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Chapter 7: Sometimes you have to be a bitch to get things done

'Lipstick. Check', said the wife.

When you fantasize about a Mafioso's girlfriend, you don't do it with her in the same room; you don't do it period. A female mobster is the worst kind of females. A female mobster is a woman who gets used to getting kicked around by her boyfriend or husband, just as long as she can have her own share of the fun later on when he's not around. And like everything that is organized, the Mafia has its own hierarchy. It doesn't matter whether it's Russian, Italian, Jamaican, or even the holy Vatican Mafia. It always leads to the same food chain. You start with one man and you branch out two females, the wife who lives in an average home and bears two boys and a girl, and the younger mistress who stays constantly at the mansion, carrying out special jobs that her body still is young enough to perform.

The wife usually is slightly over weight, knows every recipe there is to know, and has no idea what her husband does for a living, just as long as he returns home safe every night in a 1995 green Ford and earns enough money to put food on the table for his family. On a Mafioso's family dinner table, no questions are to be asked. She knew he slept around and she knew he wasn't a shoe salesman; she just didn't care to know more. Once you lay your eyes on your first born coming to existence, everything slightly fades out and joins a new level of grayscale, where nothing really matters, not even colors. Once you hear your first born cry and wipe his tears, you lose interest in everything, starting with jewellery and ending with integrity. The things we do for our children; the things they grow up to take for granted.

She could smell her Chanel on his clothes and catch her lipstick every once in a while on his ear nods, and every time that happened she'd write him a note asking him to at least pretend to be happily married. The note was usually written in extra red pepper well hidden inside the main course on the table; an ingredient that her husband, the invincible Mafia king, was allergic to. Delicately poised and well written, the wife couldn't have been more articulate in delivering a message of inconsistence. He'd usually stay off wife trouble for the next couple weeks, and so, life did go on in the small Mafia family. With matters set straight in the Gorbachov household and mouths shut, the wife believed she was happily married and the mistress assumed she was living a dream.

'Not tonight. Tonight is quality time', replied Gorbachov as he tickled his wife.

'You mean tonight you are hungrier than usual', said the wife. 'Here's some delicacy that you can chew on till dinner's ready'.

She handed Gorbachov a couple red peppers then walked into the kitchen. She knew how to handle the family and Gorbachov knew it. Outside he was king, emperor, a legend. Inside his average home, he was her bitch and he didn't mind being so. Everything he did was for them.

For them only, he thought.

'How are the kids?'

'They're waiting for you at the table', she said.

Like every Mafia king out there, Gorbachov had two boys and a girl. The two boys had joined the army, served their country, made their corrupted father proud. On many occasions, he has managed to use their army enrollment to get things done, politically. Because of them, he is the only Mafia boss who does not hide on national holidays, and in 1993, after a considerable contribution to the US defense department of firearms that were secretly imported into the country, he became the first and last underboss to ever meet the president of the United States. Between 1992 and 1994, the Red Mafia seized control of Russia's fragile banking system. At first the criminal gangs were content to merely “park” their large cash holdings in legitimate institutions, but soon they realized that the next step was the easiest of all: direct ownership of the bank itself. Banking executives, reform-minded business leaders, even investigative journalists, were systematically assassinated or kidnapped. In 1993 alone, members of the eight criminal gangs that control the Moscow underworld murdered 10 local bankers. Calling themselves Vore v Zakone i.e. Thieves in Law, they have over a bank controlling period of five years killed over 95 bankers. Banking wasn't just about loans and savings anymore; it got bloody red. During that time span, Gorbachov was the underboss handling international Red Mafia matters in the US. He handled contacts, assassinations, money laundering schemes, and pure legitimate business. Everything that had red connections led up to Gorbachov. Since the cold war was at its prime, the US government did not really care what pie Gorbachov was biting at just as long as it wasn’t theirs. The Russian Mafia helped bring the once dominant USSR to its knees, and Gorbachov was the red man with the plan. For three years, just like every professional and well-connected politician out there, he was a bitch that belonged to the US government. They helped him export drugs to Moscow, helped him assassinate his own Don and take over, and helped him take over bits and pieces of black neighborhoods. The US theory was to let the animals eat each other out of the picture, out of America. Little did they know that the Russians had a bigger plan that exceeded the American expectations. Their move out of the USSR was but a 10 year plan for them to settle their red flags in the US soil, in the middle of the white house. It has also been rumored that Monica Lewinski was a Russian bait to hunt down a president who did not follow their orders or abide by their rules. Gorbachov knew everything and his contact list kept growing and growing. He knew the NSA had men watching him, his family, his home, and his mansion, but he also knew that they can not be touched. They needed his contacts in the Soviet as much as he needed their silence.

