Chapter Text
Chapter One
Iosef Arkadayevich Petrov was a man that often aroused fear in those he called upon. His personal visits to debtors were infrequent to say the least, and all those who had taken money from the Russian mob knew that when you answered the door to his cold, icy eyes, death was imminent. By the time he came knocking on your door, there was no more chances. You have already been threatened, roughed up, and beaten. Now it was time for punishment. You would be killed, you assets seized, and your body mutilated and thrown into the Hudson.
So it was partly understandable that Peter Franklin trembled against the wall of the kitchen like a frightened child. But this did not stop icy blue eyes from raking over the shaking man with utter disgust. Franklin was standing against the wall, ringing his clammy hands in front of him and waiting for the final verdict. He was pathetic in both his physicality and mentality. He was small, thin, and greasy. He begged and pleaded for more time, trying to reason with a man who could not be reasoned with. There was a fleeting moment when he almost cried, his face contorting and his body crumpling where he stood. His pointy shoulder bent forehead, his neck was arched downward, and he cowered against the wall, is if it would save him.
He stood with his family surrounding him, his wife to the side holding two children in her arms. There was a boy on the other side of the room, who Iosef Petrov had not given much thought to. The only thing he found odd was that the boy was separated from the rest of the family. He appeared to be detached from the entire situation. He sat, staring down at the floor between his feet. His thick, black, curly hair fell in front of him, covering his face from view. He sat incredibly still, and it was difficult to see even the rise and fall of his chest and back as he breathed.
In an unending sense of paranoia, Yakov Aleksandrovich, the six foot blonde from St. Petersburg, stepped toward him, nudging the boy’s foot with his shoe. The boy looked up from the floor toward the mean looking Russian. His green eyes were wide in a frightful trepidation. Petrov looked away from the boy once seeing his face and looked back to Franklin brandishing and cocking the berretta.
“Mrs. Franklin, I would ask that you bring your children into the other room,” Petrov said, each accented word breaking through the room’s silence like a bullet. The woman made to move to leave and Petrov reached into his suit pocket. He nodded slowly, twisting on the silencer with a mock pout on his lips. “Very well.”
He extended his arm, the gun aimed directly at Franklin’s quivering chest. His long, elegant finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger. Only the slightest bit of pressure would be needed to fire the gun, but Petrov always took the time to enjoy his kills. He could personally kill too infrequently, that when he had the chance, he relished in it.
“Wait!” the man cried out, holding his hands over him and sliding to the floor. Petrov snarled his upper lip curling in disgust. “I have a way to get you the money!”
Petrov moved the gun a fraction of an inch lower. He waited, saying nothing, but moving his eyes over him slowly.
“You make quite a bit on prostituting out young boys right? Take Michael!”
The boy seated next to Yakov reacted immediately to the words. He jumped up, and was about to make a step toward him. His journey was cut short when the massive blond to his right shoved him back down onto the chair.
“That!” Petrov exclaimed pointing his gun toward the boy. “You think I can make money off of him?”
“He’s a virgin!”
“And you would know that how?” Petrov asked and pointed the gun back at him.
“Please don’t kill him!” Michael said standing up again. Yakov blocked his way but did not keep him from standing up.
“This family is full of surprises,” Petrov mused. He looked over at Michael, inspecting him carefully for the first time. His gun was still pointed at Franklin, and the trembling man remained on the ground with his hands up.
“His age will bring in what his looks wont,” the third Russian in the room spoke. He looked identical to Yakov and it did not take a genius to gather that the two were at least brothers if not twins.
“What’s stopping me from killing you, and taking him at the same time?” Petrov finally asked Franklin. He looked down at him, unable to keep the disgust from his face.
“You good nature and compassion,” Franklin said. Petrov almost laughed. Almost. He glanced back at the boy. He had thick curly hair, bright green eyes and a smooth face. He was a little too skinny, but that easily dealt with. He had the kind of eyes that men liked focused up at them when they had their cocks sucked, and Petrov was sure that he would make lovely noises in bed.
“He buys you time. Nothing more,” Petrov said. He jerked his head at his muscle and the two blonde grabbed Michael, one arm each, and he was dragged to the doorway. Michael put up no resistance but stared at his adoptive father in shock. Petrov removed the silencer form his gun after uncocking it. He shot one last disparaging look at Franklin on the floor before turning away.
