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Megumi, the young Moscow gangster, had no idea what to expect. His boss had asked him to spend time with his wife; nothing indecent, just a little vacation for him, because the beautiful ‘Japanese Princess’, the ‘lotus flower’ in the heart of cold winter Moscow, was getting bored while his husband was solving serious problems. Sukuna had always worked hard, but lately he was busy almost constantly. Megumi might have told what was going on there, but he couldn't even in his mind - trade secret.
Not much was known about Gojo Satoru's identity; the boss had made sure he was safe. It was said that Sukuna had brought him back from one of his work trips to the Yakuza. There, the generic Gojo clan had sold their ‘delicate flower’ into the clutches of a Russian mobster. Megumi thought nothing of it, he didn't care about his boss's personal life, but he took his task seriously. Just to hang out with Gojo, take him out. Restaurant, karaoke? Anywhere he wants to go.
The house where the boss hid his "
‘Japanese Princess’ was located on Rublyovka, a neighborhood of elite Moscow dachas. A dacha is a country house where Russians often spend their weekends until they return to the city to work.
The black merin (Mercedes in Russian slang) reached the bumpy snowy roads a few hours later exactly at the right place. It was already dark, though it was only five o'clock in the evening. The house that belonged to Ryomen-san was huge; like a small castle or something. Megumi got out of the car and shoved his hands into the pockets of his quilted leather jacket with fur inserts. It was quiet and cold; about minus twenty degrees, and there had been a big snowfall yesterday, so the paths were covered with the purest white powder (exactly like the one Sukuna had illegally sold abroad). The branches of the trees were covered with white cold paws, the frost pinched the nose and fingers, so that even the eyes were frozen, it was painful to blink, especially when the prickly wind tried to blow under the collar or knock off the head of a warm earflap.
Megumi had to wait for the maid, who let ‘Mr. Fushiguro’ into the house and immediately disappeared from sight. Gojo, the boss's wife, was nowhere to be seen. Megumi looked around. Everything here breathed the deep-rooted luxury, the bazaar baroque that was so characteristic of the "New Russians" of that era. (A term from the '90s for poor but enterprising people who suddenly get very rich.)
“Fushiguro?” A soft, polite question from somewhere above. It was a chesty, slightly smoky voice with a purring Japanese accent.
“Yes, ma'am.” Megumi immediately responded by nodding and cocking her head. “Good evening. I've come by order of Ryomen-san.”
Gojo came down the stairs and smiled. He was already in full parade; black short dress, gold jewelry around his neck and ears, a small lady's purse. Gojo walked right up to Megumi and handed him his bag.
“Here, hold this. I need to apply my lipstick.” Well, this omega definitely spoke Russian pretty well. He pulled a black bullet, the signature shape of MAC lipstick, from a drawer in the hallway and applied a shade of ‘Russian Red’ to his plump lips. Megumi was left to stand dumbly with the bag in his hand. Gojo had confused him a bit: this was not how he had envisioned the ‘lotus flower’. Undeniably, the boss's wife was beautiful. Blue eyes, white hair and eyelashes; it was the appearance of an angel, but it seemed that Russia itself and the life of the mafia king's wife had put a mark on him, making Gojo's image appealingly vulgar, glossy and luxuriously spoiled.
“Well, what's up?” Gojo looked at him with calm blue eyes. “Hand the lady her fur coat. Do I have to teach you everything?”
“I'm sorry, ma'am. Which one?” Megumi asked with a cough, looking at the large open closet. There were indeed several coats for all occasions.
“A mink would be good here... And a hat like that” Gojo guessed that Megumi had no idea what a mink coat looked like, so he helped him, “The dark brown one.”
The gangster awkwardly removed a rather heavy long coat from the hangers and lifted it so that Gojo could put his hands into the sleeves, which he did. He moved with surprising grace as he put on his high black boots and gloves. The mink hat was a high dome on his head, hiding some of his white hair. The bag was still at Megumi's mercy; Gojo was too spoiled to wear even such a lightweight item, and it showed in every movement. Megumi had to both open the door for him, hold it open and close it behind him, and then do the same with the car door. He was a little dumb, he hadn't had much experience with courting ladies before, but he guessed what to do from Gojo's stern look.
“Where are we going, ma'am?” Megumi asked, turning on the ignition. It was too cold to drive right away; they had to wait a couple minutes for the car to warm up. Gojo looked bored. He really was like a withering flower.