Most of Gorbachov's contacts, as well as himself, were all ex-KGB officials. And like with Vodka, they were out of control.

With all family members set at the table, he held his two sons' hands and said, 'Dear God, we thank you for…', and his cell phone rang to the tunes of a polyphonic ring tone of the Petshop Boys' 'Go West'.

Still holding his elder son's hand he answered.

'Da'

'…', said the Caller.

'Goddamn it!' he yelled as he hit the table using his son's graceful hand. 'And what the hell were you doing?'

'…'

'And he did that to spare one thousand dollars?'

'…'

Gorbachov stepped out of the room and into the kitchen. His family needn't listen to the conversation.

'Send two men to go and raid his apartment. Check his tapped phone recordings and address book. I want names and places. I want to know everybody he knows, everybody he fucks, and I want you to find out where from he orders pizza. I want to know how high his blood pressure was the last time he got screwed and I want you to revive his memory of that. Find him or I'll find you a priest'

And he hung up.

'That bitch!', he mumbled right before he went back to his dinner table where his family were dead still. He knew the line was tapped. He knew they'd be looking for Benedict too. He also knew that his family only needed to hear grace to know that everything was still fine in their pretty little world.

The one thing he didn't know was that the bitch he was referring to was driving back to the mansion, crying her eyes out, pretending to be terrified.

She hit the tree in front of the mansion and crawled out of the car where a Mafia army was listening to a Russian in a tie-less black suit give them instructions. Scarface Montana was the first to see the car speed in through the gates and off he rushed to help the Russian damsel in distress.

'What happened?', he said. 'Are you alright?'

'Help me', she cried as she hugged him.

'The problem with eye drops', monotoned the man in the black suit as he moved closer to her face and took a big whiff, 'is that they lack the smell of salt'.

'Go to hell. I was kidnapped and raped by one of your bitches', she cried. 'He almost had me killed, that maniac'.

'Xalatan? Travatan?', he asked. 'One of the things I've always loved about you is your eyes, Miss Tanya. Did you know that one of Xalatan's immediate side effects is the change of eye colors?'

Tanya dropped to her knees and stared with teary eyes at the ice cold underboss walking towards her purse on the front seat of the crashed Porsche, pulled it out and dropped its contents on the floor, ignored the Xalatan and picked up a mirror and held it up against Tanya's face exposing a dark brown iris.

'Your eyes are green Miss Tanya, in case you forgot', he said, 'and dark brown has never been your style'

She looked up and said, 'I don't care what you think, asshole. I know exactly where he's staying. What do you have to show for?'

He knew she set this up to try and look like she's accomplished something in the eyes of the Don. They all knew that she's been trying to get him to love her and marry her ever since she was 23, ever since she slid up her skirt at the Don's 60th birthday party, and ever since she stripped out of his birthday cake. She's always been greedy. She lies better than anybody. She knows every trick in the book. She wanted everything and tonight was her chance for that to happen, to gain the old Don's trust and trust fund.

She's everything the Red Mafia was and stood for 13 years ago, even better; but in order to win a god's contentment, one must have a scapegoat to offer as sacrifice, her key to heaven and beyond; and Benedict's shoe size perfectly fit into her high-heeled plan.

'Give me your phone', she yelled at Montana. 'I shouldn't have spoken to you in the first place. How dare you?!', she said addressing the tall calm man in the black suit right before she walked away dialing.

The cold ice suit stared at her as she walked. He noticed from her strapless top that her bra was still hooked up pretty good.

'She said she was raped', said the ice cold suit, then asked Montana, 'Do you know what my favorite quote of all-time is?'

Montana looked at him and silently stood still.

'Women's destiny is to be a wanton, like a bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her', said the ice berg.

Montana watched the ice berg follow Tanya into the mansion and asked him 'Who said that?'

'Marquis De Sade', he said without looking back.

Яαgιи' Яανєи





Gorbachov vor v zakone, vodka, red mafia and ussr - lol :)))

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