@richardbaroin & @maksim-kurylenko
Maksim and Svetlana’s little clean up spree had come to a pause when attention had to shift to more important things. Business was a-booming, and despite the momentary tension between the Rutherfords and the Russians, this alliance was working as well as it could. Given the circumstances, anyways. Sveta had since learned that she was best off communicating and trusting Adrian Castillo’s words over anything else. His professionalism was impeccable, and personal feelings did not interfere with the most important thing: getting the job done. The man had yet to give Sveta a reason to distrust him – and this, coming from a woman who was extremely careful with whom she decided to tolerate.
But a prey far fatter, a prize far more glorious, had decided to come to London. An unassuming name, but one known to those who paid close attention. Over the years, the man had grown as a loyalist and businessman. Did he think that he could slip through the Russians’ fingers easily? That, with the French’s nemesis in the city, he could pray and hope to remain undetected?
“Richard Baroin.”
The sun was already set, the London streets now bathed in the menacing glow of dim street lamps. The Frenchman was leaving his beloved gallery, finished with his work for the day, when he was cornered by both a Vorshevsky and a Kurylenko. Lucky him, not many were granted such a privilege. Sveta approached slowly, getting closer and closer. She only stopped once it was uncomfortable, once she could feel Richard’s warm breath against her skin. “We’d like a chat.”
The French seemed to be flocking to London like sheep to their slaughterhouse.
Had they not already killed Maya and Fran, Maksim would’ve joyfully splattered Richard Baroin’s blood all over his beloved canvases and turned him into a Caravaggio painting reenactment, but now, simply murdering another ‘French bro’ as they liked to call themselves seemed far too easy, and frankly, repetitive.
No, one of Noa’s close friends deserved more personal touch, of course.
Maksim followed slowly behind Sveta, and once she invaded his persona space in every definition possible, he stopped, too, a few steps behind. He took out his cigarette and watched the Frenchman with growing amusement.
“Richie,” Maks lit up his cigarette, “Long time no see. I think the last time we’ve met you were chained up in my uncle’s basement like a dog. Or passed out outside Vixen, I’m not sure which.”
In some twisted way, the fact that by some miracle this French idiot managed to turn his life around made it more enjoyable for Maksim to remind him that he was long way from home. No, killing Richard would be far less satisfactory that showing him that he was no longer untouchable.
None of them were.
“Oh, by the way, that’s Svetlana,” he pointed at his partner-in-crime, “and I’d really watch your tongue with her.”
The preparation of the art gallery where fulling going. They would say that the next month the venue would be finished. He was trully excited to show people to importance of art. He thought it was one of those normal nights in London. Boy, he was wrong.
It peaked his interest as he heard a woman saying his name. He slightly turned his head around as he noticed two slightly unfamiliar people standing in front of him. He needed to think for a moment that he recognized the face of the man.
Maksim Kurylenko. Fucking Russians. They weren’t any French loyalists in his surroundings. He knew that he was fucking screwed. He putted his hands in the air as mocking sign of defeat.
“I know i just met Svetlana, but just keep the kinky stuff for the Germans, Maskim. Merdre!” he said with a sigh of exaggerately melancholy. He knew long long time ago that Noa once dated Maksim.
Honestly he didn’t give a fuck who was who and he did his own thing. Most of the thing all eyes were focused on Oliver, Laurent, Maya, Fran or even Fletcher for that matter. Richard stayed at out the firing line as much as possible thanks by Oliver. Now he was almost doing the tango with Russians in the middle of the night in London.
“It’s nice to see you guys again. It’s like repeating the good old times! If you wanted to be my muse you just simply ask.” He knew that he was ruffling some feathers with his comments, but after what Russians did to his friends. He couldn’t have a normal conversation.
