And then there were the eyes.
In this woman's eyes, Boris deciphered, like an adroit linguist of body language, stirred a tempest of confusion, fear and regret. Unlike the wide-eyed confidence, wonder, fearlessness and child-like vibrancy that danced in the alluring cocoa-brown eyes with which Michele' had been blessed. What right did her family or anyone in it have of trying to force her to live according to their will? Regardless of whether or not those choices brought her either pleasure or pain, it was her life to be lived as she so chose. Boris was full-blown obsessed with finding Michele', his obsession now having opened a door to self-delusions in order to justify his search and seizure of a love he did not ever expect to blossom again.
He placed aside the driver's license for a moment to reflect upon his life and possible future. He found it almost a fantasy and difficult to believe that once again he had fallen in love. His first, and until now, only love interest was a young lady by the name of Dusha Ahigian. Dusha, in Russian, means soul or sweetheart. Like Boris himself she was born in Armenia. Though only seventeen Dusha was matured in both body and mind well beyond her age. Boris was twenty-five and by then equally matured but in the ways of thievery and other petty crimes of which he depended upon to make his living. He and Dusha met on a spring afternoon in a market in Alek'pol or as is currently known as Gyumri which is the capital of the largest city of the Shirak province located in northwest Armenia. Unaware of one another as they sifted through a crate of oranges, until Duscha accidentally dropped one to the ground and Boris cordially bent to pick it up and upon rising to return it to her he came face to face with eyes belonging to an angel. That was twenty years ago. They had fallen deeply in love to the point where Boris was willing to even forego his life of crime and convert to a model, law-abiding citizen, including holding down a legitimate and legal means of employment and even, though tentatively, attending church. But it was not to be. Fate had its own intentions. Boris had eventually proposed to Dusha, even purchasing an engagement ring, which she heartily accepted, though with a bit of trepidation she nonetheless defiantly wore on her finger. Dusha was the product of a strict Christian upbringing whose father bordered on fanatical commitment to his religiously held beliefs. It made the situation between the two young lovers extremely difficult. But youth combined with first-love not only defies reason and common sense, but in young men that sentiment can inspire bravery where even courageous heroes may fear to venture. As was customary Boris respectfully and naturally with much nervousness approached Dusha's father and boldly asked him for his daughter's hand in marriage. Not at all fond of Boris, suspicious of and distrusting of his moral character and aware of his sordid past – of which he learned through the services of a hired private investigator - her father vehemently opposed the idea and declined Boris' overture with an angry and colorful vocabulary of un-Christian like words. That evening after Boris left, upset and disappointed even before dinner was served, the subject once again reared across the supper table as Dusha dined with her mother and father. Dusha barely ate; attending the family ritual of nightly dinner out of respect more than hunger. In the middle of the explosive subject tempers between she and her father flared and inflamed into a fiery argument. Dusha angrily promised to run away and elope with Boris if her father did not change his stubbornly held position and approve of their union. In his rage he struck Dusha causing her to fall. Her head hit against the pointed corner of the dinner table the wound fatal. Even before the ambulance arrived at the scene Dusha was dead. Having learned of this tragedy Boris was beyond devastation and from that moment vowed never to love anyone again. Having been abandoned by his parents when he was just five years old he had grown up traversing a tight rope of emotional imbalance and this heart-destroying episode of his calamitous life tipped him into the abyss evoking within him an unquenchable urge for revenge. A twisted compound emotion that clung to Boris like barnacles on a ship; a rage which he could never quell, a thirst never quenched even after he murdered Dusha's father. It was a crime that had been written off by the authorities as a street robbery gone bad, which is exactly how Boris had planned it; he shot Dusha's father point blank in the heart.
Boris now traveled even further back in his self-pitying musings over the travails of his childhood. His parents either too poor, unwilling or a combination thereof, abandoned him when he was just five years old. That was the last time he saw or heard from them. It was as if they had never existed. He vividly recalled being left standing in front of his uncle's apartment door with just the clothes on his back and a brief note from his parents pinned to his shirt stating only one word: Sorry. His uncle Lev was his mother's brother who lived in a rundown tenement building in one of the poorest sections in Moscow. Lev also turned out to be a world class vodkaholic with an equally world class tendency toward abusiveness not just committed against himself but to those closest to him as well. When he drank, which the only time he didn't was when he slept, the spirits contained in the liquor eventually summoned forth the meanest of Lev's inner demons transforming him into a Russian version of Rocky Marciano gone ape. His once gorgeous wife Natalia of way too many horrible years of suffrage bore the brunt of Lev's self-hatred, turned outward against the world, as did anyone else unfortunate enough to be within arms reach of his fist when he was in battle mode. Boris could remember the many times Natalia, in an effort to drown her sorrows and reminisce of better times long gone, would pull out her secretly hidden photo album and proudly but with just as much sadness show him photographs of herself before she became the involuntary punching bag for her husband's outrage. He recalled seeing countless tear stains peppered across the plastic covering protecting the cherished pictures. Natalia had obviously over the years looked through that photo album hundreds, perhaps thousands of times in an effort to fantasize and attempt to escape what she felt to be an inescapable situation. What had once been a woman shaped into a model of beauty by God's unseen chisel had over time been re-sculptured into a hideous figure by an angry man's clenched fists. At times Boris too felt the need to blemish that same photo-protecting plastic with his own tears in sympathy of Natalia's plight as much as his own, but he had already calloused himself against emotional pain and tears refused to flow from his eyes even when he wanted to cry. After eight years at thirteen Boris had come to the realization that it was too late to save his aunt in-law, but not too late to save himself. He knew that if he hung around much longer exposing himself to witnessing, and sometimes being a victim of his uncle's endless abusiveness either he or Lev would end up dead. So on that day Boris kissed Natalia on the cheek, hugged her one last time, held her hands in a brief tender moment of regret and left the apartment never to return.
