| |
 |
| |
|
|
-Copyrighted material-
Chapter 1: The Ukrainian Brides
It was a warm, late spring evening in the former Soviet Republic of Ukraine. The sun was sinking below the horizon in a fiery display of orange and red. Like the bodies of two lovers coming together the overarching sky merged with the flat landscape of the drab city of Kharkov, veiling everything in a continuous shroud of pale light and underlying shadow. Located on opposite sides of the city, two interconnected but very different scenes were unfolding: one—an act of violence—was situated in the decayed industrial area; the second one—a scene of affection and hope—was playing out within the confines of a small and tattered apartment building located on the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis.
“Alexi, I’m only going to ask you once,” the Albanian mafia lieutenant said. His speech was soft but the tone was menacing. The effect was that of a muted snarl. “Out of this shipment, how much of our merchandise did you give to the Russians?”
The victim squirmed helplessly in the chair. His terrified gaze fixed on the two men standing over him. The menacing glare in their eyes made the man struggle against the ropes tying his wrists and ankles to the chair. His bonds were too strong; escape was impossible.
“Gergi, please,” he sobbed. “Those bastards were going to kill my wife and son. Give me a chance to make things right with you and Mejdani.”
The tall criminal he was talking to turned to the third man and grimly nodded. The other hoodlum, a muscular thug named Adan was bearded and had a large scar on his cheek. Adan leaned over the victim and pressed the tip of his knife into Alexi’s throat. The blade punctured the skin and pushed inside. Rivulets of blood streamed down the victim’s neck. The knife cut deeper. The blood increased. The front of his shirt turned red. The stain grew larger and spread to his pants. It soaked the crotch; the first crimson drop fell to the floor.
Howling in agony the man screamed, “Eight! The Russians took eight whores.”
Gergi stared at him in disbelief. “Eight whores?” his voice echoed. The criminal’s face reddened in anger. “You son of a bitch! Are you telling me there’s only four left, out of the whole fucking group?”
The mafia lieutenant turned away in disgust and nodded another silent command to his associate. In two quick movements Adan slashed the long stiletto through Alexi’s flesh. The first jab severed an artery; blood showered over the writhing victim. The second slash was slower and more deliberate. The blade sawed deeply, cutting the man’s windpipe and slashing backward through muscle and cartilage all the way to the vertebrae; Alexi was almost decapitated. With the connective tissue of the neck muscles chopped in two, his eyes gaped in terror and the victim’s cranium flopped to the side, mimicking the posture of a limp rag doll. The rest of his body flailed against the ropes, shivering and twitching in the rigors of violent death.
Adan withdrew his knife and casually wiped the blade on the victim’s shirt.
“When was this asshole supposed to meet the remaining whores?” he asked Gergi.
“In two days,” the mafia lieutenant replied. His eyes narrowed and he added, “We’ll have to stay here and handle the rest of this delivery. Instead of the train, we’ll use one of the vans so this bastard’s new friends won’t be able to track us down.”
The corpse became rigid and puddled blood cooled on the concrete floor of the warehouse; less than twenty kilometers away, the second scenario was playing out. A slender, twenty-one-year-old Ukrainian woman named Irena carefully withdrew a folded sheet of paper from the tattered envelope in her hand. She gazed at the neatly written words. Irena had received two love letters from a man named Yosh Smith; he lived in America. She cherished both missives and read them over and over again, especially the second one.
“. . . Yes, I am still amazed that I have discovered such an angel, a living jewel in far off Ukraine. It’s hard for me to understand how you could be unmarried. Are all the men in your country mad with blindness and stupidity? After viewing your lovely photographs and reading your gentle letter, I can say that you are a miracle. My wonderful miracle! I’ve never known someone who suited me so perfectly. You seduced me with your beautiful body and happy smile. Even if I never have you completely, I am content. A part of you has become a part of me. And that is enough . . .”
Both letters were scribed on expensive watermark stationary and each had been carefully penned by hand, expressing the affluence and devotion of the man who wrote to her. Over her grandmother’s strongest objections, Irena had boldly written to Mr. Smith, sending her reply in care of a wedding bureau she had subscribed to. She told Yosh Smith she wanted very much to meet the man who wrote such compelling words. Then she waited.
|
|
|
 |
|
|
