Andrei Baryshnikov

Andrei Baryshnikov | 32 | Team Russia Owner of the Basement.

[4i20]

[andrei-baryshnikov]

@mobscene-starters​

Open for: Russians only

After the dust settled, Andrei headed to the Basement, knowing his friends would want a safe place to celebrate the victory. Whatever would happen next, they still had this. After what had happened to Kat, every single member of the Russian mob had needed to make sure the cunts would pay, and even though in Andrei’s mind, the French bitch’s life was worth significantly less than Katarina’s, it was surely doing wonders to boost the morale. The retaliation was anticipated, Launceston had prepared them for the worst, they had already taken too many, and this point, it all about hurting the French wherever and whenever they could.

“I would literally pay to see their smug fucking faces right now,” Andrei excused the bartender and poured the shots for his friends himself, feeling in a rather generous mood, “Reckon having their second-in-command caged up lilke a fucking rapunzel doesn’t do quite well for their whole superiority complex.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

“This looks expensive,” Andrei played with a heavy-looking, crystal cocktail shaker that he grabbed from behind the counter as the chaos enrupted from all corners of the club. “...let’s test it out, shall we?” With that, the Russian smashed the thick glass over a Frenchman’s head that he’d been holding by the fistful of hair. Ever since Kat’s death, his venture back into the violent side of the underworld had been more and more frequent, whilst trying to maintain his new role as a businessman.

Joining his brothers and sisters in arms on the attack on AU was a last minute result of a long period of deliberation. In the end, this was an opportunity too sweet and nice to pass up. Nothing like beating the smug French faces to give him the needed motivation to work.

“Now, about this bottle opener... Left eye, or right eye? Your choice, really,” Andrei contemplated his options which way to stab, “I’m living my best life right now, honestly,” he made a passing comment to the fellow Russian loyalist that appeared next to him out of nowhere.

[andrei-baryshnikov]

FMK: Maksim, Aviv, Mikhail

Fuck: Aviv

Marry: Mikhail

Kill: Maksim

[andrei-baryshnikov]

FMK: Zhanna, Svetlana, Vika

Fuck: Svetlana

Marry: Zhanna

Kill: Vika

[andrei-baryshnikov]

roman--baranovsky​:=

Roman was glad that he had heard Andrei before his friend had jumped on him - because he didn’t see the man jump on him. “Who is Avril Lavigne again?” Roman asked - only half joking as he blinked trying (and failing) to get his eyes to adjust. “It would be better if I could fucking see,” he grumbled, hating that the one blight on his otherwise amazing victory was the one that was staying with him. 

.

“Ah, nothing much to see. Aviv is still ugly, Maks is still beautiful, and with this many French in the room, loss of eyesight might be a blessing. You’re the man though,” Andrei slung his arm around Roman, and grabbed his jaw with the other hand, shaking it playfully, “I swear, if I had to see another French cunt walk away with a victory, I would’ve shanked a bitch, and got myself thrown out of here real quick.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

“That’s my boy!” The sounds that left Andrei’s throat during the match-up was barely human. He was glued to the ring and as soon as Roman stepped out of it, victorious, the Russian practically jumped on his best friend. “I’m proud of you, Ro-Ro. Will stop calling you Avril Lavigne now.”

@roman--baranovsky​

[andrei-baryshnikov]

viktoriya-kurylenko​:

~

Cressida all but dragged Viktoriya over to her husband. She hadn’t been ignoring the fact that Andrei was injured but Maksim’s fight was next so her attention was focused on the ring. The man’s wife gestured rather dramatically at him and the blonde had to hide her smirk. “Alright Cressida, I’ve got it from here. Why don’t you go get him that bottle, hm?”

With the other woman was finally out of earshot, Vika gave Andrei a once over. “Your wife is pushy.” There wasn’t anything she could do for his lip, it would have to heal on its own. “Keep eye on that cut to keep the swelling down. As for your ribs,” Vika pressed her fingers to his abdomen. It was tender but held under the pressure. “Bruised but you’ll live. Anywhere else? And don’t lie to me or it’ll be my head Cressida will come for.”

.