“Anywhere... I don't want to go anywhere.” He sighed wistfully. “Take me for a ride around Moscow.”
“Okay.” Megumi didn't argue, though he was a little surprised. He was just trying to feel out the ground with this mysterious omega, he wasn't quite sure how he should behave to please him. So far, Gojo hadn't said anything; he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his bag (Megumi didn't have time to see what brand), and shoved one in his mouth. Megumi sighed; okay, he wants to smoke, let him smoke, it's none of his business. However, Gojo suddenly frowned.
“Didn't they teach you to give a lady a lighter?”
“I'm sorry, ma'am…” He came to his senses and patted his eyes, one hand quickly searching his pocket for what he needed. The light embraced the white tip on the second try. Gojo relaxed after the first puff and smiled.
“Why are you so nervous? You'd think I'd eat you. It's not like I'm my husband.”
“Don't worry ma'am, if your husband finds out I did something wrong, he'll definitely eat me eventually,” Megumi thought sourly, but said the opposite out loud:
“I'm not nervous. Just... Trying to run an errand.”
“Not nervous? I see. So my dear husband sent some idiot to me.” Gojo folded his arms across his chest and grinned. He opened the window ajar to let the smoke escape from the cabin. Megumi was surprised at how strong the cigarettes were, judging by the smell. Omegas didn't usually smoke such things.
“Why do you think I'm an idiot?” Megumi asked through gritted teeth.
“Because you're stupid at every elementary action. And you didn't even buy me flowers. That's a bad attitude.” Gojo sighed wistfully again. “Are you going to be silent the whole way? Do I have to make you talk? You're the one who was assigned to entertain me.”
“I’m sorry again, ma'am. What would you like to talk about?” Megumi gripped the steering wheel tighter. He was starting to get annoyed with this bimbo; he was one of the best assassins in Moscow, by the way! And here he was being bossed around by some bitch! He calmed himself by reminding himself that he was not ‘some bitch’ at all, but Mr. Sukuna's wife, but it didn't help much.
“About me, of course.” Gojo smiled.
Well, yes, he had a lot of self-confidence. His cigarette had visible lipstick imprints where he'd touched the tip with his lips. “Do you know everything about me that you're not at all interested in hearing my stories?”
“Of course I am. I'm very interested, ma'am. I just didn't want to ask and violate your privacy. In case it would make you angry.”
Gojo laughed. The sound made the tension inside the merin seem to subside, and Megumi was able to breathe more calmly. Making the boss's wife laugh was a great maneuver. Gojo moved closer and playfully rubbed his cheek with two fingers. Megumi felt a whiff of sweet, expensive perfume on him.
“I like you. No, I'm not that angry.” Gojo winked cheerfully at him. “You can ask me anything you want. Come on, baby.”
Megumi didn't know if he was interested or not. On the one hand, not at all, he didn't care about the boss's wife. On the other hand... Well, if that's what he wanted... Megumi could just fill in his gaps in the knowledge he had about Gojo Satoru.
“Well... How did you meet Ryomen-san?” He decided to clarify.
Gojo hesitated and smiled weakly. He lazily flicked the ashes behind the car window and took another puff before beginning his story.
Gojo was unlucky from birth; he didn't have a hint of cursed energy when he was born into a powerful clan of sorcerers. At first they tried to train the boy to master the techniques, but it wasn't even a curse from the heavens - he was born a very ordinary man. Soon he began to be forgotten about. Gojo was home-schooled, taught the usual Japanese school subjects, and taught the intricacies of caring for a husband. The talentless omega was simply wanted to be married off quickly, and Gojo knew it well. Marriage was only a matter of time, and as Gojo grew older and better-looking, he had plenty of suitors. One of them, an old politician, had even proposed to him and intended to pay a large ransom. However... Everything changed during one of the Yakuza congresses in Tokyo.
A rumor spread through many noble clans that powerful guests were coming. Gojo's parents carefully monitored every news: taking advantage of their son's beauty, they intended to give him away for a ransom, the richer the better. The deal was worth millions of yen. It could be the most lucrative deal in the Gojo clan's history.
“Put on something pretty. Come on, hurry up.” His mother entered his room suddenly, like a hurricane. She found a smart turquoise-colored, embroidered holiday kimono.
