âIt would seem that a great deal of young-adult loyalists are aiming to jump into an alternate reality.â
âChildren with bad childhoods are now playing at war; theyâre egotistical after successfully bullying straw-men.â Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, nearly floored by the irrationality. Only a few could bend to the ground and pat the dirt below them - both feet firmly planted in world of organized crime.
âIf we ignore the younger generation and the world they are living in, this seems to be going as expected. The older generation has receded into some dark room to reflect and likely correct errors.â
âThe French are being accused most, regardless of your family having clearly set fire to that disgusting restaurant. That is a great advantage.â
Elenaâs arrival to the conversation had come as a pleasant and unexpected surprise. Of all the Italians circled around that particular table, aside from the boss herself, she deserved to witness the downfall of the Russians most of all.
It was a shame this meeting had to happen under such civilised circumstances. Elena would have ripped the moron limb from limb in seconds; rightfully earned by idiotic words. Now that was something heâd have liked to witness firsthand. Dante couldnât help but smirk in the idiotâs direction. Had he any idea who he was face to face with?
âPerhaps heâs referring to our brutal and extensive retaliation to the murder of Vito Auditore.â Oh wait⊠The Italian turned back to Elena. âI wasnât aware thereâd ever been peace in my time here. How about you?â
âDo you go around asking everyone why they align themselves with certain people? Maybe someone should ask you the same thing.â
Austin let the two have their inner chit-chat, remaining totally calm despite it. He was still good on waiting for Alekxsandrâs word though he wished he could have done more than that.
âAre you finished?â
âNo, I only ask ignorant little cockroaches who pretend they have something to bring to the table; I imagine you talk a lot, considering the diarrhea crusted at the corners of your mouth.â
A smile spread across her face as Austin refused to deny any association; his silence buttered the lack of humanity. Men like him deserved all the media in the world, to be torn apart by all the mothers and fathers in existence. Men like him were jail-bitches before hanging by a sheet. âWell, you didnât ask, but Iâd love to answer. I align myself with people who loath modern-slavery and the murder of children. See how easy that was?â
Elena shook her head, mildly amused by Austinâs sudden lack of interest in the conversation. Hadnât he been the one beating his chest in subtly? The Russians glanced at Dante, âDo men like this, supporters of human-trafficking, have loved ones?â
You say that as though itâs a common occurrence. Or any thing thatâs happened at all, for that matter. Dream away. All of this will hurt a lot more on the back of false-hope.
I am. Tremendously. As is my family.
I do hope Dmitri is dead. Of course, his life was not a patch on what my nieceâs could have been, but weâll take what we can get.
âFalse-hope only to you. Iâm not one to roll over and give up though so donât expect it..
 Iâm sure you do, but that is far beyond than just burning buildings. Youâll have started a war already, so for your sake letâs hope he isnât. Maybe everyone else is still inclined to play nicely but I am not.â
âWhat are you fighting so hard for, shchenok? What keeps you bound to slavers and the murder of children? Do feel a bit blind at all; deaf, maybe?â
Elena raised an interested eyebrow Danteâs way, âIs he a child?â; shitting, crying, refusing, needing, demanding, implying, all on a platform of what? Piss. âBizarre, we started a war? Was that before or after the shooting in Valence, Dante?â
Now this is what I call a productive evening, Launceston. It just goes to prove that even we can do good when itâs needed. God bless these acts of charity.
Youâre absolutely right; though, it seems to me that a few of our friends in the corner are a bit antsy. I hope everyone considers staying till the event it over.
If she hadnât killed Aleksandr in the car, she could tender her time in the joy of knowing his wife had.
While it was peace of mind to imagine Aleksandr taking the blunt trauma of an explosion â TM ruptures, hemorrhages in the abdomen, arms torn from the body, all before fire caught on his skin and boiled him over â it was greater justice to know that his wife had.
It meant Aleksandr thought about it too; harped on how sheâd been blown apart and eaten in flames.
How tragic.
The poor man with his misery, how must he have suffered as those images replayed in his mind. It must have been the same type of pain that clutched the families of the people they kidnapped, sold, and coerced into slavery. It must have felt similar as mothers screamed over the loss, and fathers wept over the reality; their children were less than human to the Vorshevsky.
Elena took a forced sip of her water, rage licking at her core, warming her body; her sister deserved every bit of happiness, every single possible ray of sunshine should have belonged to Myra. But, again, she mattered little beyond her worth in green to the Russians of Brenton.
Vorshevshy believed it, and his minions believed it â some people were simply property.
The devil with the sympathy of morons sat at his table across the way, surrounded by ethnic kin that made her embarrassed and ashamed â they were warped by the charm of a snake. They were out of their minds, utterly so.
âHe has no idea,â Elena said in a hushed tone to the mobster seated next to her.
Alessia Auditore hummed in agreement.
The ex-FSB officer leaned back and crossed her arms as the host of the night made her way to the stage â a speech made of bite yet to be on her lips. Though the words of the St. Clair were real, educational, and heartbreaking, Elena drifted just slightly as she noted the steel face on the Auditore Head. There was a woman with a great deal of courage, but more so a woman with wrath nettled into her core. Death did not want Alessia Auditore.
Apparently it didnât want Vorshevsky either.
âThe French will try to take him before you,â me, she whispered, as the voice of Adrienne St. Clair drew applause. There was no response from Alessia, nor did she want one, but the honesty of it was clear â there was a race among allies just this once, and Elena wanted to come out ahead.