To survive on the streets Boris naturally turned to a life of crime. Jobs in Gyumri were either difficult or next to impossible to come by and the ones that were available either paid slave wages or worse when and if you were fortunate or unfortunate enough to find employment.
And so it came to be by this unfortunate route of soul-darkening disillusionment that Boris re-pledged his barren spirit and shattered heart to the resurrection of his former life in crime after Dusha's death. He pursued that determination with even more zealousness, meanness and purpose than when he first entered that life. He determined that an emotional investment in love, in this world, was a set up for disappointment and disaster, a risk not worth taking, though deep inside, phantoms beneath the concrete exterior he constructed around himself he longed to give as well as receive, love. But the world in which he chose to believe in and thereby experience, hate and violence ruled, not love. It was a personal belief that eventually turned Boris into a master thief and landed him in Vladimirskiy Central Prison in Russia at the age of twenty-seven. He was sentenced to ten years for grand theft, assault and attempted murder with a deadly weapon. It was in Vladimirskiy that he was introduced to and became a soldier for the Vory, better known as 'Thieves in Law'.
The Vory are a powerful Russian criminal organization comparable to the Mafia in Sicily. Many experts however have come to believe the Vory are the most powerful criminal enterprise in the world, having earned that status especially after the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. The organization is active in almost every element of Russian society and their illicit reach stretches into every criminal vocation from assassinations and arms trafficking to sexual slavery and witness intimidation. But the element which held special appeal for Boris in becoming a Vor were their strict codes. Not only do the codes or rules demand complete submission to the laws of criminal life, but a Vor must have no family of his own, cannot marry or have children, never under any circumstances work a legitimate job, have nothing to do with authorities of government in any form or join any public or community organizations, must make good on their word given especially to other thieves and Boris' most treasured code: to forsake relatives, including one's father, brothers and sisters. His years in the service of the Vory brought him to realizations that contrary to popular Hollywood movies, inspired belief and myth that the organization is primarily of Russian ethnicity. The majority of Vory members are made up mostly of Armenians, Georgians, Ukranians, Jews and Belorussians. Within a short period of time Boris had become a leader in his own right within his newly adopted nefarious family – no simple accomplishment. He had proven himself and earned his rank and marks to show for it. Boris committed seventeen years of his life as a devoted Vor, but ultimately that shielded love-call from the deep canyons of his soul that he thought he had forever silenced demanded attention and action. Having suppressed that natural urge for so long, for fear of further pain and disappointment, denying its very existence as well as expression, its existence could no longer be contained, and like boiling water in a pressure cooker it ultimately spills forth, but usually in distorted form. In Boris case that contortion spilled onto the landscape of his experience in the form of a Russian undercover INTERPOL agent by the name of Viktor Gorbachya.