“Why?” Gojo sighed, reluctantly complying. He put on the kimono, and then his mother sat him down in front of the mirror to tidy up his hair and face.
“Damn it, why are you always so disheveled? We have very important high-ranking guests and you look like a scarecrow!” The woman inserted a lotus barrette into his hair, painfully pricking the delicate scalp in an attempt to make the chaos more sympathetic.
“Mom!”
“Gojo Satoru?”
A sudden low male voice made them both freeze. Standing near the entrance was an unfamiliar tall man. Gojo gulped, self-correcting his hair and standing up. His mother stepped back and smiled politely.
“Yeah?” Gojo looked at the man a little tensely. He had encountered the alphas his parents had matched him with before, but he had never seen the likes of this one. This man looked blatantly out of place in a traditional Japanese home, like a barbarian conqueror suddenly breaking in. He was clearly younger than the previous choices. The man gave the impression of a serious, imposing man; he was dressed in a strict European-style suit, his short blond hair slicked back. He looked at Gojo with sharp, attentive eyes. Tattoos were visible on his neck and arms. Gojo knew what to do. He had been taught to be a model bride and wife almost from birth, so he bowed to the stranger.
“Gojo Satoru is me.”
“That's how…” the man froze as well, looking over the omega in front of him. He had seen many beautiful women and omegas before, but this one... It was something beyond. Something so white, so delicate... like snow. A snow queen. He felt an irresistible attraction. “My name is Sukuna Ryomen. Will you come to Moscow with me?”
Just like that, quick and easy. Sukuna offered him his hand. It was almost on the level of instinct; Gojo was mesmerized and fascinated by the quiet strength within this man and his courage. The hesitation was short-lived - he put his hand into the large palm and then quietly replied:
“Yes.”
And so began a whole new chapter of his life. Sukuna spoke only to him that night, and towards the end gave him a large ring with a red stone. Gojo had never held anything so expensive or weighty in his hands; he had been brought up modestly in the clan, and all the few pieces of jewelry he owned were cheap trifles. Sukuna promised him that he would buy him out of the clan and take him far away from here, to a vast, rich country full of forests, snow, and all the quirks by which foreigners recognized Russia: matryoshkas, samovars, balalaikas, brown bears, and colorful shawls. Gojo listened with big blue eyes: Russia seemed to him like Hyperborea, distant and too fairy-tale to be true. He had lived in the clan all his life, and the world outside seemed alien. Separated from even the usual Japanese hustle and bustle, another country, the whole world; it all just didn't fit in Gojo's story-excited brain. He couldn't sleep the whole night afterward. Sukuna knew Japanese well, but he had a delightfully coarse accent that literally drove Gojo crazy. He was tired. He was so tired of the damn clan duties, and when they offered him the chance to drop everything and go off to a life of luxury, he'd agreed without a second thought, but now he doubted it. He didn't have a single yen behind him. What would he do if Sukuna abandoned him? Alone, without language skills, in cold Russia... Even if he managed to return to Japan, the clan would not accept him back. Who cares if they do or don't?! Oh, my God!
Gojo was thinking too much, and it was driving him crazy. What was the point if Sukuna and Gojo's parents were going to do it their way anyway? He had no choice... But he liked to resign himself to this particular development.
Sukuna had kept his promise. No one knew the details of the deal, but they said it was ridiculously expensive. Where did Sukuna get that kind of money? Gojo wasn't sure exactly what he did; Sukuna was evasive about it, and although there was a yakuza convention in Tokyo, it was full of corrupt politicians, businessmen, foreign rich men, and even policemen. Sukuna could be anyone, but to be honest, Gojo didn't care. Even if he was a Yakuza, Gojo had already decided that he would follow him to the ends of the earth, which wasn't far from the truth.
Gojo was given away with his dowry and his belongings in the most beautiful red-and-white, almost wedding kimono, he was even picked up a neat wig to hide his unruly hair, and made up. There was a small ceremony, Satoru said goodbye to his parents and fellow clansmen before he found himself in Sukuna's arms for good.
They got into an expensive car. Gojo didn't know what brand it was, but it even smelled expensive. Sukuna had probably rented it especially for them. He opened the door, held Gojo's hand, and only then got in himself and closed the door. At the time, the first time, he had been very surprised by this Russian courtesy. But Sukuna wasn't going to stop surprising him. He was the epitome of the best all at once; Gojo didn't yet know who the ‘new Russians’ were.