“I know, how do you think I ended up being married so young?” Andrei flashed a grin. Had his wife been in the close vicinity, there would be one more injury added to his list of traumas. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Nothing little vodka won’t help. I promise.” The Russian was quick to dismiss the interrogation. Besides, he had an inckling Viktorya would rather have her focus be elsewhere. “Don’t worry, Vik. Maks won’t lose this one, I can feel it. If he does - yet again - though, do you even want him to be your brother?”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

“Can someone get me a fucking vodka shot - actually, make that a bottle.” Andrei thumped into one of the chairs in the Russian corner, ready to cheer for Maks, who was up next. It would’ve been smarter to have his injuries looked at, but they weren’t that serious anyway. Supporting his brother was more important.

[andrei-baryshnikov]

Andrei Baryshnikov (RU) vs. Emrys Jenkins (GB)

His first fight.

Andrei had been fidgety from the anticipation all night. When they first announced the match ups, he’d been rather disappointed - the intention had always been to have an excuse to beat a French cunt to pulp, but in hindsight, this was for the better. Spending last couple years behind the bar counter, Andrei was a little rusty. The pretty faced Brit would provide for an excellent target practice for the brutal kicks that made Baryshnikov infamous in the streets of Brenton. 

Not having any time to warm up - instead focused on calming enraged wife, Andrei only realised his match was next when he saw Vitaly enter the change room, with a facial expression that made it clear he did not score a victory. 

He winked at the younger Seleznyov brother, with the parting words of “I am going to win this one for you,” and entered the ring, leaving Cressida behind.

Andrei had watched the previous fights from the young Welshman. Even though he had suffered a few losses, it was clear he didn’t lack talent, and quite soon, he’d be a force to be reckoned with.

 Not tonight.

Tonight Andrei intended to let all the pent-up rage loose, and Emrys would be a stepping stone to getting invited to the next match, where, hopefully, he’d be fighting against a French.

Andrei was first to attack, but Emrys was quick to duck, but not quick enough to block the front kick from the Russian that followed immediately after. The Brit had managed to keep his balance.

The familiar trance that the violence provided had Andrei lose all sense of time. He had no understanding of how long their fight continued. Emrys was quick, and seemed to have been taking proper training, and his punches carried weight.

What Emrys didn’t have though, was experience. Of which, Andrei had plenty. 

No, not just your regular boxing training at a fancy gym, or even beating up opposite gang members every now and then. No, when Andrei fought, he fought to kill. When Andrei’s fists were clenched and up, he didn’t stop until blows he delivered to the chest, and to the face were fatal. He didn’t stop until face would melt into something unrecognisable.

And whilst he realised this was a different setting altogether, as soon as his fist collided with the Brit’s ribcage for the first time, feeling that sweet sensation of delivering damage, most likely shattering a rib or two, all Andrei could feel was adrenaline. Fueled by the rage of not being able to do anything about Katarina’s death, all Andrei saw was red. 

When the match finally ended, he had a still living, breathing Brit pinned to the ground, in a double-leg takedown, and once his victory was announced, scoring the first win of the evening for the Russians and the adrenaline wore off, only then Andrei realised how much fucking pain he was in. Limping out of the ring, Andrei could feel the little shit had bruised his ankle, his lip was burst open and bleeding, the pain near the abdomen made it hard to breathe, but it all mattered little.

Nothing that wouldn’t pass until the next one.

[andrei-baryshnikov]

@mobscene-starters​

Had dear wife known that Andrei was very much participating in the upcoming fight club, she wouldn’t have been in such a cheery mood, but there was no way Andrei was going to endure a screaming match with Cressida right before the big night. He’d been practically fidgety from anticipation, eager to get back in the ring, literally. Ideally, he’d been fighting a French rat, not a Rutherford cunt, but if he had to give the pompeus bitch a bloody performance to earn an invitation for the next fight night, Andrei would give her a show.

Whilst the lavishly stoked bar was quite inviting, Andrei tried not to get too shitfaced before the match. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t down a few of Lara’s expensive vodka shots, though.

“You look hesitant. Go on, it’s on me,” Andrei grinned at the guest who looked like they couldn’t make up their mind whether to join in on the vodka fun or not. “I’m feeling generous tonight.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

msmelissalin​:

Melissa’s face was void of emotion as she stared with a dull gaze towards the brown-haired male, if anything, she looked disinterested, at best. ‘’An act of terrorism is of course tragic in any situation or notion.’’ She agrees, a small nod but her body is almost unmoving, she’s a perfect representation of what a statue may look like if she’d turned to stone. 

