throw me to the ground like you mean it ;
In hindsight, it's almost impressive how quickly things deteriorate from another day at the office to a shitstorm of near Biblical proportions. Even if he'd lacked a record ( and a less than shining reputation ) the sheer volume of contraband they seize is enough to put him away for the rest of his natural life. In US dollars, its combined worth is an even fifty grand; in Rubles, exceeding one million. Not that the loss of product is his main concern.
He's more worried about how much this'll piss Viktor off.
The waiting is the worst part -- having to sweat it out for the better part of thirteen hours, verbally sparring with the Militsiya fuckhead stationed inside the door. Being Y-cuffed to the floor isn't sufficient, apparently, when somebody spits the name Ivanov like a curse and they all start looking at him with a mixture of fear and a desire to bash his skull in.
But the thing is, they're not supposed to touch him. Or Aleks, Brody, Nikolai; управление хаос, Viktor calls it. Moscow's pisspoor excuse for a police force had been corrupt long before his family gained influence ( or infamy ). It's just a matter, Viktor says, of coercing the authorities to do the wrong thing for the right price.
There's a reason why no one trusts the Militsiya. And fear is a powerful motivator, on both sides of the fence.
A buzzer sounds, the door swinging open to admit another officer who's holding a set of keys.
"-- ебля наконец," Adrian grouses, tracking the man's approach. "Какого черта вы делали в течение тринадцати часов? Мастурбации?"
The rattle of chains, a firm grasp to yank him to his feet. "Заткнись. Переместить."
Out of the room, down the hall, not another word; no paperwork, just personal effects returned -- ring, cell phone, Zippo, what little cash he'd been carrying upon his arrest. They don't mention the drugs, and he doesn't ask, but that's what'll cost him more than a mere few hours spent in a holding cell. Adrian walks outside expecting a fucking bomb to go off, and he gets the next worse thing.
Viktor, waiting for him, wearing an expression of unimpressed composure generally reserved for those who're due a bullet between the eyes.
"Он продал нас вне," Adrian says bluntly. "что гребаный ублюдок продал --"
And his brother silences him with a look, stepping away from the vehicle to jerk open the passenger door. "Садись в машину, Адриан. Не заставляй меня повторяться."
Adrian slips the ring onto his finger as soon as he's seated, and he doesn't stop twisting it for the entire duration. Riding in silence, in an enclosed space, practically choking on palpable tension, forty minutes feels more like four hours. They don't go to their mother's house, or to his apartment -- they stop in Viktor's driveway, and the lack of lights coming from inside tell him that they're very much alone. His right hand flexes, then relaxes, then curls again into a fist; this is familiar, and he knows where it's headed, but familiarity doesn't make it easier to swallow.
He gets out of the car and follows his brother inside, because he's left without another choice, apprehension marring the set of his jaw as he reaches back to push the front door shut behind them. "-- эй. Я могу это исправить, все в порядке? Дайте мне день. Вот и все, что я прошу. Мы все еще можем сделать это произойдет."
Still in the foyer, Viktor turns to face him with a wildfire brewing beneath that veneer of perilous calm.
"Нет, брат. Я может."
Not even the slightest shift in countenance occurs when he delivers the first strike, quick as a biting viper, a piledrive of a punch to his younger brother's abdomen. Adrian staggers into the wall shoulder first, bent almost double and robbed of both air and equilibrium. Before he can regain either one, Viktor drags him up and slams him against the wall hard enough to shake loose a dusting of plaster from the ceiling.
"Я прошу вас с одной стороны. доставлять. И вы даже не можете этого сделать."
A swift blow to his opposite kidney follows the words, then an uppercut to the jaw and a right hook that has him tasting blood. "Что такое выражение -- ?" he grates out, eyes alight with the same reckless, unwavering defiance Brody always says will probably get him killed one of these days. "'Если вы хотите что-то все сделано правильно, вы должны сделать это сами' -- ?"
Viktor's lip curls as he hauls Adrian forward, their faces a half-inch apart. "Я не буду делать ту ошибку снова."
Its delivery is low, dangerously composed, and prelude to a concussive smack of knuckles to face that knocks Adrian clean off his feet. Makes his vision swim and his ears ring, a lopsided smile spreading across cracked and bloodied lips.
The echo of that smile continues to linger, even upon the next assault: a barrage of sharp kicks to his ribs, stomach, chest; when he starts to curl in on himself, spitting crimson onto the carpet, Viktor crouches down and pulls him halfway up with a hand around his throat.
"Если вы когда-нибудь," barely above a whisper, in a tone that contains a thousand teeth, "когда-либо компромисс нашу позицию снова, Я дам вам гнить в тюрьме с нашей дорогой отца."
He lets go with an exhale of combined distaste and revulsion, straightening up and brushing plaster from the lapels of his suit.
There's nothing but the purest loathing in his gaze, and in Adrian's.
It's impossible to tell which of them hates the other more.
"А теперь убирайся с глаз моих," Viktor says. "Вы получаете кровь на всем протяжении ковра."
