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The sounds of guns cocking and his men donning kevlar echo throughout the warehouse. The large space filled with dozens upon dozens of men, yet Vladimir feels completely alone. He watches from the balcony, like a rule overlooking his kingdom. This is all so very wrong.
It is nothing without his brother by his side.
‘Will we see Moscow?’ Anatoly’s voice rings in his skull. No, Vladimir thinks, we should have and now we never will.
‘Moscow? It’s a city buried in the past.’ His own words from that damp shithole in Siberia replay in his mind. His own words, Anatoly’s faith in them, feel like stabs in his gut.
‘We must look the future. America.’ It’s no use now, to argue with his own memories. No, he wants to shout, there is nothing in America for us.
‘Where we will rule as kings.’ Vladimir turns around, facing his back to his people beneath the balcony. His eyes sting, threatening tears. His own arrogance. His pride. All of it. He was Anatoly’s downfall. It’s my fault.
Vladimir steps out of the light, into the darkness of the unlit stairwell. He knows he will probably die tonight, against Fisk. Gao and Nobu are most likely on Fisk’s side, now more than ever. The Russians can’t take care of themselves. And now that Anatoly’s been killed, they’d probably try to wipe the rest of his people out along with him. They are going to rid the city of him, but Vladimir isn’t going to bend over for them. He’s going to avenge his brother, no matter what.
He leans against the wall, resting his head against it for a moment. He feels worn and heavy, like nothing will bring him back after this. Without his brother, Vladimir knows he will be nothing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, squinting slightly as its brightness sears out of the dark.
No calls, no updates. He has no idea what he’s doing, what is going to happen after tonight. His fingers move automatically, swiping to his brother’s contact like he’s going to call him. Nobody’s going to answer, he knows that.
He scrolls down, below all the contact information there are bright red words, ‘DELETE CONTACT’.
The entire notion of removing his Anatoly from his life offends him, but then he remembers that Anatoly is already gone. What was the point?
This would not give him the closure he needs, but it would be enough, would it not? It would stop him from leaving voicemails in a dead man’s pocket. It would stop him from sending texts nagging, where are you? when are you coming back? how do i do this without you? It would stop him from sending shithead over and over and over again. It would stop him from living the illusion that he might actually get a call one day.
His free hand had clenched into his fist while he was busy staring at those bright red words. He feels his knuckles turn white as he begins to tremble ever so slightly. He is nothing now, and he will never stop feeling like this. All he can do now is honor his brother with the blood of war.
He taps the call button. The mindless ringtone loops in his ear. Once, thrice, ten times. The only response he receives is a voicemail tone.
“It’s me,” Vladimir begins, voice hoarse, “I know you are not coming back, but I will see you soon. Shithead.”
After sending the voicemail, he looks out into the balcony from the dark. Among his men loading guns, he spots Sergei making his way towards the staircase. He will want to speak to him. Vladimir’s thumb hovers once again over ‘DELETE CONTACT’.
He doesn’t do it. Instead he pockets his phone and steps back out into the light.