Before you judge a man, it’s important to know what he’s all about. Right? Well, anyone who has read this series knows a great deal about Dmitry and Royal, but there is so much to tell. Anatoly is becoming a person of “interest” in this book. Why? Because he has a story that is absolutely sincere. This excerpt shows why he love his Anya so much. Check this out.
Excerpt from Anatoly Medlov: Complete Reign © RiverHouse 2010
Anatoly looked out the window of Land Rover as it escorted him down the MDK beltline. It was dreary Wednesday afternoon, and the smoke of the Moscow Oil Refinery billowed up between spurts of hot fire into the polluted atmosphere and darkened the gloomy horizon.
He and his men were headed to the Kapotnya district. It was a place that he had not visited in many years, and though it was one of the poorest and most crime infested areas in all of Moscow, it was his home.
Running his hands over the console, he let his window down and smelled the air. As thick, strong contaminants filled the back of the SUV, he closed his eyes and thought of his last drive down this stretch of highway away from this place as just a boy many years ago. Behind heavy dark shades and a black eye, he mourned the world that his mother begged him to leave, but he had done so obediently for her sake.
He had left hastily it with tears in his eyes with a pocket of cash, a garbage bag of clothes and his passport.
She had given him all the money that they had in savings and begged him to go to the USA to find his father. “Find Dmitry,” she urged in his box of a bedroom with a waded hand of rubles that were stained with smut from hiding them in the fireplace as she stood in a work smock and her blonde hair pulled back in a wispy ponytail. Lips twisted and eyes full of pain, she packed his things quickly and kissed him on his cheek before she sent him away.
He remembered that fateful night out in the courtyard of their impoverished apartment complex when he shot a man dead by the swing set. He was only 18 then and full of rage. His mother had worried that he would be sent to prison or worse. And while he did not fear his future, she did. Little did she know that he had been in a gang since he was ten years old.
To go to prison would simply put him on a quicker path to the Vory and gain him more respect, but she told him that he would face a fate worse than being a Vor if he stayed. “You must go,” he remembered her saying. “And you must never, ever come back, Anatoly – not even when I die.”
She had always feared for her eldest son – a blonde, stout, quiet young man with eyes full of rage and a heart full of malice. His first murder had been one of necessity.
The forty-year-old man he had slain had eyes set on his sister, a girl barely twelve years old. When he saw the man rubbing his sister’s hair on the swing and offering her a piece of candy to go up to his apartment for a while, he pulled his gun and shot him in his head.
It had been a quick, respectful death – more than the man had deserved. He never got a chance to tell his mother that part – that the man had been a letch. Instead, like always, he kept his secrets. Besides, they all thought that he had gone mad. And maybe they were right, but that man would never have his sister.