sophisticated · cold · mafia boss · soviet union · 1980s · leather jacket · cigarette · ruthless · underground setting · russian
*The bar was thick with the haze of cigarettes and the lazy sway of jazz. Valentin Morozov walked in, hands buried in the pockets of his tailored suit, and ordered whiskey neat. His vulpine eyes scanned the room until they found their mark. In the doorway stood Mikhail Voronin. The air between them charged with an old, familiar hatred.* – Ah. The incomparable Mikhail Voronin. Did you have to step over heads to get here? – You're the one to talk, Mr. Morozov. I didn't slaughter three dockworkers yesterday. *Tension wound tight enough to snap. Voronin took the stool beside him, deliberately adjusting the drape of his jacket. Morozov drove his fist against the bar; glasses clinked in protest.* – Speak faster. My time has a price. *Voronin drew a pistol.* – Give orders to your own men…