‘‘But by being so brutal in such a grandeur way is not always the best option, in fact—’‘ She pauses to let her eyes wander from head to toe, disgust tugging at the corner of her lips, now set into a thin line. ‘‘— if anything it’s idiotic and irresponsible.’‘ She all but snarls. They were more clever in their endeavours, being under the radar was just as important as being known within the crime world. Eventually, everything caught up, it was the circle of life after all. But the longer things stayed hidden, the better chance they had with getting away with it.

The other side was always so…dramatic. 

Being a part of a conversation with this lunatic wasn’t sitting well with Melissa, but she’d endure the headache. One of her favourite parts about these events was that she never knew when someone would slip up; reveal even just a minor detail that she could use to derail the organisation and take what was rightfully hers. Respect and loyalty. 

‘‘Do you not agree?’‘

.

Quite frankly, had he had a few more vodka shots in his system, Andrei would’ve been convinced that he had hallucinated the Rutherford HBIC had deemed him worthy of an interaction. Madame Ice Queen was infamous, and seemed to have been commanding the respect of the British cuntvalry, so much so that even Andrei’s interest was piqued enough for him to wonder what made the fancy lawyer lady so crucial to the British mob.

Still puzzled by her unexpected display of attention, Andrei quickly retorted, “Indeed. I reckon it was rather idiotic and irresponsible when we helped you out at the opening of the Kingdom Hotel? Yeah, that one where a bunch of French drowned in the pool of their own blood. Brutal indeed,” he hissed through his teeth, reminscing of the attack that they had carried out on  Aurélie St. Clair and Amir Dawar’s hotel, where they had delivered a significant blow. Despite his pointed remark, he was quick to soften the tone, considering the ungrateful cunt in question was one of the high ranking leaders of the mob, and having worked for bosses like Aleksandr and Konstantin Vorshevsky, Andrei knew better than to be outright disrespectful. “But there’s always a room for improvement, I guess.” He grinned, and then added, “Ma’am.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

jessi-reyes​:

Jessica had just fixed her make up in the bathroom and thankful no one would be the wiser to the amount of crying she had just done. She supposed that was a perk to not wearing much makeup to begin with. Passing by the drinking Russian she could not help but chuckle as she white cape billowed, “Plenty of you still do that- though I would hardly think it makes you more manly,” she commented taking a sip from her flute of champagne.

It took him a moment to register that the woman who looked like an unflavoured Snow Cone was Johnathan Parsons’s girlfriend. Her jab was met with an entertained snort. “Plenty of us, for sure, including your uncle- I am sorry. I keep forggeting. I mean - Including your boyfriend. The man has cracked more heads than a conveyor belt in a peanut butter factory.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

roman--baranovsky​:

It took everything in Roman not to start laughing, though he still had a snort at his friend’s words. “You know, if Mila hears you, you’ll probably end up getting kicked out. Don’t think your wife would like that.” 

“My wife doesn’t like a lot of things, but marriage is compromise,” Andrei responded, very serious, and downed the rest of the overpriced champagne with a loud gulp. “Reckon the host will let me borrow some of these chandaliers? Looks like it would go well with the Basement decorum, if I dangled a Frenchie off of it.”

[andrei-baryshnikov]

@mobscene-starters​

“Acts of terrorism is unforgivable. Throwing a bomb in the middle of the city? Cowardly,” Andrei shook his head, and clapped along the prim and proper crowd, only to mutter under the breath a second later, for only his friends to hear. “Be a man and bash a head in yourself, am I right?” 

The whole evening was nothing short of entertaining. Normally, he’d grumble and complain about a tie and how umcomfortable the suits were, but the mere idea of Ilya Korshunov’s daughter and Kosntantin Vorshevsky’s wife hosting a party themed with peace was the ultimate level of trolling. Maybe he should’ve asked Mila for some ideas for the upcoming Basement opening party.

[andrei-baryshnikov]

roman--baranovsky​:

@andrei-baryshnikov​

Roman very rarely flirted with anyone in public. Other than Vika. But that was different, in a way that it just made his life easier. 

