Yuri and Yevgeniy walks out. If it weren't for the scars on their faces is near impossible to tell the differences between these two. Even though they always denied they're twins, the resemblance speaks differently.
Same hawk nose, thin lips, blue eyes, saint perter's tattoo on left side neck, clean shaven. If it weren't for the scars on their faces I'll never remember who's who. The older brother Yuri has a blade cut mark that goes from his left eye to the corner of his lip like someone tried to axe his head but failed, the younger brother Yevgeniy has a similar one staring from his right eye and ends at his right ear which has a faint purple trail next to his earlobe.
Some rise in the mobs because of their experience and skill like Igor, some because of their..... 'creativity' like Pytor, and some proven their loyalty by carrying out tough tasks such as Ivan.
And there are others that secured their positions in the organization by their capabilities to destroy.
Yuri and his brother are the definitions of brute force. They're not muscular like Arseny or Ivan's bodyguards. But when it comes to violence and bloodshed, these two can outshine most of the members of the mafia.
Their official job is security for the establishments, running around town, and making sure everything is under control. When there is trouble, most they have to do is show their disturbing faces. What these two truly do and what they're known for, is carrying out raids and attacks. They're affiliated cleaners of the Russians.
***
The two of them walk out the door and immediately spot me. Arseny took a step left, with a 'your problem' face. The twins approach me in strides. With poker faces on, hands sway as they move.
Yuri is on the right, his brother is on the left. They stopped in front of me.
Not a word was uttered, the brothers stare at me with a very serious expression. Yuri's eyes keep tilting their focus on my trouser. Shit, I know what they're up to.
My body tense up and got ready.
They switch a look and, in an instant.
Yuri's knees dropped to a crouching position hands goes for my lower body, his arms extended, targeting my thigh.
Lower tackle.
I shift my right hand to the side, left feet tiptoe, right knee bolting towards his face. With incredible reaction speed, Yuri changes his hands from wide open with open palms to form a cross, covering his face. The impact was made, but his arm absorbed the force. Not giving me a chance for a second attack, he grabs my leg. And pulls it forward making me lose my balance.
Only now, does Yevgeniy make his move. Shifting to his brother's side his right arm extended targeting my neck. With perfect coordination with his brother, that damn moment is right when I lose balance. The subconscious sense I'm about to fall backward, so my dominant hand moves to support myself which leaves me defenseless.
Right before Yevgeniy is about to hook my neck. Another set of body reflexes kick in.
I spit the cigarette butt in my mouth at the younger brother. I have done this trick more than a hundred times, but doing it while falling is a first.
Luck is on my side, it successfully made an impact on Yevgeniy's forehead. A spark shines as his eyes closed, motion stops.
"Сука!"
I took the chance to regain my balance so I don't fall butt-first to the concrete ground. I turned my body 180 degrees till Yuri's behind me in order to pull my right leg back, which drag Yuri forward to me. My body rotates with my left arm for a reverse elbow attack, aiming his face again.
Before I hit him, I see his eyes widen.
But my arm suddenly stops. Turning my head I see Yevgeniy grinning wide. His hand clutches my left fist tightly, preventing my strike. The shock lasts for a quarter of a second before my body reacts with a right uppercut, and my left-hand draws back to get him closer.
But my motion stops again. Yuri's right arm hooks my joint from my back. Lifting my arm up, his giant hand pressed down on my nape. Locking me in this position with one arm.
"сделай это!" Yuri shouts behind me.
Yevgeniy knows they can't hold me like this for long. His hand immediately dashes toward my pants. A very fucking unpleasant pain spreads at my groin.
"какого черта?" The younger brother's face changes into a confused expression.
"Что?" Yuri let go of my arm and asks his brother with enthusiasm.
"......Игорь солгал..." Yuri bursts out laughing next to me. Yevgeniy signs and gives a wrinkled hundred-dollar bill to his older brother.
"сказал тебе, что он был полон дерьма!"
"You two psychos could have just asked you know!" I shout while adjusting my cargo pants and checking if any gears fell on the ground during that bullshit.
I'm going to have a long fucking chat with Igor about this whole rumor thing.
"Psh, as if a eunuch would admit he's a eunuch," Yevgeniy says while grinning.
Of all the killers and gangsters in noch, the twins are the second I want to face in a fight.
But other than that, when you've gotten used to the chaotic duo and their unnatural view of things they become less scary.......though they're still lunatics.
"Wait, so did you fuck the Qin Daughter ?" Yuri asks like he just realizes there's a follow-up question.
