Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(4)

No matter that he knew the truth of the dead bodies in his home, he would be treated cruelly, and would probably end up in one of the homes that were so prevalent in this part of the country. That, he felt, would be worse than anything the police could do to him.

He didn’t have anywhere else he could go. There wasn’t anyone left in the Ahmeti family who had not moved away or been murdered, and Valon knew next to nothing about his mother’s family.

But there was one place that he hadn’t yet considered while he sat there, and the longer he did, blood soaking into his jeans, the more he knew it was his only option.

Climbing to his feet, stumbling a bit, Valon headed for the front door, but not before a sudden, undeniable urge struck him. He couldn’t do much for Galina, not with his limited strength, but he didn’t just want to leave without anything of hers. He knew, even with his limited knowledge, that memories faded. Though he could still recall good times with his mother if he tried hard enough, his father’s fury replaced most of them.

He needed something good to cling to so, even in his darkest hour, he could conjure an image of Galina.

Turning back to her bedroom, he went back to her vanity, his eyes sweeping over the surface, taking in everything resting on top. Sad to leave the rest behind, Valon knew he couldn’t take it all, though finally decided on just the combs. He wrapped them as best he could in an old piece of cloth and pocketed them.

Without looking back, he left the building with only the clothes on his back, knowing that he would never be able to return.

—

Barefoot, wearing filthy clothes, his stomach rumbling after going so long without food, Valon finally reached the address that he had seen once in Ahmeti’s book of contacts. He knew Ahmeti had burned many bridges after his release, but Valon had no choice but to go to these people for help, even if it meant he was nothing more than a glorified maid.

As he started toward the house, Valon tried his best to school the anxiety he knew was written all over his face. They were only men after all, and the worst thing they could do was turn him away…or kill him. He had contemplated that thought his entire journey there, and while he might have been strong enough to take his own life, maybe they could put him out of his misery.

Maybe death wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

He knocked, gritting his teeth as he heard how timid it had sounded. He hit the door harder. Seconds later, it swung open, a gun immediately appearing in the crack of the door. It was aimed directly at his face, the owner of it glaring down at him from an impressive height.

“Who are you?” the man asked, not caring that Valon was no more than a child. He kept his weapon in place.

Valon cleared his throat, building the courage to speak. His eyes darted past the man, taking in the interior of the house, though there was not much to see from what he could tell. A stuffed chair, a coffee table with two ashtrays filled cigarette butts and ash sitting on top of it, and a shotgun off to the side, leaning against a wall.

Crumpling the delicate paper that had the address on it in his hand, Valon spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse. “Here to see Bastian.”

The man scoffed, looking Valon over as though he couldn’t see why. That made Valon wonder how many others had come here and encountered this man with the same inquiry.

Glancing around, as though he was checking whether Valon had been followed, he fisted the front of his shirt and yanked him into the house. He stumbled before righting himself, the wood flooring a relief to his aching feet.

The man—who Luka would call Gjarper for the snake tattoo that curled around his ear and over his bald head—slammed the door shut, turning each of the seven deadbolts. He gestured for Valon to walk ahead of him, his distrust of him quite clear.

He instructed him on which hallways to take and which doorways to go through. Despite the rather modest and crumbling exterior, the inside was much bigger. Just like the sparse living room where Gjarper had been sitting, the rest of the house didn’t fare much better. There was hardly any furniture—only an old card table with a couple of folding chairs in the kitchen, a couch that looked like it was being eaten slowly by insects, and an old bed with a stripped, moldy mattress. But after spending the better part of the day traveling through heavy woods and the streets of Berat, Valon would have happily slept there.

Gjarper stopped him when they reached another door, this one opening to a staircase that led down into a shadowed basement. Even from where he stood, Valon could just hear the voices carrying up from the bottom, and he couldn’t explain it, but another healthy dose of fear worked its way through him.

With a slight shove from his escort, Valon walked down the stairs, resisting the urge to reach out for the handrail on his way down. He continued, following the sound of voices without having to be told. The basement was sweltering. The air smelled strongly of must and mildew. Eventually, he came to a room where two more men were standing outside the door, rifles in hand, sleeping hounds at their feet.

At Valon’s appearance, the dogs’ ears perked up, their lips pulling back from their teeth as they went on alert, snarling as he got closer. They calmed, just enough, when Gjarper brushed by him, pushing the door open to what looked like an office.

Sitting behind a desk of dark oak, his pants around his ankles, was the man known as Bastian, a lieutenant in The Organization, and once a friend of Valon’s father. Valon had never met the man in person, only recognized his image from newspaper articles.