stole money?"

He chuckled softly and cracked his neck to the side. "Think again."

As I pondered the possibilities, I thought of the vices that often led men astray—money, women, and power. All three were intricately connected, so Father Pasha must have toyed with one of these elements to ultimately gain them all.

"Prostitutes?"

" Da , my son," he confirmed. "Sadly, even a man of faith like me found himself ensnared in the dark pit of the world's true evil— women ."

I couldn't help but stifle a bitter chuckle.

It was typical for men to place the blame for their own flaws on the shoulders of others, often targeting women as the convenient scapegoat.

"What was her name?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

I'd heard once that even the most notorious womanizers had their favorite prey.

"Katya Lenova," Father Pasha revealed, a wistful note in his voice. "A rare beauty, she came to me initially to confess her own hideous job—offering herself to men to support her only son," he added, a layer of sarcasm in his tone. "Her words and body held a peculiar enchantment, and I found myself ensnared in her embrace, sinking deeper and deeper, unable to resurface for a breath of clarity."

As his words washed over me, a metaphorical bucket of ice seemed to spill over my head.

No.

It couldn't be.

"Katya Lenova, you said?" I questioned, my hands inching slowly toward the knife concealed under my shirt.

" Da ," Father Pasha confirmed, his voice somber. "Be cautious, my son. She emerges from the darkest depths of hell. Satan often employs his most beautiful creatures to seduce us into the abyss of darkness."

Katya Lenova.

My mama.

I stood up, unable to remain in front of him.

I walked to the painting where the message of Christ's sacrifice struck a deep chord within me. His golden tears symbolized an invaluable offering, while the rich red blood around his wrists spoke of a profound sacrifice for a greater cause.

In that moment, I couldn't help but draw a connection between the depth of Christ's sacrifice and the heavy burden my mama had carried as a prostitute.

Both sacrifices were marked by suffering.

I'm so sorry, Mama.

"Has she ever mentioned her son to you?"

Father Pasha reached for the bottle and took three big gulps. " Nyet . I made sure her mouth was always full?—"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence.

My knife found its way to his throat, slicing through it like a sacrificial lamb.

That day, the Silas clan welcomed me with open arms, but my heart remained lifeless and cold ever since.

"You're the one bringing up again that you fucked women who loved my dick," Volk said, jolting me from my reverie.

I laughed as I reached for my cigar. "How you get bitches is still a wonder to me."

The casino's atmosphere shifted from rowdy to explosive when a guy who'd lost his cash couldn't take it anymore. He fired a shot into the ceiling, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.

Tension reached its boiling point, and a nasty brawl broke out between two men, fueled by booze, bruised egos, and dwindling wallets.

Swear words and curses filled the air.

"You thieving scumbag!" one of them hollered.

"I ain't no damn thief, you bastard," the other retorted, his hand darting under his shirt to draw a knife. He then viciously thrust it into the man's chest .

The room erupted with a chaotic mix of yells, curses, and shrieks as the knife plunged into the guy's chest, leaving a bloody mess in its wake.

What was supposed to be a night of fun had turned into chaos.

The wounded man clutched his chest, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn't believe he'd just been shanked in a casino, before collapsing to the floor. His attacker, still reeling from what he'd done, hovered over him, hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

Amidst the tumult, I couldn't help but let out a sarcastic chuckle.

"Whores it is next time," Volk laughed, raising his cup to his lips.