Becoming Mrs. Blackstone

Cold.

So much cold.

It seeps through my scanty, torn shirt and burns through my skin, chilling my nerves and bloodstream. 

 It makes my bones ache and my teeth chatter with a resilient rhythm. I lie on the concrete floor, my hair hanging in dark, frozen icicles down my stiff face. I can barely blink my eyes. My sixteen year old, once powerful frame rattles helplessly, in time with the depressing sounds of ice drops that fall against the tiny window of my cell.

  Winter in Russia is horrible. Winter in a Russian prison is a total nightmare. The cold makes you numb. Your lips, limbs and even eyelashes become completely numb.

This is not the conventional Russian prison, mind you. It is more like an illegal cell facility, established by the Russian crime syndicate, the Bratva. Here, petty crimes and big crimes are punished in equal measure, no matter the age of the offender.

In the cell next to mine, a ten year old boy is held—for stealing a loaf of bread from the local markets under Bratva territory, after having stayed hungry for six days. I hear his whimpers sometimes, when the men go in there and do whatever they do to him for stealing.

He never cries. I've never heard him cry. He just whimpers.

According to the Bratva, they cannot have little riff raffs like us meddling in their business.  Myoffence is minor. Atleast I feel it is. It is something that happens everyday on these streets. But I slipped up and got caught. 

 I can still hear the steady dripping sounds the blood made as it streamed from my fingers to the cracked tile floor of our shabby apartment.

 My mother died three years ago. She died after suffering and toiling fruitlessly on the hard Bratva streets. She was a loyal citizen. Paid her tax on time. Gave what fucking belonged to Cesar, to Cesar.

 One night however, I remember I did not have anything to eat the entire day and my poor mother, bless her soul, could no longer stand the growling of my empty stomach.

So she left I and my whore of a sister at home, with the promise of a hot meal when she returned. That was the biggest mistake she ever made. That night changed my life forever. 

But I do not blame my mother. I never do. I followed her. I could not help the itch that developed at the back of my neck at the thought of her out alone in the cold and dark. 

When she went out the door, I put on my one and only winter gear—an old, musty sweater, and I walked stealthily behind her to keep her safe—or so I thought.

Thirteen years old and scared to death with absolutely no skill on how to defend myself, I tiptoed behind my Ma until she got to some convenience store where she attempted to steal a bag of tomatoes, perhaps to make her signature hot sauce.

The itch at the back of my neck intensified and I knew something really bad was going to happen.

She was caught, and I can swear that the 'pop, pop!' sounds that came from the Bratva Enforcer's gun as he emptied bullets into my mother's brains still haunts me until this very day.

 I can swear that the cold, psychotic glint that came from his evil gray eyes will stay with me forever.

 I trudged back home with a cold heart and heavy feet to tell my sister that our mother was gone, only to find her sucking the cock of some homeless man, perhaps for a twenty dollar bill.  While my mother lay cold and dead on the streets, her daughter was making money to buy herself more crack.

I lost it.

I do not remember how it happened but I held my sister by the hair while I punched my still developing fists repeatedly into the face of the homeless bag of scum. I was tall for my age, and strong too. But I had nothing on a three hundred and fifty pound man.

He had me by the throat in no time, pinned my arms into our dingy single sofa, ripped open my shorts and was about to force his slimy dick into me. My sister, probably high on cocaine, cheered him on. I remember closing my eyes as blind, blood curdling rage heated my bloodstream. 

My fingers wrapped around the nearest weapon, a three pronged fork and I stabbed the body part of the low life scum that was closest to me. His down turned palm. He yelped, his high pitched scream filling the apartment. I didn't give him time to recover. I jumped on his back, holding on to the abundant rolls of his disgusting body fat and drove the fork over and over into the side of his neck.

I drove it into his chest, his back and neck, crushing his windpipe. I finally released him and he wrapped his battered palm around his neck, trying to staunch the blood that flowed so freely. He gurgled, spewing disgusting blood all over the tattered carpet and the cracked wall of our apartment.  I heard another muffled giggle behind me and I knew my slut of a sister, Brenda was her name, was not going to live.

I tightened my bruised fingers around the fork and advanced towards her. The rest, as they say, is history.

 And why I say my offence was minor? Low life scums like Brenda and her disgusting lover are killed every damned day on these streets. 

But you have to be smart enough not to get caught. I do not see their death as an offense anyways. I see it as a cleanse. I just rid the Earth of two extremely useless individuals.

 But I was thirteen and stupid. And Brenda screamed too loudly when I drove the fork into her stupid neck. So I was caught. By the same Enforced that killed my mother. 

He walked through the open door of our apartment, took one look at the dead bodies on the floor, the blood that decorated almost every nook of the tiny space and the bloody fork in my hand, then he shot me. On the fucking arm.

