Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)

Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)

London Miller




H,

Because you saw me through my own darkness.






Author’s Note


Valon, or if you are familiar with my past works, you may know him as Luka, is not an easy person to understand. I had never intended to actually explore his story when he made his first appearance in Until the End. I loved him, yes, just as much as I loved Mishca and Lauren and Alex. It wasn’t until The Final Hour when he went to the bar and the subsequent events that followed, did I even begin to delve into who Luka really was.

How could someone who seemed to care so deeply, be capable of what he did daily as an enforcer for the Bratva?

That was the first question I asked myself when I made the decision to start from the beginning and see where it took me. Through the journey, I found myself questioning whether or not this was too much, whether it would be hard for any reader to truly understand the gravity in which Luka had suffered. Even I was a bit afraid to delve into the true horrors that my happy-go-lucky Luka had gone through…

But to understand who he is now, I thought it was important to see it through his eyes. Not only did I acquire a better understanding of someone I thought I knew pretty well (hell, I’m the author), I now know that writing this, purging it from my system was worth every moment that I doubted myself and the pain I felt with each word.

There are going to be moments in this story that will be uncomfortable, that will probably make you want to hit something, but if you make it to the end, it will be worth it.

Trust me.



LM


All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy;

For what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves.

We must die in one life before we can enter another.

-Anatole France






1




Racing through the sloping and broken cobblestone streets, Valon Ahmeti felt the cold air whipping through his curling blond hair, his bag slapping against the back of his legs as he sprinted. Not far behind him was another boy, Fatos, one year younger, who tried his hardest to catch up, but with his much shorter legs, it was a losing battle.

By the time they reached the corner—in which Valon would turn left and his companion would continue forward to his own home down the road—both were out of breath. Despite the two being the best of friends, Valon couldn’t help but feel a small thrill at his victory.

Fatos, understandably, didn’t look as happy, his already reddened cheeks darkening further as he kicked a pebble out onto the street, the small stone skipping a few paces before settling. It wouldn’t be the first—or last—time he had come second to Valon.

Even at the young age of eleven, Valon knew all too well what disappointment felt like, and while he could have gloated as many children did when they won at something, he opted to cheer his friend up instead.

“You were close.”

Fatos nodded, but he didn’t seem to take Valon’s words to heart. “But close is still not a victory.”

Shifting his bag to his opposite shoulder, Valon silently pondered those words, knowing without asking where they had originated. They both had their own battles, he knew, since Valon was not the only one who spawned from royalty within The Organization. The only difference was that Fatos’ father, Bastian, was still a welcome name in those circles.

Not knowing what else to say, Valon clapped him on the shoulder. “I will see you Monday.”

With a wave of his hand, Valon headed off. He glanced back when he was a short distance away and saw Fatos still standing there, looking dejected, before he too continued on his way. Turning back, Valon’s eyes roamed over the sky, taking in the fading hues of twilight as the large apartment building he walked toward loomed ahead.

Already, he could smell the heavenly aroma of pastries drifting from the one open window on the third floor. The decadent aroma made his stomach pinch with hunger. Since he and his mother were poor, and he often went without eating—sometimes for days at a time—Valon often looked forward to Fridays when he knew old lady Baton baked her custards and pies, always saving some for him once he returned from school.

Truthfully, she was the only friend he and his mother had in the building, if only because the others thought themselves better though they too lived in squalor. With paper-thin walls between the apartments, Valon often overheard the whispers and the names they called his mother, and just as often, though it did not have the same effect, the names they called him.

Whore.

Bastard.

At one time, no one would have ever thought to speak so disrespectfully of Valon because of who his father was, but it was no secret that Ahmeti—as most referred to him—no longer had the respect of The Organization, let alone the community.

Several years ago, before Valon was born, Ahmeti had the prestige he had always worked for with a crew of his own, but while he was reluctant to admit it, there were a number of mistakes on his part that contributed to his downfall.

The first of which was his affair with Valon’s mother, Galina, a young Russian woman Ahmeti had met during his travels out of the country. ‘Met’ was a rather polite term when the truth was that Ahmeti had bought her time, and like many arrogant men before him, thought it was a good idea to bring his mistress back to his home country. Valon knew nothing about Ahmeti’s former wife, only that she was no longer around.