"I was....." As I'm about to put an end to this gossip, an old but still vigorous voice came behind us.
"What was all that bloody noises at my frontward?"
***
Brit, weegie, Piper, captain, old man, Luthier. Malcom had many names in his longevity. His father was one of the first to come to Faust. Not for pipe dreams and lies but because they messed with the local mafia. Malcom's not shy about telling his story but he never mentioned what his father did to the gang in his hometown.
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To avoid retribution, his father came to Faust, the most mixed-up place in the world. Setting up a small violin shop in the most prosperous place at the time.
According to him, life back then was simple. He goes to the local school at day and comes home at night to help his father tend the shop, on the weekends his father would teach him how to carve a violin bridge.
Life was simple until the Russians came. They endorsed the shop's position and its colossal storage spaces. So they use their SOP. Offering 'protection' in exchange for storing and moving some spare 'car parts' in their shop.
His father declined. So they beat him up and asked him to reconsider before they come back. Days later they came again, but the shop seemed empty. They check the counter, the cabinets, and the storage spaces. Just when they thought the father and son fled. Young Malcolm who's been hiding in the alley sneaked back inside, lock the door, and sent all four of them to the hospital with a baseball bat.
This action pissed off the russkyes. Two days later a 'Patsan' lead a small squad of men, ready to take the shop by force. But young Malcolm surprised them again.
They came with semi-automatic pistols, Malcom prepared them a Scottish fucking high tea. The Russian mobs haven't cut ties with the syndicate yet, those men were cold-hearted killers from Moscow. They have seen and done things that belong in a horror movie.
But when they see the son of a luthier sitting at a round table with a spotless white doily on. Teacups at twelve and six o'clock, teapots in the middle. He even got a sandwich plate.
And there he sits. In a cheap three-piece suit he rents last night. Legs crossed, arm behind the chair. He told me once he was bloody terrified at that moment but the 'patsan' saw a young man with balls and a bright future in the organization so instead of putting lead in his head, he sits down and drink tea for the very first time in his life.
Malcom demanded they treat his father and him with respect, in exchange they will let the mobs store and move guns in the shop but every time they do it, they have to pay a fee for storage and buy a case of violin out of respect.
They agreed, shake hands, and the killer withdrew the squad. Young Malcom sits there for another 20 minutes until his legs stop shaking.
The violin case was a smart move. As the Russians moved, sold, examines, and uses guns there was always a violin case at the corner. One day, a six came to 'Glasgow' asking for 'car parts'.
Malcom, who was already a young adult at the time craves more in his life like every other young man that associates with organized crime. Plus his father's health had been declining ever since the beat down and is in dire need of more money to cover the medical expenses.
He asks the six to come back five days later and arrange another high tea with the Russians.
Then came the best few years in his life, the Russians had agreed to have them keep a part of the firearms that pass his hands and sold them to only members of the organization while keeping 8 percent of the income. The money was flowing in fast, Malcom was officially in the business of crimes and he loves the thrill of it. Days go by as he gets more and more famous in the tenth street and the mob.
Until the war broke down, La Vina hit the tenth street hard. The good positioning of the violin shop made it one of the main strongholds of the mobs during the war. Except for guns, Glasgow now takes wounded soldiers too.
One day, a Latino kid got passed the patrols through one of the alleys. He sprints towards the shop while shouting "la santa muerte esta mirando!" And threw a hand grenade through the front door.
There were four men in there, Malcom at the back looking for morphine, a Russian who took a lung shot and is bleeding out on the workbench, his brother who was praying for him by the table, and Malcom's father who insisted on helping the gangsters to patch up.
Only Malcom survived.
The next day, Malcom joined the mafia, got a Saint Peter cross tattoo on his back.
He drinks vodka for the very first time in his life.
He was the most dedicated soldier in the 'darkest decade'. During the war, many left the organization because they can't take it anymore. Hell. If half the stories I heard were true, I would leave too. But Malcom stays in the shop his father built, which is his now. He fought, organized, kill, raid. Nobody was more ferocious than him. He would often leave the shop to the mobs so he could join raids across the canal.
Before the war, people called him 'weegie', 'piper', 'cross dresser', and all kinds of mockery because of his origin and height.
But after his father died and the war broke down. They simply called him 'son of luthier' or 'luthier of Glasgow'. After a while it's just 'Luthier'.
Some rise in the ranks of mob by doing their jobs right, some got lucky, and some earned it fair and square. He became the brigadier of the tenth street after the war. And no one, not a single soul objects to this decision by the bosses. Some even say if it weren't for him, they would have lost the peninsula at the peace negotiation.