“Three months, Franklin,” he called as he walked toward the door. “And I sincerely hope you will have my money then.”
He heard nothing else as he shut the door behind him and walked down the apartment building stairs. He checked his gold Rolex as he did, letting out a deep sigh. Michael nearly fell down the stairs due to the hold the men had on him. Luckily, the very forces that nearly made him fall, kept him on his feet.
“Bring him to the warehouse in the Brooklyn,” Petrov told Yakov and his brother Adrik. “I have other business.”
“Please, Mr. Petrov sir –”
“Did he address you?” Yakov barked, shoving him hard on the chest. Michael fell backward into the black Cadillac and fell silent. Petrov ignored him and got into a car parked a few feet away. The moment he stepped into the back seat the car sped off. Michael was shoved unceremoniously into the back of the black Cadillac, and one of the massive blondes, Michael could not tell which, got in next to him. The other got into the driver’s seat and they left the Bronx apartment building and headed toward Brooklyn.
“Whose genius idea was it to drive from the Bronx to Brooklyn at five thirty?” Yakov asked form the front seat. He was speaking Russian, and the pale boy in the back did not understand. He did not even seem to have heard them speaking. He was staring off in a daze, shocked and confused, but unable to voice his concern.
“I told you to go through Queens,” Adrik replied. “You always get stuck on the Upper East Side.”
Yakov hit the steering wheel in frustration as they came to a stop. He leaned against the door, holding his head up with his fist and checked the rear-view mirror.
“Watch this,” Yakov said and swung his door open. A bicyclist hit the door at an amazing speed, sending him falling to the ground hard. It broke Michael from his daze and he jumped. The two Russians laughed and Adrik shoved Michael into the car door. He winced in pain but said nothing, glancing down at the bicyclist as he got up from the ground.
“What the fuck is your problem!” he screamed at Yakov as he got onto his bike.
“On your way,” he said in English and the man seemed to turn pale. In this city, no one liked hearing Russian accents anymore. He shut his car door and finished the wait in traffic. Michael had no idea how much time past, but it was beginning to get dark when they got to the large, abandoned warehouse. As he walked inside, flanked by the two blondes, he saw a handsome man with auburn hair walking toward them. His eyes were dark, and intense, and they sent a shiver down his spine. He looked mean, despite being in a crisp, clean suit and having short, clean cut hair.
“Solovyov,” Yakov said as they walked by. The man ignored them, not even glancing in their direction, and walked form the building.
“Fucking prick,” Adrik bit out under his breath.
Michael was shoved in a small carpeted room on the second floor, which contained only a chair and table. He was placed inside without a word from his captors and left alone. His body trembled slightly and his mouth was dry. His body ached and there was a sharp throbbing above his eyes that he could not shake. He hated to admit that he was not surprised his adoptive father had thrown him under the bus so quickly. But he certainly did not accept his new situation. He was terrified to say the least, afraid of death, torture and rape. The Russian mob was one thing, but to be thrown into the hands of Iosef Petrov himself… it was unfathomable.
He buried his face in his hands as he thought. He could not possibly deal with this situation. It was too much. Just shy of eighteen he had never done anything remarkable in his life. For a boy who had spent most of his life in the foster system he was rather sheltered. He had never gotten into trouble; he had never been on any type of adventure in his youth. He had kept his head down and gone through life trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.
And despite always following the rules, never starting fights, never being rude or mean, he was now at the mercy of the most ruthless, cruel man in New York City. Perhaps the most cruel man on the entire eastern sea board. He tried to keep tears from his eyes. He had been through a lot in his life, and had not cried since he was a little boy. Still, he felt the tears of desperation peck at his eyes. They fluttered closed and he hunched over in his chair, burying his head between his knees.
He had no idea how much time passed before the door opened. One of the blondes, Yakov, stood there and merely stared at him a moment. When he finally spoke he told Michael to follow him. The boy did so reluctantly, but he put up no fight. He realized it was futile, and he did not have it in him to fight.
