Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(2)

No sooner had Ahmeti brought Galina to Albania that his fortunes began to dwindle. Law enforcement picked him up for one of his many crimes, but unlike the other times, he wasn’t able to skate by on a technicality nor were the police bullied into releasing him. The evidence had been overwhelming, and as a result, Ahmeti had spent ten years in prison, leaving Galina to care for herself and their unborn child.

Ahmeti had always prided himself on being a good soldier, never revealing his secrets to those who meant them harm. So after serving his sentence, he expected to be accepted with open arms by the same men who watched him go away, but as the years passed, power shifted, and those who he had once considered his allies were no longer at the top of the chain. A group of men who were far less disciplined and cared not for the incarcerated men who could no longer serve a purpose were taking over.

Arrogance was the downfall of man, and that could definitely be said of Ahmeti. He could not bring himself to beg, would never lower himself to that position, so he resigned himself to a life of solitude with his mistress and a son he did not know. Rumors spread of this quickly enough, and by the time they got back to Ahmeti, the truth of the situation had been warped to something that made him feel like less than a man. Since there was no way for him to retaliate against them, he sought out a bottle instead.

And with the alcohol came the anger, anger in which he aimed at Galina, blaming her for his troubles. He did not shy away from using his fists to make his point, sometimes brandishing the small pistol that he still owned, a token of the past he still clung to. If Valon had the misfortune of crossing his path while he was in the throes of his anger, then he suffered under the onslaught as well, though his mother did her best to shield him.

Valon was quite small for his age, a fact that Ahmeti constantly reminded him of, and he didn’t have to be told this to know how weak he was. He wished he could protect his mother as she protected him, but when he tried, he was batted away like a pest, making him feel all the more ashamed of what he couldn’t do.

To say the least, the last year of his life had been filled with agony, and most days Valon wished he and his mother could steal away into the night. But he knew that without the resources, that day would never come.

Resigning himself to another night of hell, Valon headed upstairs, stopping by old lady Baton’s apartment first to speak, accepting the pastry she shoved into his hands as she complained about how thin he was. When he reached his own home, fully expecting Ahmeti’s booming voice to echo into the hall—as it did many days and nights—he was surprised to find it quiet.

Walking inside, he found his mother scrubbing dishes in the kitchen, singing an old Russian song she was fond of. Since the time he was a child, she had taught him her native tongue, always the patient one as he stumbled over words and meanings. Now, he was as fluent in Russian as he was in Albanian, a fact that made her proud.

Hearing him enter, she turned with a ready smile, her blond hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wiped her damp hands on the front of her apron, coming to him with open arms. While she might have been smiling, even Valon could see something was off in her eyes.

“You’re home early, then,” she said in smooth Russian, never speaking in anything else unless Ahmeti was around—when she spoke it, it only set him off.

“Yes.”

He hugged her tightly, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin. What Valon lacked in strength, he made up for in height, as he was nearly as tall as she was.

“Come,” she said turning him toward her bedroom, taking his bag along the way and setting it on the couch as they went.

In the room, she set him down at her vanity, a place that was a comfort to her. Despite her less than ideal life, and even the one she had left behind, Galina was rather fond of her various makeups, not to mention the vintage pair of hair combs that she’d managed to hold onto after all these years. Valon could not be sure what they were worth—though he assumed they were worth a lot. He doubted the monetary value was more than how much his mother cherished them.

Picking up one of her brushes, she smiled at him through the mirror, slowly moving the bristles through his hair gently, as though she were afraid she might hurt him. Though he normally only washed his hair and let it fall how it wanted—never putting forth much effort when it came to it—Galina always enjoyed brushing out his hair, humming softly as she did it. Most days it made him feel like a boy, oftentimes reminding him of the hateful words Ahmeti spewed at him whenever he was around. But for his mother, he would endure her ministrations, if only because she took such great joy in it.

“My sweet boy,” she murmured, using her fingers to sift through his hair once the brush passed. “I wish great things for you. One day you will not know this life of pain. You will have everything you ever want, I promise.”

Valon didn’t like the defeated sound of Galina’s voice and only wanted to cheer her up. “I will buy you a house one day, n?n?, when I am not so small.”

She laughed, the usual light and airy sound seeming more forced. “Not for me, but for the girl you give your heart to.” She crouched to his level, turning him around so that he was facing her. “And as you are honest with me, always be honest with her, yes? Show her the real you even if you hide from everyone else.”

“N?n?, what bothers you?”

He knew, without her having to say, that something was wrong. She was speaking of a future as though she would not be in it with him. He did not intend to leave her with Ahmeti, not if he could help it.