 He dragged me out of the apartment and I knew my fate was sealed. I was going to die a very horrible death and today was the day.

However, I was merely thrown into this hellhole, with barely minimal medical attention given to my arm.

I survived another three years, quite surprisingly.Three years of pain and torture.Three years of emptiness and cold.

I always harbour hopes that I would be recruited as one of the Bratva soldiers, even as a low class captain.

But that was never meant to be. Fate had other plans.

The still conscious part of my mind registers the distinct clang of my cell door as it is being opened. My cold heart begins to drum a crazy rhythm against my chest.

I can barely hear the muttered curses of the man above me as he tries to remove my handcuffs. Shards of ice cold pain shoot up my arm when he grabs my wrists and I wince inwardly.

  After I cried helplessly on the cold street three years ago as I watched the life bleed out of my mother's eyes, I made a vow. Nobody is ever going to gain the satisfaction of seeing or hearing my pain.

I might groan, wince or even scream in agony, but only my mind would ever be treated to those sounds.

Nobody else deserves to hear it.

In these last moments, I wonder how I am going to die. Will I be shot in the head? Tortured? Electrocuted? 

I will my frozen eye lids open when I feel a rough tap on my shoulder and I look up and into the cold, evil eyes of the same Enforcer.

 Cold fury shoots through me, warming my insides and I want to punch him, to give him even a quarter of the pain he's given me. But my frozen limbs refuse to cooperate.

 I lie there, battered and bruised by endless days of torture, frozen stiff by cold and at the mercy of a monster. Romanov Antonio.

I wait and wait, with my breath held and thighs clenched, for him to unload bullets into my exposed back, my face schooled into a tight, though weak, expression— an outright refusal to surrender.

 The Enforcer merely shakes his head, clearly not impressed by my weak show of bravery. Then he lifts me from the ground with one push and throws my weak frame over his shoulder.

He exits the cell and resumes walking to only God knows where.

We pass endless metal doors of other prison cells and I shut my eyes, feeling the life begin to drain from my tired limbs. He stops abruptly and my eyes fly open, taking in my surroundings.

 I realise that we had long left the dark and dreary prison yard. We are in a more opulent area. Cold air blasts from the AC despite the cold. I'm not surprised. Heartless monsters rule this place.

The floor is covered in expensive, shiny marble. Glass paneled stairs and walls gleam from the overhead lights.

The Enforcer stops right in front of a heavy oak door. Hushed voices can be heard from the inside. One is obviously hard and raised in anger while the other is light with laughter, though still tense.

He knocks twice, squeezing my already frozen thighs with his left arm. The voices behind the door grow silent for a moment until a heavily accented one calls out a hushed "come in".

 The Enforcer steps into the room and warm air from the vents hit me, warming my frozen limbs. He dumps me on the polished wood floor and I land with a startled 'oomph', pain shooting up my empty stomach and stiff arm.

He beats a hasty retreat, leaving me to the mercy of my new companions. The coward.

 The first man, obviously Russian, with dark hair, brown eyes and a mouth twisted with contempt eyes me with a hateful look.

The second man. I can swear he's American. There is something different about him. Instead of the normal soldier's garb that men of the Russian mafia wear regularly, he has on a custom made three piece suit and gleaming leather Oxfords.That suit probably costs twenty thousand dollars, give or take.

Yes, I know a bit about fashion. Bratva prisoners are given fashion magazines once a week, the only form of entertainment we are ever allowed to get. I love to read, so I seize the opportunity to lay my eyes on a few letters when ever I can.

He looks as shiny as a new coin. But no matter how hard he tries to hide it, the sadistic gleam that glints just behind his dark blue eyes gives him away.

His stance screams, "this is one man you do not want to mess with".

I look on in confusion as both men sign papers and exchange handshakes.

It's all over within a short few minutes and I'm soon shoved into a waiting limo. Everything happens in a blur but I'm soon to discover that there's colour and beauty beyond the depressing walls of the Bratva prison.

 There is blood and death too. But those I can handle. Those, I have known all my life.

As the luxurious private jet I am currently ensconced in taxies out of the Russian runway, I look up and into the silent dark blue eyes of my saviour. Or captor. I'm not really certain at the moment.

He's been watching me deeply for the past few hours.

I cannot sum up the strength to ask any questions so I remain silent admidst the quiet rumble of the plane's engines and his thoughtful gaze.

In that moment, I make another vow. I will be back. And I will kill that Russian Enforcer with my bare hands. I will wreck havoc on all he held dear.

I feel my soul shed its colour.I feel it become blacker as the plane gains altitude.I feel it harden like steel, until I have to fist my hands over my chest to dull the ache.

My name is Luca Blackstone going forth. And God so help anyone with negative affiliations with the Russian mafia that crosses my path.

Death is a small mercy they would always beg for.