Boris was not one given to trusting anyone. Considering his chosen profession it was merely a formality and common sense attitude. However, even criminals have to at least pretend trust at some point towards someone in order to further their aims and advance within their organization or crew. It's a sought of trust in the mistrust which in more cases than not ends in some form of catastrophe. It comes down to a matter of how ruthless one is willing to be and how much fear and respect is generated from others within your fold towards that ruthlessness. Even a ruthless bastard needs someone to depend on. Boris' right-hand man within his crew was Viktor Gorbacheva or so he called himself until at Boris' trial his true name was revealed as Ansari Bora an undercover INTERPOL agent. For the last five years of Boris seventeen years within the Vory, Viktor served as his confidante and had honestly earned Boris' rear quality of trust. They became close friends. At the time Boris was arrested and interrogated he was eye-deep in money laundering, mortgage fraud, oil and gasoline tax fraud and the crème de la crème: nuclear weapons smuggling. Viktor had him on every count. Boris was offered an option: cooperate or spend the rest of his life behind bars. At first out of habit and natural defiance, playing the hardcore tough guy, Boris stubbornly refused to comply. A few years in prison he knew he could do balancing on one hand. It would not have been his first time and with his far reaching connections and influence it would be like a long stint in a walled country club with the occasional prostitute smuggled in for release of sexual tension as well as access to drugs and alcohol for further escape and entertainment. But to have to exist that way, limited in movement and experience, confined to a concrete cage for the duration of his life like some subdued wild animal was something Boris knew he could not and would not tolerate; after all freedom is the ultimate luxury. Eventually he caved in and cooperated and when he did the revelations flowed from his mouth like water released from a dam. One of the assisting agents who had been assigned to sit in on the testimonies as a witness commented to Viktor that it seemed as if Boris had been waiting for the opportunity to spill his guts. Boris' delivery was poised, calm, amazingly detailed in every description, his facial expression and body language showed not the slightest hint of nervousness, fear or apprehension. In fact, he was as reverent as a Buddhist monk instructing a class on transcendental meditation. His collaboration led to the arrest of at least two dozen major bosses within the Vory. INTERPOL's biggest net however was the arrest on June 8, 1995 of Vyacheslav "Yaponchik" Ivankov, who was the first major ethnically Russian crime boss prosecuted by the United States government. Yaponchik, which means 'Little Japanese' in Russian, a nickname he earned because of his faintly Asian facial features, ran his multi-million dollar extortion operations out of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, New York City. After helping the authorities to whatever degree was possible, which for a Vor was a crime punishable by a brutal death involving mutilation, Boris was granted immunity from prosecution and was aided by the joint task forces of the FBI, ATF, as well as numerous other government agencies, including the State Department in obtaining a visa in order to emigrate to the United States under the guise of being a Russian-Jew. For further protection and reward for his cooperation, Boris' name had been changed. He was now Isaac Bromowitz. A name he both hated and learned to live with for its obvious benefits. His criminal records were expunged from the files of INTERPOL and the FBI – so they told him. Of course Boris was in a position where he could never involve himself in any criminal activity for the rest of life. He was promised by the FBI and INTERPOL that if he got caught so much as stealing a candy bar his immunity would be automatically rescinded and he would return to prison a man marked for death by those he betrayed. Boris was no fool. Severe poverty had taught him a sense of thriftiness. He had also early learned that in order to survive and thrive in this hard life one had best learn to be as fiercely independent and self reliant as possible. Because most human beings were basically driven by their naturally selfish instinct, they could not be trusted but to a certain extent if at all. During his years in the Vory, Boris had developed the habit of squirreling money. He told no one about his secret savings accounts. Not even Viktor. Like many other giant corporations, big time gangsters, drug dealers and wealthy individuals that exist both in Russia and The United States, Boris took advantage of tax havens offered by small islands like the Caymans, Bermuda and little known to most, Nauru, which is a fly-speck of an island in the Pacific that became an investment magnet for approximately seventy billion dollars in looted Russian assets after the collapse of the ruble in 1998. With his numerous shell companies Boris was able to deposit large quantities of money into various corporate accounts, then the island banks would move the money into banks in nine European countries where the funds would then re-emerge in the original island banks as corporate dividends. Each one of Boris' nine accounts are in fictitious names, for which Boris secured the proper identification and, at his request, any or all of the checks are sent by the designated banks to one of Boris' many Post Office boxes. So as not to arouse suspicion and undue attention Boris assumed a modest life style. He lives in a rented apartment in Bronxville, New York City. Owes no payments on a 2018 Honda Civic, which he drives when he's not utilizing cabs or Pondfield Taxi service. He dresses neatly but not extravagant. His only jewelry is a 18 Karat gold chain bearing a gold Patriarchal cross. His neighborhood is a mid to upper middle class area of mixed ethnicity. For his safety he chose not to live among his own kind for fear that some Vory would recognize him. For this same reason also he chose to avoid dating women among his group, because they belong to family that know people that know other people who eventually know a Vor or two. When he tired of prostitutes he dated exotic women preferably from the darker skinned races. Out of habit and avoidance of attachment he usually shunned any emotional commitments and would drop any woman, like she was nuclear yellow cake who even mildly hinted at more than sexual interest.
But this woman…Michele'. She was something special.
Without conscious effort on her part, she unknowingly found an opening to the cold, dead darkness that was Boris' heart and brought light, warmth and nourished it back to life. He wanted her now. No. Needed her as much as a planted seed required sunshine and water in order to grow and thrive and he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to have her. Boris stepped to the window, pulled aside the curtains and raised the shade. The once bright sky kissed by sunshine had surrendered to a more somber gray under a billow of rain clouds, synchronizing with his melancholy mood.
He would have Michele', he promised himself. "I will rescue you, my love," he promised to himself.