Post by Deleted on Jun 4, 2017 10:48:11 GMT -5
✦ ┇ W ι ɳ
Nikita Volkov was not his brother, and that was where he'd gone wrong.
Nikita Volkov was not his brother, and that was where he'd gone wrong.
It was a simple matter, really; his brother was proud and strong and brave, destined for greatness and loved by the higher ranks of the family, while he was more or less disposable. He was not jealous; it was just how things went, how it had always been. When his mother had born twins, she had been happy to have both of them. As time had gone on, she'd been drawn to one rather than the other; and Niki just wasn't the other. He didn't mind, it meant that he could fall into the background, that he could stay alive without feeling guilty for not doing enough. As a child, he'd been convinced that something was wrong, that maybe he just wasn't the right sort of person. As an adult, reaching the age of thirty two, he really couldn't care less.
"Oi, Niki," came the deep voice of one of his superiors. Daniel? He was rather sure it was Daniel; a bulky American man who worked in the upper ranks of the family. He talked to the Godfather on a daily basis, which meant that this was trouble. Trouble that Niki did not quite want.
"Yeah?" he asked, tilting his head to look at the other man with raised eyebrows. Something told him that Daniel did not appreciate his lack of enthusiasm, because thick brows furrowed and large hands twitched at his sides, as if he just wanted to strangle Niki. It wouldn't work, intimidation tactics or fear tactics had never worked on him.
"He wants to talk to you."
Those words, he would reflect upon later, changed his life. Nikita did not think much of it when he was told, used to doing what he had to and nothing else. If the Godfather wanted to talk to him, then that was fine. It wasn't really a risky thing, considering his own connections; hell, his brother liked him, despite their differences. They'd been close for too long for Alexei to throw him under the bus for not being enough. It was just one of those things. With a deep sigh and raised eyebrows, Nikita followed Daniel through the winding halls of the mansion, stupidly over-fancy and never really his style. He was only here because he'd been asked to teach one of the daughters the piano. One of his better skills, something he was proud of. Teaching the Godfather's own birthdaughters the piano was something of a high honour, and he knew he hadn't messed that up; so what was he being called in for?
There was utter silence in the room as he was ushered in, and he lowered his head respectfully. From the corner of his eye, he saw Alexei smile in an encouraging way, mouthing something that looked like well done. What was well done? Huh? He frowned thoughtfully and did not lift his gaze again.
"Nikita," said the Godfather warmly, standing up and crossing the room to greet him. He was a large man, once fit but now aging. His hair was cropped and grey, his face lined in a way that suggested he had always been a smiling man. He was. He was sweet and he was wonderful, people looked up and loved him - and yet he could be a frightening person when betrayed or displeased. Most people were loyal to him. Most. "How have you been?"
"Well," he told the older man, lightly taking his hand to brush his lips over the ring there. The Godfather smiled some more at that, gaze softening. It was strange, because Nikita did not get to talk to him much; perhaps it was the fact that rather than how Alexei looked like their father, he looked like his mother; short, elegant, warmer shades. "Your daughter is progressing well in her studies."
The man nodded at this, as if it were expected. It was. Mia Bianchi was a prodigy at a lot of things, well-respected. Of course, her father being the Russell Bianchi and the Godfather certainly helped, but she had her own skills. Her own drive, too; she was determined to become the next head of the family, and she had a fire that proved she was certainly capable.
"Well, as much as I would love this to just be a friendly visit, I do have a job for you. It is a rather important one, and must be kept on a need-to-know basis. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Now," Bianchi gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Obediently, Nikita sat down neatly, placing his hands on his thighs. He watched the other sit in his own, larger chair. It was rather intimidating, which was probably what the Godfather was hoping for. "There have been murders of our family members. All leads point towards it being the Marcello Family, but I do not think they would dare to harm us. We are, after all, much stronger."
Such a firmness in his words made it hard to not believe him, and Nikita nodded silently to show that he was still listening. Bianchi nodded, as well, and rested his elbows on the desk in front of him, leaning towards as he steepled his fingers.
"You. I'd like you to find out what's happening with these murders; put them to an end if you can, or come back and tell me the details if you can't. Either way, we need to know if it's the Marcellos or if it's some outsider trying to frame them - you understand?" another, quieter nod. "Good. The murders have been happening every month, but there have been two this month already; yes, we're on the second week. If the murders have turned into a weekly occurrence, then we could be in more trouble than I anticipated. I also must tell you this: the last man I sent on this mission did not come back. If you find him alive, then good. If you find him...otherwise...it would be wise to leave that area immediately, come back. I want you to find out what's happening - you always have been wonderful at investigating - but do not risk your own like, Nikita. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," he swallowed, shifted his weight in his seat and looked down at his hands. His first real job, finally being utilised for his abilities. Not to teach piano, but to find things. He had always been good with information, had been a wonderful informant, at one point. It was nice to be used for that again, though in a different way; he'd actually have to dig up information.