“We're going to the airport,” Sukuna told him simply, glancing at his embarrassed and slightly frightened bride. “Today's flight is the Tokyo-Moscow flight. You're going to be cold when we arrive, so lying over there, this is for you.”
Gojo glanced at the seat next to him and saw it – his first, sable coat. He ran his fingers over it awkwardly. Sukuna wanted him to wear it now? Gojo had never even measured something like this before.
“Thank you, Sukuna-san. I didn't expect such gifts, you're too kind…”
“Gojo.” Sukuna grinned, looking at him with an amused gleam in his eyes. “Don't squander your gratitude. You haven't seen anything yet.” He moved closer and whispered softly in the beautiful Japanese woman's ear: “I will spoil you so much that you will forget the times when you didn't have all this. I swear to you.”
“Thank you...?” Gojo felt his cheeks flush with a thick blush.
“There's one more thing. Is that a wig?” Sukuna raised his eyebrows doubtfully.
“Uh... Yeah, uh…”
“I'll take it off? You're much prettier with your native hair.” He smiled so charmingly that Gojo's heart skipped a beat. The wig was off, this time for good. Gojo felt so at ease, as if he were parting with the most dull and disgusting part of his life. Only new, fresh, interesting things awaited him – Russia.
“Give me something stronger. Cognac or tequila... Gin will do, too,” said Gojo, pausing his story. He had long ago smoked a cigarette and was now staring boredly out of the window. They were already driving around the center of Moscow; Megumi, as he'd been asked, wasn't taking them to any particular place, just turning the wheel from time to time.
“I don't have a mini-bar here,” Megumi replied through gritted teeth. Does he look like a bartender?
“What do you mean?” Gojo puffed up his cheeks like a hurt child. Well, it seemed Sukuna's plan had succeeded, he had really spoiled his Japanese wifie so badly that he couldn't even take ‘no’ for an answer. And sure enough, Gojo went through the glove compartment. “Whoa! What's this?!” He triumphantly pulled out a small, fifty milliliters bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.
“Put it back,” Megumi hissed irritably. “It's for disinfecting. And to wipe the glass. You're an omega. How can you even drink vodka without an appetizer?”
“Nah!” Gojo chuckled as he opened the bottle, gracefully removing the cap with his black gloved fingers. “Boy, you don't understand. Bring us some vodka.” (Gojo quotes an iconic line from the movie ‘Brother 2’) He clasped the spout with two fingers and took a large, sharp sip as if he were tipping a shot glass into himself. Megumi wasn't thinking about anything anymore. He was in fucking shock.
“Don't get too drunk, ma'am,” he said at last, taking a deep breath and trying to control himself. How can the Japanese drink like that? Sukuna had a hand in it again. Megumi wouldn't even think of drinking ‘white lotus’, ‘Japanese snow princess’ and so on with vodka!
“One sip wouldn't do anything.” Gojo grinned, wiping the edge of his lips. The 'sip' made half of the bottle go away. “Okay, where did I stop?”
They were passing Red Square. Gojo followed the walls of the Kremlin with his eyes and smiled.
“Right. I remember.”
That's how the still very young and beautiful Gojo found himself walking down the ramp of the Tokyo-Moscow airplane at Domodedovo Airport. They flew in business class. Sukuna tenderly gave his omega his hand, and soon the greeters came up to them: serious men in suits, just like Sukuna. In broken Japanese, they congratulated Gojo on his arrival in Russia, and handed him a large bouquet of scarlet roses: “These are from Sukuna-sama, he asked me to buy some for you in honor of your arrival.” Gojo was embarrassed. In Japan, men rarely gave flowers, but here... Sukuna didn't skimp on anything. It was the most luxurious bouquet he had ever seen, even in stores.
In Russia, the first thing that struck Gojo was that he was generally not that cold. He had expected terrible frosts, but the temperature was not much different from the Japanese winter. Sukuna later explained to him with a smile that it was because of the fur coat. Warm clothes don't feel cold in winter. Genius!