But he had gone to the pub to get a drink and food - his apartment didn’t have any and he wasn’t in the mood for having to deal with a grocery store. People were less likely to bother him if they were watching whatever game was on or talking to their groups. It was a place where he could be alone, almost invisible, which was a place that Roman thrived. 

Until he wasn’t invisible anymore. 

Nick, or Nate, or whatever his name actually was (he’d only actually said it once when Roman was still comprehending that he’d even sat down), was the ideal kind of hookup. He talked enough that he didn’t realize that Roman was barely talking, was good looking, but not overly handsome that anyone would remember that the two of them were there. So they’d hook up at his place, Roman would leave with his number, and then just never call. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. 

Until Roman saw that Andrei had entered the pub. 

“Fuck, I got to go,” Roman quietly said, leaving Nate (or Nick?) with the bill as he started walking out, slipping his hood over his head in hopes that Andrei hadn’t actually noticed him. Because he had no idea if there was even a way to explain what he was doing since what’s-his-name clearly had nothing to do with work, which normally would have been his excuse. 

.

He loved his wife with enough passion and fire to sustain a whole galaxy, but damn if she didn’t drive him up the wall sometimes. After years of the same cycle, they fell into a well rehearsed routine - when they fought, one of them left the house to cool off, and whatever was said in the heat of the moment was forgotten.

It was one of those nights, when Andrei stormed out of their house and searched for the first pub he could find. The fight having had happened mere few minutes ago, his face was still red with anger, and the blood in his veins was still boiling, and his heart jumping out of his chest from adrenaline.

But the scene that had unfolded him as he entered the pub, had him instantly forget about the yelling match with Cressida. He almost doubted if he’d imagined Roman in some rage-induced hysteria, but that was definitely his best friend at the bar, chatting up some random guy, who was clearly flirting with Baranovsky. Surely, there was some kind of mistake here... The man definitely didn’t look Russian, and didn’t look like one of the Rutherford men, either. 

And the way Roman seemed to have flustered made Andrei even warier of the situation.

“Who the fuck is this prick, Roman?” He addressed his best friend, and barely spared a glance at the other man, just a tilt of a head to indicate who he was talking about. “The only reasonable explanation here is that he’s trying to get you to join some kind of cult.”

[mobscene-london]

THE BASEMENT | NIGHTCLUB | RUSSIAN OWNED.

Location: Chelsea, Kensington & Chelsea. Price Range: ££££ Guest List: All are welcome except the French. Dress Code: Relaxed.

THE CLUB:

The Basement—so named in flippant reference to the Russian Mob’s infamous torture chambers, though this information clearly isn’t common knowledge to those outside their circles—is a perfect representation of the group it associates with. Bold, obnoxious, and unabashed in its unwillingness to conform. It’s no surprise, for this reason, that even before its official opening to the public, it has become a popular hangout amongst the newly arrived members of the Vorshevsky family.

The club is as much a message to their enemies as it is a genuine attempt to gain a foothold in Chelsea’s trendy nightlife scene, but that doesn’t mean that the owner isn’t taking his business seriously. The location is prime, and no expense has been spared in designing an interior to capture the attention of even the most seasoned party-goers. The bar stocks every brand of Russian vodka imaginable; the upbeat music, Russian; the girls who coax you into staying ten minutes longer, Russian; and yet none of it feels foreign to those who are simply seeking a good time. The Basement welcomes with open arms.

As if the location itself wasn’t enough of a provocation, the interior has been designed in a purposefully inflammatory way—from the gaudy beheaded bust paying homage to their murder of Colette Hathaway, to the Kalashnikov rifles mounted all around the walls in a cold reminder of the blood they have shed. Even the ridiculous ‘#DRAMA’ printed in the VIP section makes light of the fact they very much intend to create it with their newest establishment. Whilst it might be a beacon of mockery, however, does not mean it shouldn’t be considered competition. Andrei very much intends to make a name for both himself and the club he has worked so hard to get on its feet.

PLAYABLE STAFF:

Andrei Baryshnikov | owner.

Lina Smirnova | bartender.

GRAND OPENING:

The official opening of the club will be an event on the dash in which most characters (even some French, if we’re looking to create drama) can participate. Details of what’ll be involved will be posted when somebody takes up the position of Andrei, and we’ll go from there. It will very much serve as the Russian Mob’s way of telling the rest of London that they’ve arrived, so it should be one to remember.

Expect them to put on a show.