The next few details sank into his brain, the locations of the murders, the possibly times, the dates their bodies had been found. All of this settled within him, and he left with warm words and a faint sense of dread. It was entirely possible that he could die in this situation, but he'd try not to. Alexei would be rather annoyed with him if he did die, not that it would matter once he was dead. It was rather spooky to think about.
Predictably, the few weeks that he was lost led to more deaths. Not three, but two. He felt some degree of guilt, for being too slow, but every time he managed to talk to Alexei about it, he was given reassurances. While the Godfather was extremely sad about the deaths (they were starting to get closer and closer to the center), he knew that Nikita could end them. Nikita, himself, doubted that; what if they had put the wrong man on the job? What if they had doomed their own family? He hated feeling like that, and he hated not having any leads.
When he realised that he'd hit a complete dead end on his research on the murders, he paused. There would only, really, be one place that would have detailed documents of the murders. One place that he hated, because he was part of a crime syndicate. It wasn't as if he could waltz in, declare his name, and make off with the files; and he couldn't steal them, either. That would be too risky, too high a chance of him ending up in severe trouble. He inhaled slowly and passed a hand through his dark hair, slender fingers catching on tangled curls. No. He needed to do something.
It was stupid.
It wasn't going to work.
And yet he was still doing it, goddamn.
The building loomed above him, police cars were littered outside, and he couldn't help but be spooked. It was intimidating, and though he knew that he could easily be taken out of this place by the family, it was a bad thought to get caught. Could delay everything. He inhaled slowly and walked in.
"I need to talk to an on-duty officer," he told the receptionist firmly, "about the recent bout of murders."
Whether the poor receptionist was scared by the words he spoke, the faint accent, or the fact that he had a sharp split in his left eyebrow from a scar (he knew he looked like trouble; he liked looking like that), she nodded and dialled some sort of number. He rocked back on his heels as he waited, and then the receptionist stood up, swallowing thickly. He found her fear amusing; he was short and, by far, the least intimidating person (save for maybe his piercings). Honestly, he didn't even try to reassure her.
"Uh - you can wait in the waiting room," she gestured weakly, "an officer will be over to see you to a room and talk to you there. He's - he's been called, so...yeah."
He smiled politely (she seemed to get a little flustered at that, something he found himself enjoying), and moved away to sit neatly on one of the chairs. Some kid glanced at him and whispered to his mother, but Nikita ignored them both and instead chose to flick through his phone idly. He didn't have the slightest hint of a lead, had done everything he could to try to grasp at something, but the trail was too clean and so it had come to this. Talking about the murders to a police officer, of all things. Nikita Volkov was many things, and proud was one of them. This was hurting his pride, really.
"Oi, Niki," came the deep voice of one of his superiors. Daniel? He was rather sure it was Daniel; a bulky American man who worked in the upper ranks of the family. He talked to the Godfather on a daily basis, which meant that this was trouble. Trouble that Niki did not quite want.
"Yeah?" he asked, tilting his head to look at the other man with raised eyebrows. Something told him that Daniel did not appreciate his lack of enthusiasm, because thick brows furrowed and large hands twitched at his sides, as if he just wanted to strangle Niki. It wouldn't work, intimidation tactics or fear tactics had never worked on him.
"He wants to talk to you."
Those words, he would reflect upon later, changed his life. Nikita did not think much of it when he was told, used to doing what he had to and nothing else. If the Godfather wanted to talk to him, then that was fine. It wasn't really a risky thing, considering his own connections; hell, his brother liked him, despite their differences. They'd been close for too long for Alexei to throw him under the bus for not being enough. It was just one of those things. With a deep sigh and raised eyebrows, Nikita followed Daniel through the winding halls of the mansion, stupidly over-fancy and never really his style. He was only here because he'd been asked to teach one of the daughters the piano. One of his better skills, something he was proud of. Teaching the Godfather's own birthdaughters the piano was something of a high honour, and he knew he hadn't messed that up; so what was he being called in for?
There was utter silence in the room as he was ushered in, and he lowered his head respectfully. From the corner of his eye, he saw Alexei smile in an encouraging way, mouthing something that looked like well done. What was well done? Huh? He frowned thoughtfully and did not lift his gaze again.
"Nikita," said the Godfather warmly, standing up and crossing the room to greet him. He was a large man, once fit but now aging. His hair was cropped and grey, his face lined in a way that suggested he had always been a smiling man. He was. He was sweet and he was wonderful, people looked up and loved him - and yet he could be a frightening person when betrayed or displeased. Most people were loyal to him. Most. "How have you been?"