“I’ve never done anything wrong,” Michael said softly as he was brought to another set of stairs. He was made to climb them first and waited for Yakov to lead the rest of the way when he reached the top. Yakov brought him to what looked like a long conference room one would see in an executive’s building. There was a long, glass window that was on the far side of the room, and as Michael was pushed inside, he was able to see that it overlooked the main floor of the warehouse. He was seated at the long table by himself, and Yakov left him alone once again. Michael was about to make himself comfortable when the door opened once again. He looked up, expecting Yakov, and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw Iosef Petrov walk into the room.
“You look like you have seen a ghost,” he smiled. His smile was not one that calmed someone, but put you on high alert. All of the hair on Michael’s neck and arms stood up on end and he said nothing. Petrov came around the side of the table and Michael could see he was carrying something in his hands. Held in one hand was a shot glass and in the other a bottle of vodka. Michael could see it had just been removed from the freezer, judging by the droplets of water running down the side. Keeping his hand wrapped around the top, Petrov poured a shot, took it, let out a breath and poured another.
“You look like you need one,” he said and brought the shot over to Michael. He placed it in front of the boy, standing next to his chair, leaning over him imperiously.
“Will you not drink it?” he asked. His voice was low, and the way the words sounded leaving his mouth inspired the most frightening sort of dread in Michael’s gut.
“I’m seventeen,” Michael breathed.
“Hmm,” Iosef said. “drink.”
Michael nodded and reached out for the shot. He held it in his hand a moment, before raising it to his lips. He took a sip, his face contorting and the Russian laughed. The shot glass was removed from Michael’s hand and placed back on the table. Michael watched as Petrov refilled it.
“You take it all in one go. You do not sip. Again,” he said and held the shot glass in front of Michael’s face. Michael took the glass from him and, with a grimace, knocked the shot back. He placed the glass on the table with a contorted face. Petrov chuckled in amusement. He spun the cap back around the bottle until it was tight and slid it down the table.
Michael was seated directly to the right of the head of the table. Petrov took the seat at the head of the table so they were perpendicular to one another. He crossed one of his long, Armani clad legs over his knee and leaned back in the chair. He looked over Michael lazily as he thought.
“You’re cute, but I would hardly make enough to feed and clothe you,” Petrov mused. “You see, there is a common misconception that virgins make more. Most men that pay for sex want a whore, a slut. They want someone who can see to their needs. Your little virgin ass would be ripped to shreds in a week.”
Michael felt a warmth in the bottom of his stomach and the more Petrov spoke the further it travelled through his body. By the time checked his watch and then looked back up at Michael , the warmth was creeping into his extremities.
“Luckily for you, I happen to be between lovers. I assume you have heard of me before today?”
Michael nodded frantically, afraid he would insult the Russian if he had not.
“Well then you may know that I myself am a homosexual. Well, to an extent,” he smiled. “I do not discriminate between the sexes.”
He paused and stared at Michael a moment.
“No one will ever say Iosef Petrov is a rapist. So,” he said and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “You may choose. I have two cars waiting outside. One goes to my house upstate, the other to Brownsville, in Brooklyn. I might also add that should you not choose to come with my upstate, and resist in your journey to Brownsville, you will find yourself strapped to cement blocks and thrown into the East River… alive.”
“I… I want to go with you,” Michael said and timidly licked his chapped lips. Petrov nodded.
“Good choice,” he checked his watch and stood. “I will see you in a few hours.”
He stood, leaving the bottle and glass on the table, and left the room. Moments later Yakov stepped in and motioned for the boy to follow. Michael went obediently and silently. He had no ambitions to go swimming tonight, and so he got into the car that Yakov shoved him toward.
The car ride to upstate was long, and despite how tired Michael grew, he could not fall asleep. His stomach was in knots and his head was now pounding. He closed his eyes for a while, trying to imagine himself in a happier time, but that did nothing. He had no happy times.
By the time they arrived at the house, a large manor type home miles from its closest neighbor, Michael’s muscles were tight and rigid. He was locked inside a bedroom on the second floor. He lay down on the bed, face down, and covered his head with his arms. He tried to wrap his head around where he was and what he was doing but he could not. It all seemed so surreal. He supposed he was in shock of some sort.
At some point well into the early hours of the morning, the aching in his head ceased, and he fell asleep.