They got off the ramp in the evening, and when everyone got into their cars, it was night. Gojo had never seen such cars before; they were long, but very comfortable, with sofas inside and pleasant music. Sukuna explained that they were limousines. Gojo didn't understand anything yet, and Sukuna was his guide, interpreter, and lover, but Gojo knew even then that he would have to learn this foreign language, which was not like simple Japanese characters. Sukuna wanted to keep him here forever, and Gojo was gradually getting a taste of this new, flashing life. Red stars burned in front of his eyes, everything blurred into one pure emotion, and Satoru didn't realize what he was feeling. It was like a trip, an unstoppable rapture that was dulled by the rapidly addictive dopamine.
“Москва,” Sukuna said in Russian, noticing Gojo's attention to the windows.
“Москва…” The omega repeated, and his voice trembled at the end for some reason. They had only spoken in Japanese before.
He would always remember the day when he first saw Red Square. There were hardly any people at night, the limousines had stopped right in front of it, and Gojo, suddenly daring, had been the first to jump out in front. He wanted to open the door himself, but Sukuna stopped him.
“Baby. I don't want you to open any more doors. There are gentlemen here for that.”
Gojo was embarrassed as he watched the chauffeur get out of the car and open the door. This time he felt so embarrassed that he apologized to the driver for the inconvenience. He could open the damn doors himself, after all... Why was Sukuna so principled?
“Because you're my bride now,” the man replied as if reading his mind. “My bride won't hold anything heavier than a purse and a bouquet of flowers, or get her hands dirty with work or idle chores. You are made for pleasure and amusement, Gojo.”
Sukuna firmly, yet gently, suddenly took his bride in his arms. Gojo was so startled that he nuzzled into his neck with all his might. No one had ever carried him in his arms before! He could smell Sukuna's thick, musky odor. He smelled of tobacco and sandalwood, and that odor seemed to Gojo the sweetest thing in the world. Sukuna's footsteps echoed throughout his body, synchronizing with the rapid pounding of the delicate Japanese heart. He was nothing more than a chrysalis in the clutches of a Russian bear.
They walked around Red Square, hugging and smiling. Gojo was dizzy from the lights of Moscow, the red star on the spire, the monumental St Basil's Basilica, the Kremlin, the Lenin Mausoleum, the first great love of his life, and unshed tears. Gojo didn't know that people cried from joy. He had never cried from it before, and now he himself did not understand what was happening to him.
“Moscow doesn't believe in tears,” (This is an ancient Russian phraseology that means you shouldn't believe someone's complaints. Sukuna doesn't use it in its meaning, he's just joking with Gojo) Sukuna told him in a whisper and gently, wiping his damp cheeks and looking into his shining blue eyes.
“Why doesn't it believe?” Gojo also asked in a whisper, smiling embarrassedly and pressing his lips together.
“It's an expression. Russian cultural code. You'll get used to it.” Sukuna hugged his round face and kissed him, hiding them both in the shadow of his wide, long coat. Flakes of the snow that had begun to fall from the sky fell on them, covering the stone road, falling on the centuries-old ensemble and on them: in love, happy and real. Gojo could not believe that this was happening to him, but he was so enchanted, so hopelessly, senselessly and doomedly in love with this wonderful man, with this new world and with his new home — Moscow. Life was changing, and he wanted to embrace it.
Speaking of their sex life, even here everything was amazing to Gojo. (Megumi didn't want to hear that part, but who was he to interrupt his boss's wife?!) After all, he was a virgin, pure and innocent, in his harsh Japanese upbringing he had never had a chance to have an alpha liaison before the official engagement. Roughly speaking, Gojo had been forced to take care of himself until marriage, but now here he was, next to Sukuna in the same bed, and the latter was patiently teaching him the finer points of undressing and caressing his smooth white body. Their first time... It hadn't been horrible. Strange, but not bad. Gojo had to get used to Sukuna's enormous size, and it wasn't just about his muscles, but as the years went by, he was beginning to realize the delights of this pleasure. His dear fiancé was the only one who could take him to the sky and back.
They signed as quickly as they could. The Russian wedding was a whole ordeal for Gojo, but overall he enjoyed it, especially the tradition for the bride to wear a white dress. Sukuna bought him an incredibly expensive imported dress by John Galliano; an exorbitant luxury for the nineties!
Gojo had not yet realized the value of rubles, although he knew they were more valuable than the yen and cheaper than the dollar and the euro. When he asked Sukuna about it, he kissed him on the lips and told him “not to fill your pretty head with such nonsense”.