"Well," he told the older man, lightly taking his hand to brush his lips over the ring there. The Godfather smiled some more at that, gaze softening. It was strange, because Nikita did not get to talk to him much; perhaps it was the fact that rather than how Alexei looked like their father, he looked like his mother; short, elegant, warmer shades. "Your daughter is progressing well in her studies."
The man nodded at this, as if it were expected. It was. Mia Bianchi was a prodigy at a lot of things, well-respected. Of course, her father being the Russell Bianchi and the Godfather certainly helped, but she had her own skills. Her own drive, too; she was determined to become the next head of the family, and she had a fire that proved she was certainly capable.
"Well, as much as I would love this to just be a friendly visit, I do have a job for you. It is a rather important one, and must be kept on a need-to-know basis. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Now," Bianchi gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Obediently, Nikita sat down neatly, placing his hands on his thighs. He watched the other sit in his own, larger chair. It was rather intimidating, which was probably what the Godfather was hoping for. "There have been murders of our family members. All leads point towards it being the Marcello Family, but I do not think they would dare to harm us. We are, after all, much stronger."
Such a firmness in his words made it hard to not believe him, and Nikita nodded silently to show that he was still listening. Bianchi nodded, as well, and rested his elbows on the desk in front of him, leaning towards as he steepled his fingers.
"You. I'd like you to find out what's happening with these murders; put them to an end if you can, or come back and tell me the details if you can't. Either way, we need to know if it's the Marcellos or if it's some outsider trying to frame them - you understand?" another, quieter nod. "Good. The murders have been happening every month, but there have been two this month already; yes, we're on the second week. If the murders have turned into a weekly occurrence, then we could be in more trouble than I anticipated. I also must tell you this: the last man I sent on this mission did not come back. If you find him alive, then good. If you find him...otherwise...it would be wise to leave that area immediately, come back. I want you to find out what's happening - you always have been wonderful at investigating - but do not risk your own like, Nikita. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," he swallowed, shifted his weight in his seat and looked down at his hands. His first real job, finally being utilised for his abilities. Not to teach piano, but to find things. He had always been good with information, had been a wonderful informant, at one point. It was nice to be used for that again, though in a different way; he'd actually have to dig up information.
The next few details sank into his brain, the locations of the murders, the possibly times, the dates their bodies had been found. All of this settled within him, and he left with warm words and a faint sense of dread. It was entirely possible that he could die in this situation, but he'd try not to. Alexei would be rather annoyed with him if he did die, not that it would matter once he was dead. It was rather spooky to think about.
Predictably, the few weeks that he was lost led to more deaths. Not three, but two. He felt some degree of guilt, for being too slow, but every time he managed to talk to Alexei about it, he was given reassurances. While the Godfather was extremely sad about the deaths (they were starting to get closer and closer to the center), he knew that Nikita could end them. Nikita, himself, doubted that; what if they had put the wrong man on the job? What if they had doomed their own family? He hated feeling like that, and he hated not having any leads.
When he realised that he'd hit a complete dead end on his research on the murders, he paused. There would only, really, be one place that would have detailed documents of the murders. One place that he hated, because he was part of a crime syndicate. It wasn't as if he could waltz in, declare his name, and make off with the files; and he couldn't steal them, either. That would be too risky, too high a chance of him ending up in severe trouble. He inhaled slowly and passed a hand through his dark hair, slender fingers catching on tangled curls. No. He needed to do something.
It was stupid.
It wasn't going to work.
And yet he was still doing it, goddamn.
The building loomed above him, police cars were littered outside, and he couldn't help but be spooked. It was intimidating, and though he knew that he could easily be taken out of this place by the family, it was a bad thought to get caught. Could delay everything. He inhaled slowly and walked in.
"I need to talk to an on-duty officer," he told the receptionist firmly, "about the recent bout of murders."
Whether the poor receptionist was scared by the words he spoke, the faint accent, or the fact that he had a sharp split in his left eyebrow from a scar (he knew he looked like trouble; he liked looking like that), she nodded and dialled some sort of number. He rocked back on his heels as he waited, and then the receptionist stood up, swallowing thickly. He found her fear amusing; he was short and, by far, the least intimidating person (save for maybe his piercings). Honestly, he didn't even try to reassure her.
"Uh - you can wait in the waiting room," she gestured weakly, "an officer will be over to see you to a room and talk to you there. He's - he's been called, so...yeah."
He smiled politely (she seemed to get a little flustered at that, something he found himself enjoying), and moved away to sit neatly on one of the chairs. Some kid glanced at him and whispered to his mother, but Nikita ignored them both and instead chose to flick through his phone idly. He didn't have the slightest hint of a lead, had done everything he could to try to grasp at something, but the trail was too clean and so it had come to this. Talking about the murders to a police officer, of all things. Nikita Volkov was many things, and proud was one of them. This was hurting his pride, really.