Golden Nightingale

Familiarity was the only concept gifted to a man of his caliber. Everything else came with a variable, a gamble, a probability that required additional analysis to contemplate its worth. It often eluded him with time as it became tainted with scorn, painted with deception, and splattered with betrayal. And yet, all at once, it was all he knew. The familiar scent of a discharged gun, gunpowder wafted into the air and assaulted his nostrils like a bath bomb one released in the tranquility of their pool sized hot tub, the familiar color of rouge as it stained the pristine white tiling underneath his leather loafers that he’d need to replace, again, the familiar wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of a fallen man whose fatal mistake was crossing the lines into his threshold. Nothing new, just ironically accustomed. A click, the mechanism of a safety clip placed back, removed the lethality of the weapon in his hand, uncurled his fingers to hand it over to a bowed head to his right that would handle dismantling it as his left hand was provided with a wet, cool towel. He lifted it to clean away the speckled paths of grime, blood and filth that splashed on his porcelain features, traced the fabric down the span of his neck idly as one would in front of a mirror as daily skincare routine. A norm. This was a norm for him. Death was an inevitable result of life, he just happened to expediate the process. A grim reaper, the bringer of death, the cloud of doom, he knew he had many names in the circles of his enemies, allies, and family; but he preferred to just go by Alek. Aleksander Tarkovsky. Titles were too formal, changed on the upkeep like one changed out their linens after a delicious f**k of a boy toy into them, and he hummed as he returned the soiled towel to the hands that had given it to him. Perhaps he should call one to release his pent-up energy, a vague thought that escaped him as the scramble around him left him unphased. “Master Alek—” “I want it disposed of in the incinerator. No one is searching for it right?” The individual was male, deceased, and lost his value at his expiration. Why bother to continue referring to ‘him’ as anything but an item? It was the best way Alek could detach readily from the acts he committed, the ability to discern humans with objects. Though at times, the lines blurred, and he mentally shrugged. If anything, or anyone lost its importance to him, he readily broke them and tossed them away, simple as that. His hands went into the pockets of his trousers, contemplated a moment on his next steps as he wanted very much to indulge in a bath. With one, no, two boy toys tending to him; one massaging his shoulders with their hands, the other mouthing his c**k, both just lavishing his form with well-deserved admiration. Even if it came out of Alek’s pocket, he knew that all of the callboys clawed at one another for his attention, trampled, and scrambled at his beck-and-call. A comfortable thought that brought a hum to his lips of delight. His elder brother often called him a beast and fiend for not settling down, preferred to indulge in the carnal urges of the flesh, cycle out the ‘pretty boys’ as dependent on his mood. Alek didn’t care. It was his body, his pleasure, and his peace of mind. Dmitry could never understand the surmountable stress he carried and needed to release. If it was through f*****g two pretty boys at the same time, orally, anally, upside down, sideways, it was at Alek’s discretion to do so. He never felt guilty, he never felt dissatisfied; granted, his emotion barometer definitely took a hit when he went from murder to s*x, without being able to distinguish the forms of energy but such was his lot in life. A mob head rarely had the luxury to find a soulmate, one that would take his breath away, that the instant he saw them, he melted. It was a dream that was nonsensical, childish, and shamefully idealistic for him to even entertain. He left that to Dmitry with his dramas and Kamen with his little guitar, singer gameplay. “No family members to speak of his affiliations were purely with the casino; however, the owner said as long as his debt was paid, he didn’t care about the individual.” “And the percentage minus what the owner owes me was provided correct?” “Yes sir. All of it accounted for.” “Perfect,” Alek shifted to step away as two came to lift the corpse, stared into eyes that held no life, no color, a flame extinguished by the extinguisher that was no longer in his hand but in one of his guards who went to have it refurbished. He was in the comfort of the compound, his home, his fortress. What need did he have to carry it? An ankle pistol, one that once weighed him down, now saved his life on one more occasion, felt like an extension of himself that was kept close. A small, folded knife that was simple in its design, engraved with ‘A.T’ on its steel, resided in his pocket that he often doubled as a stress ball. His fingers curled against the item, traced the lines of it, before he heard himself called again, “What?” “Master Alek. I’m sorry to disturb you but something else requires your immediate attention—” “And it can’t wait why?” Those long days that took him out of bed and straight into hellfire; the boardrooms, the tediously winded meetings with old men and women who rarely took him seriously till he brought a literal finger or ear to the table, the threat of a replaying that process in front of them to