Malcom joined the war as an outsider and left the war as a legend.
After peace came, the tides of time shifts the main stage to the east. Some say if the war broke down again Ivan will become the next legend like Luthier. And Lesnaya and rector street will become the next tenth street. But none of that matters to Malcom. He's the owner of Glasgow. So he stays in Glasgow.
***
The Highlander's blood did him dirty. Standing 173 or 172 centimeters, Malcom is even shorter than I am. And compared to Arseny, he looks like a dwarf. But there's no mistaking this man's the real deal. Those dark brown eyes shine gloomily as always with a hint of cold anger at the bottom of them, a man that's too accustomed to the world we're living in.
White cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up showing the colorful tattoos covering his right arm and wrist. Stains on his shirt and gloves from black oxides add another layer to the burly characteristic.
White, hard bandholz beard and twisted scars tangling on his face like a bush of thorns. Long broad nose, crow feet extended all the way to his hairlines. Swept back white hair with a few strays of them waving in the wind.
Luthier steps out of the store, turns to the left and looks at Arseny, and turns to the right to stare at me and the twins arguing about my genital.
"Shouldn't y'all get on with it already? Dick jokes and nashgabs can fucking wait eh?" He strides towards the twins as he speaks. The left corner of his lip drops down. The twins lower their heads, putting their poker faces back on.
"Sir," Yuri says in a careful manner. His brother nods before both of them side steps past me.
Tectonically, the twins are not under Luthier's wing but this old man got this effect on people. Even though I'm leaning on the wall I can still feel it. A natural sense of leadership that inspires respect to those who know better. Even these two fuck canons know convergence is in order.
Luthier watches them disappear in one of the alleys and turns his head, looking at me up and down. His left mouth corner drops lower.
"Haven't seen you in ages, Laddie. How ye'll holding up?" He put his arm around my shoulder as we walk back to the storefront. Being in Faust before I was even born, Malcom had lost a big portion of Scottish accent. But some words are still hard to comprehend as the intonation makes it sounds like he's singing. Not to mention the Gaelics in them.
"Seen better days. But can't complain since I'm still breathing, sir." He lets out a hum of approval. His lower lip twitched.
"And eh....... did my boys told you the new rules yet?" He gestures towards Arseny by the side of the windows.
"He did, sir."
"So you understand my situation eh? Letting you in is making an exception in the rules I made." His eyes tilt to the road in front of the shop and the curious eyes in the alleys.
Better play it safe now.
"Rules are rules. You don't have to explain it to me, sir." I shrug. Malcom lets out a rusty chuckle.
"Exceptions are disrespectful to rules..... but rules can be changed." I raise my eyebrow at his words. "Tell me ladie, do you know if the epitome of contradiction is a person, who would that be? ..... not a gangster, but in deeper than most. Not a russikye, but living amidst Russian cunts. You know who it is. Laddie?"
"Got some ideas. Sir." A hint of mischievous flashes through the old crooks' eyes.
"Good." He takes off his right-hand glove, revealing a wrinkled hand full of calluses. He spits in his hand and extends it. I do the same and shake his. Luthier is pushing 60 but his grip remains firm and strong. I match it as much as I can. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed the beholders are all gone.
"Get the words out. No Asians, Qins, Street trashes, or mercs associated with piao jie are allowed to have my services on the tenth street. Unless they have my saining." Arseny nods and flips open his phone again.
As the luthier push opens the front door, smell of wood and gun grease mixed together got out. Every time I enter the place I'm marveled by how redolent it smells.
Pass the messy display area a workbench with an unfinished cello neck in the middle, the counter, a draped door and a long hallway. The smell of iron and gunpowder slowly overwhelms pine oil.
The brigadier stops in front of the door leading to the storage room.
"Who is it?" In the plainest tone possible. He asks. "The epitome of contradiction." A chill runs down my spine. His Scottish accent came back.
"You are. Sir." He lets out a dry and husky laugh.
"Don't sell yourself short, balach. I saw a glimpse of me in you......A bit less moutit tho." He says as he grabs my jacket collar and flips them upright. Muscle reflexes almost made me twist off his thumbs. "I bargained my place in the street with the cards I was dealt with and I would say........ mine are a bit better than yours."
Looking at him straight in the eyes I see a tired old man.
"In the coming weeks. I'll have some little jobs for you. Clear up the schedule for old Malcom. Would ya?"
My plate just gets fuller and fuller.....
Not giving me time to answer, he opens the oak door that leads to the real 'Glasgow'.