“Leave worrying about money to those who earn it.” Sukuna had always been exceptionally gentle with him. “Why do you keep asking how much it costs? It's expensive, baby. Everything I've given you is expensive. I'd rather die than buy you something cheap, knowing that you deserve only the best.”
“But masik-” (Russian affectionate word, same as sugar daddy) Gojo pouted, making eye contact with him. He was learning fast, gradually becoming one of the most beautiful socialites in Moscow. “I just want to know at least roughly. I have to show off to my girlfriends, don't I?” Gojo smiled dazzlingly and twirled around his neck a new necklace with a large central blue stone and a scattering of smaller diamonds. “How much is this thing worth?”
Sukuna sighed heavily. Gojo was learning to manipulate him quickly and easily, with the grace of a true Russian Amazon.
“Three thousand dollars. Are you happy now, baby?” Sukuna smiled indulgently. Gojo's eyes folded into the ATM as he calculated the cost in rubles; Sukuna had forked out about eleven million for this bling! (at the exchange rate for 1995. Now it's about three hundred thousand rubles)
“Yes... Satisfied…” Gojo stared stupidly at his necklace. He couldn't believe that it could cost that much, and that Sukuna had actually bought it. He was still getting used to the unspeakable luxury.
Sukuna worked very hard. And Gojo was already well aware that in the Russian realities his husband was not doing anything legitimate, since he could spend money left and right. At first, Gojo was concerned. He thought a lot about where wastefulness led, and if he saw poor, ordinary Russian people somewhere in the back of a noisy Moscow party, he got goosebumps. But these were temporary glimpses. Sukuna spoiled him with flowers every day, jewelry, fur coats, foreign couture, which was nowhere to be found in Russia in those years, perfume, cosmetics, and even personal cars. They went abroad several times a year, Sukuna owned real estate there, in Moscow, and who knows where else. Gojo was helpless under the weight of this wealth, and he succumbed to it, to Sukuna and this impermissible luxury, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be corrupted by money. It was like getting rid of heavy ballast. Gojo had simply become the silly but very beautiful and voluptuous wife of Moscow's most fearsome mafia boss.
Megumi was distracted from Gojo's chatter when a call came through on his push-button phone. He picked it up.
“Hello.”
“Where are you now?” From this voice Megumi immediately recognized his boss. Sukuna called him to see how he was doing. Megumi glanced at Gojo. He stopped talking, apparently offended that he wasn't being listened to, and took another swig of the bottle.
“We're passing Arbat. Your wife asked me to drive around Moscow. Why?”
“Bring him here,” ordered Sukuna. “Drop him off on Red Square, I'll meet him. I'll pay you like for a ‘cleaning’ later, understand?” (‘Cleaning’ in mafia lingo is killing extra people. It costs a lot, which is why Megumi was so happy about it.)
“Got it.” Megumi perked up, hanging up the phone. The promise of money made him happy, and even Gojo seemed less insufferable.
“Where are we going again?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Why are you driving around in circles? Do you want me to get carsick?!”
“I was ordered to take you to Red Square, ma'am,” Megumi replied with a grin. “There's... someone waiting for you there.”
They drove for about five minutes, no more than that. Gojo was visibly animated when he heard about the ‘someone’; he pestered Megumi for details, but then when he saw Sukuna through the window, walking near the road with a bouquet in his hands, Gojo glowed with excitement, but paused, waiting for the door to be opened for him. Sukuna did so. He walked over to the gelding and gave Gojo a hand affectionately. Then caught his palm and kissed it.
“Hey, baby. I thought I'd give you a little surprise.”
“Masik…” Gojo whimpered, snuggling up against his broad chest. He took the flowers rather skittishly and kissed Sukuna's cheeks and lips a few times, staining them in red lipstick. Megumi didn't hear what else Gojo purred in his boss's ear, burrowing under the floorboards of his coat and babbling something softly. Sukuna hugged him back and walked leisurely toward the Kremlin's Spasskaya Tower. Snow, exactly like the snow in Gojo's story, dripped quietly to the ground.
Megumi had only to watch the two men walk off into the distance. He thought of the boss's wife's story and the Red Square he had once seen for the first time: Gojo the Japanese princess and this, the other Gojo the Russian queen. People change, and change their money. And the Moscow lights are still the same…
Soon the “dashing 90’s” will be over. These were the last moments of the era of criminal Russian authority figures.