gain respect, it shook them all into silence, and then interrogations. As much as he might have enjoyed the exhilaration of being begged and pleaded with; Alek did not regal in torture. He left that nasty business to the minor family. The sick f***s. He knew Vladmir had a disturbing chain kink, having once watched a session of his cousin electrifying a man to get him to confess to something, and he felt squeamish to the point of being unable to eat lunch or dinner. Whereas Vladmir just tossed a smirk at him, ate both his and Alek’s bowl of ramen, and went back home without a care on his face. It was difficult to swallow that pill down. No. Alek preferred to make it a quick, relatively painless process of disposal – one shot to the head, clean, and swift. The idea of drawing it all out was also energy-consuming and for Alek, it was a waste of time. Something that he hated above anything else. Much like now. He finished his meetings of his day, he went over the planned itinerary in detail specifically to be able to unwind with a drink and a f**k, so what was this all of a sudden? “Your father requested your presence sir.” His father’s guard and right-hand man, Ivan, promptly interjected as the tone of the moment was full on argument mode. “Ah.” Despite being like a clock that worked on solar power on a good day, Alek still had his pyramid head to report to his father. A man that lacked in even more emotions, morals, and convictions than himself, Dmitry, and Kamen combined; he secretly thought the man was a robot. Impressively functional on the go, his father once commanded the whole of the East Coast’s underground (New York, Philadelphia, all the way to desolate New Hampshire), nothing was not stamped with his name. Burned to ashes and built his foundation atop it. With his growing age and obvious contenders, it was not easy to maintain an empire without the appropriate contacts, allies, and partnerships. His father often told him this and he just became oblivious to the thought of being used for one of these so called ‘alliance by marriage’. He vehemently put his foot down, threatened to eat his gun if it ever came up again, and his father stopped. But every now and again, his father entertained the thought and told him that it was for Alek’s sake he was so adamant and insistent. Alek chocked it up to old man sentimentality he supposed because his father never intervened with his decisions. Everything, all of it, was left to Alek to handle, maneuver, and manipulate to his desire. “Lead on Ivan.” ~~~ “We’ll be back after this commercial break~!” “PETYA WHY’RE YOU TAKING SO LONG WITH THE POPCORN?!” “I’m sorry Master D…I just…” “The commercial is only for 3 minutes!” “Sir, there’s always at least 5 of them…so if you calculate that…you’ll get 15 minutes of commercials. Popcorn only takes about 2 minutes to cook, so even then—” “Shut up Akim, no one asked you,” Dmitry tossed a pillow over to Akim with a grumble, hands going immediately to his hips where leopard print pants were clad and clung to his legs. He had been anticipating the drop of this show since he noticed the commercials for it indicated it was about a ‘mob’ theme, and he was intrigued. Not that he wanted to see if it rivaled his life, he just wanted to spend the entire time ripping the context apart, simping over the leads if they were compatible or gorgeous, and he just wanted something new to look forward to every week. For the next two months, he was going to be glued to his couch, with Petya and Akim, and nestled into the cushions with an air of vibrancy that was dependent on this first episode. That was why he needed the damn popcorn! He looked about the room for a moment. “Yes sir? Need something?” Dmitry pointed a finger at Akim, who held up his tablet in front of his face much like a shield, and snorted, “I need more snacks. Order them from the kitchen. I realized that I’m going to need more than popcorn. I want watermelon juice, sesame chicken with fried rice, and dried persimmons.” “…Sir…” “Are we going to have a problem Akim? Do I have to lock you out on the balcony overnight again?” Akim just shook his head like a bobble-head that was glued to a race car’s dashboard, went to reach for his cellphone to press a couple of buttons and text the request to the kitchens. No matter what season, no matter what temperature; whatever any of the Tarkovsky masters wanted, they got. He just tended to forget from time to time how powerful they were, the men he worked for, and to cross them was a mistake that could readily end his life. Dmitry putting him out on the balcony after one particular talk-back, one Akim couldn’t catch, was a setback that almost had Alek toss him over the balcony railing in an irate tirade. All three of the Tarkovsky men definitely had some problems that they needed to be tended to. He shook his head as he dared to glimpse over to his boss, sag in relief as Dmitry preferred to seek out Petya in the suite’s kitchenette and shook his head. A peek to linger into the other room though he knew Petya could handle Dmitry on his own, he worried from time to time about other instances. Akim knew his proficiency was better utilized in a different department; however, this one allowed him to practice, to review, and almost be at peace with himself than when he went out into the field. The knock jostled his thoughts a moment, scrambled immediately to his feet, handed to his gun that was always in the holster at his waist, not