Before the French, and even before the Auditore.
Hostess Adrienne St. Clair bid the people in attendance to raise their glasses for the LCPD, and Elena certainly did, but she added her own great satisfaction in the movement. Glass gently tipped to the Russians, cheers to their demise, she smiled softly.
Aleksandr hadnât burned for his crimes yet, but Elena loved that his wife had.
In consolation, a restaurant of exact name was catching at that very moment.
âNo, Iâm not over it. A senseless death isnât worth shit. Iâm just pissed alright? This crap canât keep happening, and nobody should sit on their hands and do nothing about it.â
âI suggest you go over to Launceston General and voice your concerns there.â
Unfortunate. Donât fuel the rumor-mill by acknowledging it. Cardinal rule.Â
That they have. We can refer to Ms. Auditore as a mutual friend, then? All psychic and no rumor-mill there, for the recordâŠ
It would have been rude otherwise, unless youâre not interested in being acknowledged.
Sure, you could say that; business associate, if you will. I have a great deal of respect for her, and how she treats family. Impressive, what am I thinking now?
Character Development: Important Stories (1 of ?).
âDen Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerneâ (âThe Little Match Girlâ) by Hans Christian Andersen.
It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Evening came on, the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets. Of course when she had left her house she'd had slippers on, but what good had they been? They were very big slippers, way too big for her, for they belonged to her mother. The little girl had lost them running across the road, where two carriages had rattled by terribly fast. One slipper she'd not been able to find again, and a boy had run off with the other, saying he could use it very well as a cradle some day when he had children of his own. And so the little girl walked on her naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried several packages of matches, and she held a box of them in her hand. No one had bought any from her all day long, and no one had given her a cent.
Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes fell on her long fair hair, which hung in pretty curls over her neck. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a wonderful smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's eve. Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected farther out into the street than the other, she sat down and drew up her little feet under her. She was getting colder and colder, but did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, nor earned a single cent, and her father would surely beat her. Besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled even though the biggest cracks had been stuffed with straw and rags.
Her hands were almost dead with cold. Oh, how much one little match might warm her! If she could only take one from the box and rub it against the wall and warm her hands. She drew one out. R-r-ratch! How it sputtered and burned! It made a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it; but it gave a strange light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a great iron stove with shining brass knobs and a brass cover. How wonderfully the fire burned! How comfortable it was! The youngster stretched out her feet to warm them too; then the little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the burnt match in her hand.
She struck another match against the wall. It burned brightly, and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and she could see through it into a room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread, and on it stood a shining dinner service. The roast goose steamed gloriously, stuffed with apples and prunes. And what was still better, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled along the floor with a knife and fork in its breast, right over to the little girl. Then the match went out, and she could see only the thick, cold wall. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under the most beautiful Christmas tree. It was much larger and much more beautiful than the one she had seen last Christmas through the glass door at the rich merchant's home. Thousands of candles burned on the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the printshops looked down at her. The little girl reached both her hands toward them. Then the match went out. But the Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as bright stars in the sky. One of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.
"Now someone is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul went up to God.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It became bright again, and in the glow the old grandmother stood clear and shining, kind and lovely.
"Grandmother!" cried the child. "Oh, take me with you! I know you will disappear when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm stove, the wonderful roast goose and the beautiful big Christmas tree!"
And she quickly struck the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother with her. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than daylight. Grandmother had never been so grand and beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and both of them flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor fear-they were with God.
But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the little girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little pathetic figure. The child sat there, stiff and cold, holding the matches, of which one bundle was almost burned.
"She wanted to warm herself," the people said. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, and how happily she had gone with her old grandmother into the bright New Year.
Wiki.
According to the governmentâs estimates, five million people are homeless in Russia (3.5% of the population), one million of whom are children and 50,000 of whom live in Moscow (IBT, 2014). It is not clear whether these numbers include four million âinvisible peopleâ (those who do not possess registration or âpropiskaâ). Winters are especially problematic for homeless people in Russia â in Saint-Petersburg alone, 1,042 homeless people died in the winter of 2012/13 (One Europe, 2014).
She had killed both of them in a splendor of fire that had engulfed Launceston in a gasp of ashen air. The Russian had played her cards after three years of planning and torture as the Vorshevsky King paraded around with his bravada of chaos. She had eradicated the world of his psychotic rage and his demonic business with tainted the world with filth and horror.
And, yet, what she saw was no mistake - he was very much alive. Breathing, smiling, observing, he was existing, and he deserved none of it, just like his disease ridden wife.
Tsvetnova drove her chair back, and exited the grand-room. She wanted, with every fiber in her body to take a hand and topple the stands in which the lanterns sat. To set fire to everything, and everyone in that room. And, yet, only her jaw worked in an aggression that would leave it sore for the week.
How.
He must not have been in the car.Â
Elizabeth must have taken to lunch with another, and had endured the blaze alone. A surge of violate anger ripped through her throat as she took her coat from an event host, and left - before she walked across the room, buried her concealed weapon down his throat, and emptied the entire clip into his apparently immortal abdomen.
Sheâd learn of the rest of the night from other loyalists, sheâd speak with Alessia, and sheâd have to solidify a bodyguard on her, again. Pulling at the jacket end, Elena pulled out her phone and typed a quick message. It was short, it was livid, and it was powerful. The response was immediate, sharing the impossible.
âWe do it, again.â
Once more, her life resolve was clear; fuck the Vorshevskys.
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