ever one to take the chance that they were not under siege. Despite them all having a decently good time, his job was to protect Dmitry Tarkovsky, or die trying, so he stalked over to the door calmly. “Who?” “Akim. I am not in the mood.” “Ah! Master Alek!” Akim clipped back the pistol into its place, making sure the safety remained on before tripping over the exuberantly pink plush rug in his dash to go and open the door for Alek. Normally the man would just burst into any and every room he pleased as though he owned the place, which to a point, he did. As second in command under Koyla Tarkovsky, the father of the three brothers, Alek just held a presence that said, ‘obey or suffer’ and the latter was not feasible. Especially if that tone was anything to refer to. The toss of the door had Alek’s eyebrow raise, take a careful step back with the tray in his hands that was ladled with the requested items from the kitchen, and he smirked at Akim immediately taking the tray to step aside and free Alek to go into the bedroom suite as he desired. “Dimi?” “I’m in the kitchen with Petya!” “Why the hell did you ask for snacks if you were making something?” “Alek, I’m insulted. When have I EVER cooked? In my life? Do you WANT to burn the compound down?” “Sometimes?” “Alek!” A head popped out from around the corner of the other room, dyed hair stuck up all over the place, eyes smoky, and a frown pulled at his lips. Alek raised an eyebrow at his brother’s disheveled state and smirked, “Are you making out with Petya or something in there? I can leave.” “Ew what the f**k Alek!” “I think you’re protesting way too much,” The middle son shrugged, hands still in his trousers as Akim went to adjusting the items, not noticing how the guard appeared to hesitate at that comment. Alek tossed a casual glance over his shoulder to see Akim’s expression of displeasure that cooled over into nothing once more, he knew that Akim and Petya were an item, there really was no subtleties when it came to both of them. Alek would not pride himself in being an observant man if didn’t notice the longing gazes they shared to one another from opposite sides of a meeting room, the tiny grazes of fingertips as they passed in the hallways, and despite the idiotic front Petya displayed, he was intelligent. He wouldn’t be a guard if he lacked in skills; his sniper skills were excellent and his attention to detail; Alek knew that Petya just put the front of indifferent fool so as to give Akim the spotlight, allowed the younger man to come with his ideas, his thoughts, and achieve success. But there was an unspoken rule that guards who dated would only distract one another, and they’d be immediately dismissed. It was a rule his father set in place, Alek never had a reason to deviate from it, and he was wickedly amused at their predicament of trying to keep their relationship under wraps. Though a part of him was also jealous. What would it be like to have an easy-going relationship where he didn’t have to keep himself as a stoic monster and destroyer of worlds? What if he had someone who he could play ‘house’ with, be secretive if only to share smiles at one another, be able to just be Alek and not Aleksander? A delusional fantasy that came from a sleep-deprived brain he reasoned with himself. The meeting he just came from returned to the forefront of his mind and he sagged his shoulders as he went to settle into the middle part of the couch, not really care that he took up the entire space as he enjoyed the feeling of being able to relax a little. As much as he disliked Dmitry’s failure to shut up, Alek needed the respite from reality. From his duties, from his expectations, from his father. Alek took off his shoes, spread out his legs, head tossed back with a comfortable sigh as the fatigue ebbed into his bones. “Alek, you come in here saying stupid things and then take my couch?! Go to YOUR room and do that crap.” “Dimi…I just need a break. Just let me have this…” Dmitry had returned with the burnt bowl of popcorn that he and Petya had to wrestle out of the microwave, the i***t had pressed a high power and time, exploded the kernels, and smoke filled the kitchen instantly. His eyes face got the brunt, he pulled at his hair in frustration, and came to glare at his little brother just to take in the physique. A side peek to Akim who bypassed him in favor of going to check on Petya, presumably, it was no secret they were together. Why would he want the guard? Either of them? There was no s*x appeal, they were beneath his standards, and just no. Alek’s joke was in bad taste and then for him to come command the room was irritating. About to toss the popcorn onto that head, he could see the lines of those broad shoulders were taut, Alek’s eyes closed as he hung his head back, Dmitry relaxed visibly. He knew the unbearable weight of everything that Alek carried. And knew that the only time Alek came to relax with him instead of gallivanting to some expensive restaurant with an escort on his arm, disappearing into a hotel for the rest of the night to be unheard of till morning, was because he spoke to their father. The man was the only one who had the ability to unravel any of them. He settled beside Alek, crossed his legs casually, raised an eyebrow at a missed blood spot against Alek’s neck to note his brother had not even gone to shower or bathe, that was how cross he was if he wanted to just hide away for a little bit. Dmitry set the bowl down between them, reached over to grab a tissue from the coffee table to move to wipe it against the nape, ignored Alek’s reflexive twitch, and relaxed again. They all had those reflexes. It was what saved their lives. Dmitry hummed, “Papa talked to you?” “Mm.” “About getting married or something?” “Mm.” “What’d you say?” “I told him no. Again.” “I think he really is worried about you Alek.” Alek opened a wary eye, turned his head to look in disbelief and not believing that their father was capable of concern; a dragon only nestled in its cave and cared for no one but itself and its treasure. He doubted they were his father’s treasures, no matter how natural that assumption would be; he knew his father was capable of anything. “I’m serious!” “Doubtful.” “He saw the way you broke down at the last family meeting with the minor family where you yelled at them like kids.” “I didn’t break down; I just couldn’t help but shout. Vladmir was getting on my f*****g last nerve.” “He gets one EVERYONE’S f*****g last nerve. But you never break ‘face’ like that. I can still hear that imp laughing at you. Ugh, if it wasn’t for Big holding me back, I was going to tackle him to the ground.” Alek let out a barked out laugh of amusement, opened both eyes now to turn and address his brother who sat there, finished cleaning up the missed blood, deemed him clean as Dmitry just sat back to face forward and not look at him directly. This was how they communicated. No eye contact, just vague comfort in one another’s company, they were used to it. And forget Kamen. They only heard from him on birthdays, special occasions like Alek acquiring a new land deal, or something asinine like that; so, Alek only had Dmitry to depend on for the moment. He moved to pet along Dmitry’s hair down on his scalp, adjusted the locks as he adjusted his laxed posture. “I would’ve paid to see that.” “Yes, but Papa gave me the stink eye to behave. I was feeling my inner hell cat come out Alek.” “I could’ve used that hell cat a minute ago to get Papa off my back.” “Why not just hire a pretty face to be your boyfriend till you find yourself a real one? Papa just wants you to be happy.” “No. He doesn’t. He just doesn’t like my philandering anymore. It presents instability. Says I’m too old to behave like an immature hormonal teenager that f***s every hole available to him. Which…in my case…is a lot.” “First of, nasty. Second, he’s right. When are you going to stop thinking with your c**k and think with your brain?” Alek let out a breath from his nose, ignored the question in favor of trying to calm the tension, the air harsh as he reached into the bowl to grab a couple of the kernel, popped them into his mouth before spitting them promptly with a groan, “These are disgusting.” “I can only work so many miracles Alek. They got burned,” Dmitry rolled his eyes, set the bowl aside after grimacing at the popcorn, blinked slowly when he realized that Akim and Petya had not reemerged from the confines of the kitchenette, raised an eyebrow and smirked as he leaned forward to motion to the area with a nod of his head, “Think they’re making out?” “They are MOST definitely making out. I joked about you doing it with Petya, Akim is pretty possessive. I’ve seen some golf sized hickeys on Petya’s shoulders before…not that I needed that image in my head but well, it’s there,” The younger gave a shudder and peeked over to not hear anything, snickered in amusement as the two probably stopped whatever the hell they were doing when Dmitry and he lowered the volume of their voices. Before Alek could continue to comment about the whole situation, the television returned with the announcement of “The Dragon Blues” show and he snorted, “Dmitry, this seems stupid already.” “Alek, shut up. If you’re going to stay, you’re going to be quiet and let me watch the first episode.” “It’s a show about the mob…but called Dragon Blues…sounds like a kid’s show about emotions or some s**t like that,” Alek barely managed to deflect the pillow attack from his brother who pounded on him with the item, the laughter that escaped him definitely felt freed, relaxed, and comfortable than he felt in a very long time. This was why his brother’s room was his haven 50% of the time…the other 50% was his c**k balls’ deep in the ass of his latest conquest, but he would make do for now. His father quelled any initial fire and intentions he had to call up his escort service to handle him; a c**k-block, Alek was disappointed at himself, at his situation, and knew that as cold of a creature he was, he was still human. Everything that was spat at him were facts, tangible indications of Alek’s person to just stick to f*****g anything with legs and a c**k, and then devolve back to the apathetic demeanor when it came to work. Was he not the perfect golden son otherwise? Why couldn’t his father understand that considerations like relationships, connections, and feelings were foreign to him? The last time was Tristan. Alek dutifully turned everything off after that. The only switch was physical, lust-filled, and worked off contentedly through s*x. His eyes returned to the front since Dmitry disregarded him in favor of watching the show. A shrug of his shoulders, Alek reached for the plate of persimmons, chewed on one calmly, legs crossed and turned up the volume as a hint to the bodyguards in the kitchen that they were free to do as they pleased as long as it didn’t interrupt the flow of the brothers’ time together.